Face to Face with the Mexicans/Chapter 6
CHAPTER VI.
TENOCHTITLAN —— THE AZTEC CAPITAL.
From these humble beginnings, by subjugations of the weak and alliances with the strong, this Indian empire extended from the Atlantic to the Pacific, and from unknown limits on the north to the Gulf.
This city was the great center of government, law, and religion to this vast sovereignty, and had a population about the same as to-day. The wondrous tale of its wealth and grandeur and imposing magnificence has been often told; also how it was razed to the ground by the conquerors, and its canals filled with the debris of temple and palace. It was then rebuilt, and rose from its ashes exceeding its original splendor; and to-day—having withstood sieges, and witnessed the rise and fall of rulers, from the Spanish viceroys to the Habsburg—it stands in unrivaled beauty, the capital of the Mexican Republic.
Wonderful impressions present themselves to a thoughtful mind on entering for the first time this great metropolis, where every foot of ground is historic—the Rome of America, once the Venice. At the time of the conquest, in 1519, every street was a canal, thronged with Indians, peculiarly attired, paddling along in their canoes, conducting the entire commercial and agricultural business of the valley of Anahuac! "How gay and picturesque must have been the aspect of the lake in those days," says Prescott, "with its shining cities and flowering islets rocking, as it were at anchor, on the fair bosom of its waters!"
The ancient city had then three distinct avenues or causeways which connected it with the mainland, and to which is attached much historic interest.
The Spaniards first entered the city at its southern extremity by the causeway of Iztapalapan. The Tepeyac is on the northern boundary, and is connected with the first-mentioned causeway by a long street. It was on the hill Tepeyac that the Virgin Guadalupe appeared to Juan Diego. Owing to this, Tepeyac is also known as Guadalupe. It is three miles from the city. The third causeway, Tlacopan, is quite as memorably historic. The Calle de Tacuba is the ancient causeway of Tlacopan. It was here that the Spaniards were defeated by the Aztecs, and, as is related by all historians, here also Pedro Alvarado made his famous leap, on the terrible night of July 1, 1520—the Noche Triste. It must have been indeed a night of sorrow for the conquerors. A pitiless rain poured down upon the invaders. Neither starlight nor moonlight lent their gentle radiance to a scene so terrible. But to remain at that point was not possible; accordingly one of Cortez's most faithful soldiers, Sandoval, led the now dismayed Spaniards. Forty men carried a wooden bridge, by which the troops might cross the ditches and canals, otherwise impassable.
All crossed safely; the sentinels on duty were easily silenced, but the ever-wakeful priests in the temple, also on watch, were attracted by the unusual noise.
Instantly the cry "To arms!" was raised, the trumpets were sounded, and the inhabitants aroused from their peaceful slumbers. By the time the Spaniards had reached the second canal, they were entirely surrounded by water, and the groans of the dead and dying mingled strangely with the beating of the rain and the fury of the wind. The third canal was reached, but in attempting to cross, the few remaining soldiers were killed, and Alvarado the fearless was left alone.
Resting his lance in the bottom of the canal, he gave a spring and was landed safely on the opposite bank.
When the Indians beheld this feat, they ate handful after handful of dirt, and exclaimed: "Truly this man is the offspring of the sun!" Since that time the place has borne the name of "El Salto de Alvarado."[1]
At Popotla, somewhat over two miles from the capital, still stands in reasonable preservation the celebrated "Arbol de la Noche Triste" ("Tree of the Sad Night"), against which Cortez leant and wept on the night of his defeat by the Aztecs. Only a short distance beyond Popotla is Atzcapotzalco. In Aztec days this town was their great slave market, and on each recurring sale-day the Indian maidens were decked out in all their bewitching adornments to dance and sing, in order to please those who might become purchasers.
The city of Mexico, which stands on the site of the ancient city, is one of the finest and best built cities on the continent. The architecture is grand and massive rather than diversified and ornate. The monotony of solid walls and high-arched portals at first strikes the stranger with a feeling akin to disappointment, but familiarity brings only a deeper consciousness of the grandeur of the whole. A singular and impressive feature is the fact that not only is the site that of the ancient Aztec capital, but the general style of the buildings remains the same. The flat roof, the azotea, the square surrounding the patio, all belong to the past as to the present.
The Plaza Mayor, or Zócalo, is said to be unequaled anywhere. One entire side is covered by the cathedral, which occupies the site of the temple of the Aztec war-god. The National Palace, formerly the residence of the viceroys, covers another side, and stands on the veritable site of the Halls of the Montezumas. The other two sides are occupied by the shady portals.
The great causeways are still in use as leading highways, and the streets are laid out in symmetrical lines, running at right angles—north and south, east and west. Each side of a block has its individual name, but often the same is applied to three or four squares consecutively—as the three San Franciscos, the two Calles Plateros, "streets of the silversmiths," and the first, second, third, and fourth Providencias. A narrow street is called a callejon. An effort has recently been made to change this puzzling method by giving the same name to a street throughout its entire length.
I was much interested in the tradition of the "Calle del Indio Triste" ("Street of the Sad Indian"). A wealthy Indian cacique established his home there, and then became a spy upon his own tribe, steadily informing the viceroy of all their plans and intentions. He failed from some cause to make known to the latter a mutiny which was in process of execution. This gave the viceroy a pretext for the confiscation of his property. Poor and despised by his own people and held in contempt by the Spaniards, he took his seat on the corner of the street, weeping and distressed, refusing food or comfort, and finally, in this melancholy attitude, he breathed his last. His property passed to the crown, and with a view to teaching 
THE ZOCALO
The street-car system is admirable. First and second-class cars are yellow and green, and every ten, fifteen, thirty, or sixty minutes they leave the Zócalo all in a line, one after another, on their rounds, some of which include a radius of from ten to twenty miles.
Every moment in the day the ear is regaled with the unmelodious tooting of a cow's horn in the hands of the car driver. These men manage to extract more muscular exertion from their mulas than ever did a hard-hearted Sambo.
As the street-car lines have their second and third-class lines, with prices to correspond, so also is the cab system regulated.
The distinction in prices is indicated by flags. Carriages bearing a blue flag are first class, and may be had for $1.00 an hour, while a red flag is second class and costs 75 cents; a white flag shows a third-class coach, price 50 cents an hour. No deviation from these rules is allowed save on feast-days. But as those who dance must pay the piper, so, also, he who rides in a Mexican cab must pay the driver his fee of a medio for is pulque.
One great convenience in these cabs is a cord which is worn on the arm of the driver, one end being in the carriage, so that the passenger may at any time call an instantaneous halt without exhausting his lungs.
The iron-handed law at the Federal capital is unrelenting toward cabmen, and as the rates are posted in each vehicle and the drivers are all numbered, there is no necessity for an over-charge. Americans, with their profligacy in small change, are the most easily imposed upon, but if they make complaint the abuse is at once corrected, and the driver stands a chance of losing his position.
There is no fire department to speak of: as the buildings are either of stone or some other fire-proof substance, a conflagration is of rare occurrence, and is a notable event of an ordinary life-time. There is but one fire-engine in the city, and perhaps in the republic, counting upon its venerable cogs and wheels at least forty summers.
Another machine, equally primitive, is the only water-sprinkler. Its operations are chiefly confined to the Paseo; but it has many sturdy competitors in the mozos in white who throw bucketful after bucketful of water before their masters' doors.
No city is more peaceful after night-fall. Pulque shops, by order of the government, close at six o'clock in the evening, and are opened
THE NEW AND THE OLD.
at the same hour in the morning. The city is so well patrolled that one may perambulate the streets at any hour of the night without fear of encountering rudeness. Little or no drunkenness is seen, though more than 250,000 pints of the beverage are daily consumed. The imbibers go at once to their homes, there to sleep off the effects of their indulgence.
The city lies in the lowest part of the valley of Mexico, like a deep-set jewel. From its location, and other unexplained causes, it has several times been visited with frightful inundations, which have threatened to wash it from the earth. Of these the most wonderful was known as the "Fountain of Acucasexcatl," which sprang spontaneously from the ground during the reign of Ahuizotl. Another was the "Torrent," which, like the fountain, spread over the valley in the lowest places to the depth of about nine feet of water on the ordinary level. The death rate from drowning and disease, superinduced by the long-standing water, was terrible.
The chief cause of these inundations is believed to be the proximity of the lakes, which lie at unequal heights around the city. When the summer rains filled the highest, Lake Zumpango, it would overflow into the next, Lake of San Cristobal, and when that was full it in turn disgorged into a lower one, Texcoco, and so on until the waters overflowed into the plains of San Lazaro, and thence penetrated into the city. There is no danger from lakes Xochimilco and Chalco except in case of melting snows from Popocatapetl.
Seven times within the knowledge of man the city of Mexico has been inundated. Four times the calamitous visitation came in one century, twice in a brief interval of only three years; the latest occurred in 1629.
The finest engineering talent in the republic has been called into requisition to devise a system of drainage, but a wide difference of opinion as to the best means still prevails. Some favor a tunnel, but as the soil is spongy and treacherous, there could be no guarantee against its sinking. This, together with the prospect at any time of an earthquake, forbids the plan. Others recommend the extension of the Nochistongo, which is now utilized, and is partially effective. Several engineering companies from our northern States have attempted to investigate the gigantic and dangerous task of draining the city, and if the problem be finally solved it will probably be by means of Yankee ingenuity and machinery.
When the great earthquake of 1882 visited the capital, it is claimed that the nearness of the water to the surface of the earth saved it from destruction. The opinion prevails amongst intelligent people that a thorough drainage of the city would increase the danger from this source.
The foundations of a large proportion of the houses are laid either in water or in marshy flats; and I have often seen a loaded wagon, carriage, or cart perceptibly shake a two-story house. The School of Mines, a massive and immense structure, has sunk more than six feet in the earth within forty years, so I was informed by Professor Costillo, of that institution.
Mexico has been termed the Rome of America, not only because of its temples and palaces, but also on account of its churches and other ecclesiastical buildings; but many of the latter are alienated from their original use, while of the one hundred church buildings, only half this number are now devoted to religious services. The grand Gothic cathedral rises majestically above all surrounding objects, the most conspicuous feature in the architecture of the metropolis. It is built of unhewn stone, and is five hundred feet in length by four hundred and twenty in width. The walls are several feet in thickness. This great building was completed in 1667, nearly one hundred years after its foundation, at a cost of two million dollars. Its exterior is majestic and imposing, and the interior gorgeously painted and decorated, its altars enriched with gold, silver, and jewels.
But with all its grandeur the cathedral is anything but a choice place for devotional exercises. True democracy is the rule, and the most degraded, unclean lepero has as much space allotted to him as the grandest lady or gentleman. This is undoubtedly the true spirit and intent of Christianity, but one cannot help being a little fastidious. I have seen men most earnestly engaged in their devotions, with dozens of chickens, and as many turkeys as they could carry, suspended from their persons; women with burro loads of vegetables on their shoulders, others with one or two pappooses screaming and wiggling in their mothers' rebozos, all in such numbers as to forbid pious meditations.
Skirting the west side of the cathedral is a shady garden with fountains and seats, terminating in a most unique and choice flower market. At the corner, facing the Zócalo, there is a heap of curiously carved stones and broken columns, and, pushing aside the gorgeous screen of flowers and vines, the inscription may be read: "Stones from the bloody sacrificial altar of Huitzilopotztli, used afterward in the first temple that the Spaniards erected to the Christian faith."
The church of Santa Brigida (St. Bridget's) is the most modern in its interior arrangements, having comfortable pews and carpeted aisles. But Santa Teresa, with its exquisitely painted interior; San Hipolito, with the exterior of its dome of glittering porcelain mosaic; and grand old San Fernando, with illustrious memories and associations, whose time-worn floors have echoed the footsteps of generations—these speak volumes in their silence and mellow gloom.
Of public monuments and statues there are five—the most noteworthy that of Carlos IV. at the head of the Paseo, which, with the exception of that of Marcus Aurelius at Rome, is perhaps the largest in the world. It was cast in Mexico, the first in the Western hemisphere. The statues of Christopher Columbus, President Juarez, and Cuatimotzin, the last of the Aztec kings, are all marvels of beauty and finish, and adorn the Paseo de la Reforma—the grand avenue or boulevard of the capital. This noble drive extends about three miles from the Alameda to Chapultepec, and is broad enough for six carriages to drive abreast. But usually they are driven in line, while the gayly equipped caballeros curvet in the opposite direction. Policemen are stationed every few yards. On either side the sidewalks are lined with pedestrians, in their "Sunday best"—groups of beautifully dressed children indulge in childish sports, the band plays, and all Mexico is jubilant.
There are five public markets. The principal one covers an entire block, but, despite its wealth of fruits, vegetables, game, fish and meat, is a wretchedly forlorn place, having no building, but merely a collection of huts, booths, and tents, which are most uninviting to the stranger.
The public gardens number twelve, the chief of which is the Alameda, and are all laid out in truly Parisian style.
Excellent educational facilities are afforded at the capital. Among them are the School of Arts and Professions for Women, Industrial Schools for Men, the Academy of Fine Arts, Conservatory of Music, School of Mines or Engineering, School of Jurisprudence, Military Institute, Medical Institute, Commercial College, Girls' College, Preparatory Institute for Boys (equal to one of our best colleges). Deaf and Dumb, and Blind Institutes, the National Museum, and a superb Public Library with one hundred and sixty thousand volumes.
For the National Schools, President Diaz has prescribed a course of study for seven years in agriculture and engineering. The latter includes French, English, German, Greek and Latin roots, geography, drafting, meteorology, chemistry, botany, geology, architecture, agriculture, technology, surveying, book-keeping, and political economy. The medical course also covers seven years, and includes, in addition to the above, all the branches requisite to the profession. Thoroughness is required in everything, no diplomas being granted without proficiency.
I visited many of these public institutions of learning, and found them admirably conducted. I was especially interested in the School for the Blind, and surprised to find the pupils outnumber the teachers only a little more than two to one—the former numbering sixty-seven, the latter thirty-one. The salaries of teachers range from twenty to seventy dollars per month. On entering the school a photograph is taken of each pupil and pasted in a large book. By its side is placed a full description, with age, date, and place of birth, and quantity and quality of clothing. The object of the photograph is to prevent a possible substitution of one for another, and preserve the identity of each pupil.
Musical culture is the leading feature here, as in every institution of learning in the country. The orchestra played, and a young girl of sixteen sang for us, in a rich, mellow contralto which filled the building, selections from Il Trovatore. Another was asked by her teacher to read for us. She began in a clear voice reading an account of the entrance of General Scott into the city of Mexico. When she read "he entered sin valor" ("without courage"), the teacher gently interposed, and requested her to read in another place, which she 
THE CATHEDRAL.
The School for the Deaf and Dumb is conducted after the most modern methods, the pupils being taught articulation, only the older ones using manual signs. Many of the teachers have received a European education.
The noblest institution that I visited was the ''Escuela de Artes y Oficios para las Mujeres" ("School of Arts and Trades for Women"), of which Juarez was the founder and benefactor. It gives to poor girls unequaled advantages for learning, without fear of the absence of their "daily bread," to make themselves independent of want. The government gives them comfortable rooms, two good meals a day, and furnishes many of the poorer pupils with clothing. Each girl wears a long, brown holland apron; their faces are clean, hair neatly braided, and every care taken that they may make, at all times, a neat appearance. Several hours daily are devoted to the acquirement of a practical education. Bookbinding, printing, book-keeping, drawing, painting, music, embroidery are taught; also the manufacture of picture-frames, and, on cunning little hand-looms, cords and fringes of all colors for decorative purposes. The pupils upholster skillfully and artistically furniture that would adorn a mansion. There is a neat store in the building, belonging to the institution, in which the work of the pupils is disposed of for their benefit. They conduct a neatly printed weekly newspaper, consisting of four sheets, and called La Mujer.
In all the wise concepts of her Indian chief, Mexico has no higher monument to his greatness than this industrial school for the elevation of her women.
There are three hundred and sixty-eight pupils receiving the benefits of this institution, from misses of twelve years to demure matrons in middle life.
The public schools are numerous and well patronized. I was pleased to see the eagerness with which the pupils seized their opportunities for gaining knowledge. My American friend, Mrs. C——, has classes in English in several of these institutions, where I heard them reciting fluently in my own tongue. It is estimated that fully eight thousand people are now studying English at the capital.
The public charitable institutions are also numerous, and include the Insane Asylum, Foundling Hospital, House of Maternity, founded by Carlotta; Poor-House, Leper Institute, and several hospitals.
The Monte de Piedad, or pawnshop, founded by Count Regla, is one of the noblest benefactions, enabling those whom misfortune has visited to realize or receive advances upon valuables without the risk of losing them. These pawnshops exist all over the country, and all classes can alike avail themselves of their advantages.
The city has four large theaters, the National being the second largest on the Western continent, but its interior furnishings are but a mockery in this age of elegance and luxury. Once gorgeous in their rich gildings and fanciful upholstery, they now appear in a sad state of dilapidation. There are many hotels, all kept upon the European plan, and the Concordia, which is the Delmonico of the capital.
The mercantile establishments do not generally possess in their exterior the attractions of those of our own cities. It is but a short time since a few of the leading merchants have had recourse to show windows, but in these now are exhibited the choicest wares of home and foreign production—exquisitely set diamonds, rare jewels of all kinds, bronzes, statuary and French china. Added to these are displayed laces, velvets, silks, and Parisian dresses, and an endless variety of foreign importations, including French dolls, the prettiest I ever saw. Once inside the stores, the activity and agility of the clerks, in their eagerness to wait upon you, are equaled only by their lack of system and business management. Be sure, however, that you will have an opportunity of purchasing some of the rarest and most costly dress fabrics upon which one's eyes ever rested.
The Monterilla, the stores along the portales, are the "Sixth Avenue" of the capital. The same classes of goods are kept as on Plateros, and for a much less price, a fact which holds in check the charges in the latter.
I saw comparatively few of our American dress fabrics in any of the stores; only domestics, prints, and goods of low grade. But there is no question in my mind that American silks, hats, ribbons and woolens, as well as almost every kind of ready-made goods, would find a profitable market if only properly introduced. The portales is the place of all others to buy curios of every possible description.
A few practical words must be given as to the general lives of the people of the capital—the method of house-renting, and the forms to be complied with before establishing a home there. Agencies for the leasing and renting of houses, accompanied by our modern advertising, are unknown. To secure a house, one must tramp up and down the streets looking for pieces of paper pinned to the iron rods of the windows. On finding one that suits, he must strain his neck out of the socket and wear out his shoes searching for owner or agent. Then he must procure a fiador—generally a merchant or man of business, who will act as security and assume responsibility in case of a possible delinquency. The contract is well worthy of attention. It is almost enveloped in stamps, and bulky enough for a treaty between foreign nations. After much delay and formality, this document is duly signed, and you are put in possession of your new domicile.
The familiar phrase, that "Three moves are equal to a fire," is here emphasized. One's earthly goods must be carried either on the backs of men or on the street-cars. If the first mode of transportation be resorted to, it is generally necessary to dispatch a trusty servant of the household with each load of goods, lest the cargador find it convenient to take his departure, with your valuables, for some unknown locality.
Houses are generally constructed on the vivienda plan; that is, on one floor there may be from four to six establishments containing from two to six or eight rooms. But such smaller conveniences as closets are unknown.
Rents are high at all times, and in desirable localities excessive. Inside apartments, with five rooms facing the court, rent for $40 per month; of the same size, with one to four windows opening on the street, from $60 to $80, according to location. Houses are, generally, two and three stories in height, and the higher one goes, the more rent is demanded. For health's sake, the sunny side of the building is absolutely necessary—a fact considered by the owner in his assessment of rents.
Greater attention is now paid than formerly to the plumbing, ventilation and general sanitation of the houses, but still there remains much to be desired. The drainage of the city is so very imperfect that it will be long, if ever, before the houses built many years ago can be made to fulfill modern requirements.
Many well-to-do families occupy apartments over business houses, and sometimes over pulque shops. The portero may be either a man or woman, who resides with his or her family in a little dark, damp apartment under the stairs. I have sometimes counted two or three turkeys, several chickens, a pig or two, dogs without number, and endless children, besides all the cooking and sleeping arrangements of the whole family, in one small room. When you ascend the stairs, the transformation is complete. Blooming plants, singing birds, carpeted halls and stairways, curtained windows and shaded balconies afford a striking contrast.
I wish that space would admit of an extended mention of the Mexican flora, the variety and gorgeousness of which must be seen to be appreciated. The most striking characteristic of the Mexican flowers is their deep, rich coloring. If red, it is the most glowing and 
EL ARBOL DE LAS MANITAS
TREE OF THE LITTLE HANDS
There is not a day in the year when fresh and lovely flowers may not be purchased for a mere trifle—roses, with great soft petals folded over each other, vie in loveliness with pansies as large as a dollar; calla lilies, the size of a fan, bloom luxuriant in every ditch; geraniums as tall as a man; sweet pea, eliotropes, camellias, and magnificent poppies, so enormous that one will cover a plate, and so resplendent in color as to rival the far-famed poppy fields of India.
The most remarkable of all the flowers is "el arbol de las manitas" ("tree of the little hands"), cheirostemon platonides, a native of cold lands. The bright-red flowers are well-defined, miniature hands. It has the leaf of the platonos tree, which is common in European gardens. The flower is a popular remedy with the Indians for heart disease. It grows wild, but is very scarce, there being only one in the National Palace Gardens, one in San Francisco Garden, and a few in the valley of Tohica. It has a black seed, smaller than a pea, is very slow of growth, and at ninety years of age has attained no remarkable size or height.
Tulipan—botanical name Hibiscus rosa sinensis, a native of East India. The flowers are both single and double, are scarlet, pale yellow, and chocolate-colored—three varieties. They are indigenous to hot countries, and serve no purpose save ornamentation. The leaf is a beautiful dark green, resembling that of the orange; altogether, it is one of the most gorgeous of all the flowers that are seen in Mexico.
"Flor de noche buena" or Christmas flower (Poinsittia pulcherrima), belongs to the tribe of Euphorbia. It grows about four meters high; the leaves are large and of a dark, lusterless green. When the plant stops blooming the leaves put forth. The flower itself is insignificant, but around it are several bracteas, large, and of a brilliant scarlet color. It begins to bloom at Christmas and ceases in about two months. It is also used by the Indians as a remedy for some of their numerous maladies. It can be grown from cuttings.
Another remarkable plant that blooms in the hot countries as early as January, February, or March, and in colder climates later, is called plumeria. In the stem and leaves it contains a white milky juice. It grows to several yards in height. Some bear rose-colored flowers, others white, and others yellow, which have a powerful but pleasant odor. The Aztec name is cacolox ochitt, which means the flower of the raven. It is indigenous to the country, and is propagated from branches.
The Valley of Mexico is the valley of the lily, although the lily of the valley, as I am told, does not grow there. But there are above fifty varieties, no two alike, blooming on mountain, crag, or plain, which for beauty and coloring are unequaled.
ART GALLERY AND MUSEUM.
A visit to the Academy of Fine Arts should not be omitted. Hours may be profitably employed there, and one will come away with the desire to examine further its impressive treasures.
The native talent is unquestionably fine. But, though fostered and encouraged by the government, it lacks the stimulus of popular appreciation and demand. Thus it happens that some of the most accomplished artists suffer for the essentials of life, or, as an alternative, expend their skill upon the gay interiors of pulque shops.
In the great National Academy of San Carlos, one may see drawings that would reflect credit on any school of art. They display a soft and delicate touch, with much attention to the most minute details of finish.
In painting, as in drawing, the art school chooses an over-smooth finish; in this differing from the general modern style.
Few of the pupils seem to have been inspired by the beautiful natural objects of their own country. Indeed, with the exception of Velasco, who takes precedence in landscape, and whose subject is the Valley of Mexico, no one has given any attention worthy the name to Mexican scenery. Of Sr. José M. Velasco, Professor of Perspective and Landscape in the Academy, Señor Landesio, in 1867, in a work entitled Landscape Painting and Perspective in the National Academy, says: "This young artist, who already is strong in himself, warrants the highest hopes, and will do great honor to his country, contributing efficaciously to this high end by his noble efforts."
His paintings have taken premiums in the Centennial Exposition in Philadelphia, and in the Paris Exposition, and occupy prominent places in the National Academy. The world may unite in raving over its exquisite beauties, but the average native artist seeks his inspiration from other sources.
There is something mediæval in their so frequent choice of religious themes.
Some of the most interesting works in the collection are those by the early masters of the Spanish-Mexican school, to whom must be accorded precedence.
In the early part of the seventeenth century, Baltazar Echave put in the initiatory strokes. All the works of this time have a mellow richness and an even distribution of color that bespeak a broad and vigorous thought. Gay colors fill the canvas smoothly and harmoniously.
Luis Juarez has many wonderful exhibitions of his great genius. In none is it more clearly expressed than in his St. Ildefonso. The scene represents the saint having conferred upon him by angel hands the robes of office of a bishop. A virgin and angel heads fill the upper space of the canvas, the whole imparting a sweet and touching impression.
Nicolas and Juan Rodriguez, as also other contemporaries, have exhibited an equal genius and care in the execution of their work.
Cabrera and Ibarra are the most prominent figures of the second period of Mexican art, but they are not the equals, either in conception or execution, of the earlier masters.
Of the moderns, one of the noblest of all the paintings in the Academy is that of "Las Casas" (a priest) "Protecting the Aztecs from Slaughter by the Spaniards." It is the work of Felix Parra, and any art gallery in the world might deem its possession a treasure, and the artist accomplished the great task before he had made a visit to the art galleries of Europe.
The next most touching to me was the "Death of Atala," which expresses a divine inspiration and is pathetic to the last degree.
THE AZTEC CALENDAR STONE.
In addition to the works of native artists, the gallery is enriched by many original paintings of the great masters of Europe. But more time cannot be given to one of the most interesting of all the public institutions of Mexico.
Mexican antiquities constitute in themselves a world of thought and research. We read of their spoliation and destruction by vandal hands, but it seems almost incredible when a visit is made to the National Museum.
A wide difference of opinion prevails amongst archæologists and antiquarians as to the deductions on Mexican antiquities. So far, nothing is shrouded in greater mystery and to the future we must look for a solution.
Until 1884 there was no catalogue by which English-speaking tourists might enjoy the relics of antiquity in the museum. Mr. W. W. Blake, an accomplished scholar and gentleman, has recently arranged and published an excellent catalogue which unlocks a hidden world of knowledge to all who desire enlightenment. Space does not admit a mention befitting the subject, and a mere glance at a few of its leading objects must suffice.
The Aztec Calendar Stone is of solid basalt, porous but fine. It is 12 feet in diameter, and its weight is 53,790 pounds. After the conquerors leveled all the temples of Indian worship, this stone was imbedded a half yard in the marshy earth. It was exhumed in 1790. A Mexican year contained eighteen months, and these were arranged in symbolical representations upon this great stone. Some such names as these are found upon it: Sea Animal, Lizard, Death, Path of the Sun, and others of like order; until one finds himself lost in the mazes of the great barbaric puzzle.
The Sacrificial Stone is a religious symbol as
In the days of its use, it is said that from twenty to fifty thousand persons were annually sacrificed on it. Prisoners of war were usually chosen as a proper sacrifice. Arrayed in gorgeous apparel, decked with flowers, and bearing in his hands musical instruments, the victim ascended the steps of the temple. He was made the bearer of orders and messages to the sun, and when at last
HUITZILOPOTCHLI, THE AZTEC GOD OF WAR.
the stone was reached five priests bound and laid him on it, while a sixth, with a "scarlet mantle, emblematic of his bloody office, dexterously opened the breast of the wretched victim with a sharp razor, made of itztli, a volcanic substance, hard as flint, and inserting his hand, tore out the palpitating heart."
As this ancient relic now stands in the National Museum, one may recall a long past scene, by inspecting the canal cut across the top and down one side, for the blood to pass from the victim, yet writhing in his death agony.
In close proximity to the Sacrificial Stone, the Mexican Mars (called by the euphonious name of Huitzilopotchli) rears his monstrous head. In the historical part are relics of the noted men of the past, Hidalgo, Guerrero, Santa Anna, and the Emperor Iturbide. Of the latter ill-fated monarch there are ten pieces of glass showing excellent photographs.
There are about thirty pieces of Spanish armor, two of the pieces having engraved upon them the name of Pedro Alvarado. The plate of Maximilian and also his bust are here.
In the archaeological department are paintings, Aztec weapons, musical instruments, wedges, spindles, idols of stone and clay, and so on, ad fin.
Each of the beautiful environs of the Mexican capital has its picturesque little plaza, sparkling fountain, gay flowers, and many national embellishments. A perfect street-car system, stretching over thirty-three leagues, enables the tourist to observe at leisure these towns, several of which were in existence before the conquest.
A charming day may be spent by taking a car at the Zócalo for Tacubaya, the Versailles of Mexico, thence to San Angel, where if you have not provided your own picnic dinner, you can dine at one of the comfortable fondas. The air is delightful here, and fruits and flowers are in abundance. Take another tram-car, from which you gain enchanting views of field, forest and glen, passing the shady picturesque village of Coyacuan, and "El Arbol Bendito"—a grand old tree, centuries old. Not far off may be seen the first church built by Cortez, near the capital, and the monument at Churubusco. Near this, the tram passes from Mexico. Taking it, you soon find yourself at the charming suburban town of Tlalpam—seventeen miles from the city—lying peacefully on the spurs and foot-hills of the lofty Cordilleras. With delightful impressions of the excursion you return to the city, reaching it about seven o'clock in the evening.
Another excursion of equal interest may be made, which includes a pilgrimage to the most sacred shrine of Mexico. Turn northward toward Lake Tezenco, still by tram, and you soon reach Cerro del Tepayac, historic ground from the days of the conquest. From this point you may survey the identical route taken by the conquerors on entering the capital. Here also, in the cuartel of the soldiers, the treaty of Guadalupe-Hidalgo was signed between the United States and Mexico, which closed the war of 1846-48.
Returing, pass along to the Viga boulevard, bordering the canal of the same name, and, leaving the car, hire a boat for a small sum and proceed down the canal to the Chinampas, the legendary floating gardens. The water has not a ripple, save what is made by the oars, and the big-hatted boatman gracefully swings them until you come suddenly upon the village of Santa Anita. Here you may refresh yourself with a Mexican luncheon. Lake Xochimilco, sixteen miles distant, is the main outlet of this canal. But we may come and go as oft as we will, and still find the floating gardens purely legendary. The nearest approach to a realization of the legend consists of a space of earth forming a bed for vegetables, fruits, and flowers, having on either side a ditch from which the garden is irrigated.
Humboldt says with regard to floating gardens, commonly known as the Chinampas: "There are two sorts of them, of which the one is movable and driven about by the winds, and the other fixed and attached to shore. The first, alone, merit the denomination of floating gardens.
"The ingenious invention of Chinampas appears to go back to the end of the fourteenth century. It had its origin in the extraordinary situation of a people surrounded with enemies and compelled to live in the midst of a lake, little abounding in fish, who were forced to fall upon every means of procuring subsistence. It is even probable that nature herself suggested to the Aztecs the first idea of floating gardens. On the marshy banks of the lakes Xochimilco and Chalco, the agitated water, in time of the great rises, carries away pieces of earth covered with herbs and bound together by roots. These, floating about for a long time and driven by the wind, sometimes unite into small islands. A tribe of men, too weak to defend themselves on the continent, would take advantage of these portions of ground which accident put within their reach, and of which no enemy disputed the property . . . . In proportion as the fresh-water lake has 
AN ANCIENT HOUSE ON THE VIGA CANAL, AND A FEW OF THE PASSERS-BY.
But chief in historic interest of the sights in the vicinity of the capital, is the grand old fortress of Chapultepec. It is reached by either a pleasant stroll of three miles, by tram, or by carriage on the Paseo, and at last we rest beneath the shade of stately old trees, with their clinging drapery of white moss; some of these trees are reputed to have been in existence fifteen hundred years, and are known as ahuehuetes.
CHAPULTEPEC, WITH VIEW OF MILITARY COLLEGE IN THE EXTENSION.
"Of the fifty viceroys who have governed Mexico from 1535 to 1808, one alone was born in America, the Peruvian, Don Juan de Auiña de Casa Fuerte (1722-1734), a disinterested man and good administrator. Some of my readers," he continues, "will perhaps be interested in knowing that a descendant of Christopher Columbus and a descendant of King Montezuma were among the viceroys of Spain. Don Pedro Nuño Colon, Duke of Veraguas, made his entry at Mexico in 1673, and died six weeks afterward. The viceroy, Don Joseph Sarmiento Valladares, Count de Montezuma, governed from 1697 to 1701."
A glance either way revives a history which fills the mind with thoughts too sad for utterance. This noble hill of solid porphyry was the country place of Montezuma and his ancestors; and since then no marked event has ever occurred, within access of it, in which the grand old castle has not played a prominent part. On entering the gates, turn to the right and you are soon far around the circle, where the sweet, soft air sighs through the cypress trees, and seems to speak in broken accents of the "voiceless past."
Near at hand is the aqueduct, built by Montezuma, now bordered with long grass and wild-flowers with their heads drooping downward, and through which, despite the decay and havoc of centuries, the water trickles, sweet as ever.
Turn another way, and see the stone steps which Montezuma had carved in the hill, then the only mode of ascent; and his cave, said to have no termination. Near this point begins the drive constructed by Maximilian, winding around the mountain, and greatly facilitating access to the castle—now the residence of the President, and the West Point of Mexico.
The architecture of the fortress is grand and imposing. With immense portholes in its circular towers, and with its massive rounded corners, it recalls the feudal castles of the middle ages. The extensive wings constitute the military schools.
The castle is fitted up and decorated in a manner worthy of its present occupants, having been frescoed by Casarin, a pupil of Meissonier. The wood work in the President's room is of ebony inlaid with gold. The walls of the drawing-room are covered with satin damask, while the carpet alone cost $2,000. Beyond all question it can be surpassed by few, if any, royal residences in the world.
Three hundred and fifty handsome, manly young fellows receive, in the Academy at Chapultepec, a scientific and military education, free of all charges. It was my pleasure, on one occasion, to witness the drilling of these young cadets; and I must say that they went through their evolutions with an ease and familiarity that would have reflected credit on our own cadets of West Point.
Passing Montezuma's spring and the grand old tree under which he sat, at a short distance and in full view is Molino del Rey, where another sanguinary battle was fought. Within stone's-throw stands the monument which a generous people permitted our government to erect to the memory of the soldiers who fell there.
On the eastern and most inaccessible part of the hill is where the American forces stormed the fortress. At this point stands a beautiful monument, on which I read the following inscription: "To the Memory of the Scholars of the Military School, who died like heroes in the North American invasion 13th September, 1847."
Every day in the year the students tenderly lay upon it fresh flowers and green garlands in honor of their dead compatriots.
Before the battle the cadets formed a sacred compact between themselves never to surrender save in death. Their ages were from fourteen to eighteen years. But they fought like heroes—first one, then another taking the flag, until, still standing and fighting, the last of the gallant forty-eight surrendered his young life in defense of his country.
The climate, of which so much has been written, is exceptionally agreeable, yet difficult to describe. If one can conceive the delights of a crisp day in October, united to the brightness of a clear day in January, but without snow or ice, and, mingled with these, the life-giving air of a balmy day in May, and then imagine twelve months of such weather, some idea may be had of this enchanting clime.
When Joaquin Miller was asked his opinion of Mexico, he replied enthusiastically: "Mexico! Why, it is Italy and France and the best part of Spain tied up together in one bunch of rapturous fragrance. . . . . There are no such skies as has Mexico. People have got into the habit of talking about the sapphire blue that domes Italy. But it is because travelers, as a rule, go there by way of misty, foggy England, and the contrast is so great as to enchant them. But right here among the grand, restful mountains which rim this valley, I have seen the brightest skies in all my life; here, six days from Chicago and eight days from Boston, is more than Italy can give. I have seen the cattle and the stars sleep side by side on the mountains! Let me explain. There is generally a mist crowning every mountain peak which shuts out the stars. Here, how different! In my ramblings over the valley at night, the misty curtain is swept away and the stars can be seen all along the ridges. They stand out brilliant in this clear atmosphere. No such atmosphere can be met near Naples or Florence."
At the capital I observed the peculiar tints that settle over the mountain peaks in the late evenings. Looking upward from one street, the gazer sees a clear gray; from another, a liquid blue; from another, a bright rose or amber or gorgeous orange; all floating and blending together until the entire heavens are lit up by a bewitching roseate glow, which seems to vibrate gently to and fro in the thin air, while the whole superb canopy is gemmed with stars, which partake of the glowing tints surrounding them.
Later in the night, I have gazed in rapt admiration on the changing of this roseate hue into one so deeply, darkly blue, that to my vision the sky appeared a dome of jetty black, from which myriads of refulgent jewels shone out.
The contrast between the works of the Great Architect of the Universe and those of man never seemed greater than on turning from this celestial view to the mundane scene below. From my point of observation in the Zócalo, where both our modern gas and electric lights flashed their brilliant rays across the wide streets, I could see the sleeping-place of a large proportion of the poorer denizens of the city—their roof, the broad expanse of heaven—their bed, the stone pavement, or at most a petate—the rebozo or serape forming their sole covering. Here, without inconvenience, these contented people
SCENE IN THE ALAMEDA.
slept, cuddled up, undisturbed by the gay throngs who walked back and forth around and among them.
Everywhere in the republic this out-door life exists. How different in the northern part of the United States! When the people there are shivering from intense cold, and all the avenues of travel are blocked with snow and ice, here are perpetual sunshine and flowers.
Every climate in the world may be experienced between the seashore at Vera Cruz and the capital. Eternal snows lie upon the one hand; on the other, verdant plains and fertile valleys. Even the summer heat and drought on the table-lands are mitigated by the advent of the rainy season, which begins in May and ends with November. It is not continuous. The sun may be shining brightly, when suddenly the sky is overcast, and the rain descends in torrents, to be succeeded by sunshine. If two cloudy or rainy days come consecutively, the people find themselves quite aggrieved, and complain of the awful weather. But the rain usually comes late in the evening or at night; then the streets, ditches and canals overflow their banks and become merged in an open sea; but in the morning the water has disappeared; the sun comes out in all his splendor and cheering rays; the blue sky smiles, and all nature rejoices.
At the capital there are three distinct temperatures—that of the sunny side of the street, that of the shady side, and that in the house. In the morning, walk as early as ten o'clock, on the sunny side of the street, the heat will be almost overpowering. On making a change to the shady side, the difference will be so great as to produce a severe cold, while the light wrap, worn with comfort in the street, will be found insufficient in the house.
On reaching an altitude of four thousand feet and upward, strangers, and especially ladies, experience a peculiar dizziness, which continues for several days, after which they usually return to their normal condition. At the capital the elevation above sea-level is 7,349 feet, and during the first week after my arrival I was almost prostrated from this dizziness.
Another peculiarity of the climate consists in the fact that it is considered by many to be dangerous to pass suddenly from a closed room to the white light and open air outside. I saw several instances in which incurable blindness was said to be produced in this way. The natives understand the importance of moving about the house before going abruptly into the open air.
Still another climatic effect is, that the uncovering of the head is apt to produce a severe catarrhal cold. For this reason gentlemen never remove their hats for any length of time when out of doors. According to the Observador Medico, the death rate of the city for 1885 was 13,008, of which 6,431 were females, and 5,577 males. The most frequent causes of death were pulmonary and tuberculous affections, which, with pneumonia and bronchitis, made up an alarming mortality of 4,292—about one-third of the whole. Contrary to what might be expected, only 179 deaths occurred from small-pox, while typhus and intermittent and malignant fevers claimed but a small number of victims. After lung diseases, diarrhea and dysentery were the most fatal, running up to 2,866. Allowing that the city of Mexico has a population of 350,000, the annual death rate is a trifle over 37 per 1,000. But if we consider that annually thousands of poor Indians from the hot regions come to Mexico and die from exposure and hardship, the real death rate will not exceed from two to three per cent. From its high rate of mortality arises the reputation of the capital for extreme unhealthiness; but with its primitive system of sewerage, imperfect drainage, and poor ventilation of the houses, no surprise should be felt. Any one who witnesses the repairing and cleansing of the immense sewer canals that are covered over in the middle of the streets, will certainly wonder that the death rate is not higher.
The number of funerals consequent upon such a large mortality is only equaled by the strange manner in which they are conducted. The highest dignitaries of the land and the humblest peon share equal honors in the mode of transit employed in conveying their lifeless remains to their
conceived the idea of employing the street railways as the best method of transporting the dead to the cemeteries. One man owned all the lines of street railway, and in order to carry out his purposes, he bought up all the hearses and their equipments, and thus compelled the public to accept his plan. It works admirably so far. The wealthy may indulge a hearse car, plumed, draped, liveried, and lackeyed, for $120, with an additional one, or perhaps two, for friends. The plainer cars, drawn by one mule, may be procured for $3, while others reach from $12 to $30, including one or two cars, neatly draped, for mourners. But to the stranger eye, accustomed to seeing the long cortege moving solemnly along the streets, with its hearse and weeping mourners, the Mexican plan seems repulsive and devoid of that respect which we pay to the lifeless clay of our loved ones. It reminds one irresistibly of Thomas Noel's famous couplet:
"Rattle his bones over the stones!
He's only a pauper, whom nobody owns!"[2]
A short sojourn, however, serves to convince the most skeptical of the "fitness of things," the Mexican method being far more expeditious and, it is claimed, less expensive than the old plan.
Any day in the week one may take a car for Tacubaya, and there see the Indians transporting their dead to Dolores Cemetery. I have seen four men bearing on their heads the coffin containing its dead occupant. For miles they tramp steadily along, themselves the only hearse, horses, cortege, or mourners.
"In the darkness of the forest boughs,"
POPOCATEPETL AND IZTACCIHUATL.
The Valley of Mexico is a basin, elliptical in form, about forty miles long by thirty wide. It is rimmed by mountains of porphyry, and its surface is diversified with lakes and hills. The scenery is unrivaled now as when it first met the enraptured gaze of the Spaniards, who in their enthusiasm exclaimed: "It is the promised land!"
The valley is watered by lakes, both of fresh and salt water. Lake Tezcuco, whose waters once surrounded the capital, has now retreated three miles.
A great portion of the valley was once a vast forest, which was denuded by the vandal conquerors. Hardly a vestige remains to tell of past glories save the grove of ancient cypresses at Chapultepec festooned with their melancholy moss.
In every direction one may gaze on scenes of beauty and grandeur, while in the distance, but ever in view, are the majestic Popocatapetl towering 17,720 feet over the surrounding mountains—and his less familiar but no less sublime consort, Istaccihuatl, pronounced és-tak-se-hwatl.
Popocatapetl ("Smoking Mountain "), with his tall peak, stands side by side with Iztaccihuatl, familiarly called La Mujer Blanca, or the Woman in White. The two mountains unite in forming a feature of intense interest to every stranger. The grand old mountain, lifting his imposing volcanic cone thousands of feet into the clear sky, seems to keep a majestic watch over the motionless slumbers of the Woman in White. The Smoking Mountain is silent now; but who can predict that the sleeping citizens of Mexico will never more be rudely awakened by his convulsive shakings and awful thunders?
The Indians, with their endless legends and traditions, wove a romantic story of these mountains. With their love for the marvelous, they attribute the Titanic mutterings of Popocatapetl to grief for his beautiful Iztaccihuatl, who sleeps on regardless of his thunderous tones.
The Woman in White lies stretched out as in a long and peaceful slumber—the rugged brow of the mountain forming the bier upon which she rests.
The Toltecs, the Chichimicas, and the Acolhuausmay have pitched their tents, and wandered under the shadows, and looked in awe on the grand entombment under the open heavens, of the dead woman. They have come and gone, disappeared forever from the sight of man, but, clad in her garments of perpetual snow, lying on her grand bier, through summer suns and winter frosts, Iztaccihuatl sleeps on.
With her arms folded over her ice-clad breast—her knees drawn slightly upward, with the limbs gracefully sloping, the figure of the sleeping woman is completely outlined on the mountain top. Her icy tresses flow unconfined over the dark mountain sides. Thrown over all is a winding-sheet, which falls in graceful folds, covering the dead, frozen woman.
Often, when the sun is descending behind the last dome on the western range, she may be seen, with a golden, cloud-made scarf, shaded to pale pink, that finally melts into a gauzy serape, which heightens the mystical charm of this fascinating mountain. The handmaidens of the sky who imperceptibly decorate this sleeping lady live and float afar off in the realms of eternal blue; and by mysterious instinct seem to know when she will look more lovely with a change of her dainty draperies. Stretching down their shadowy fingers, these ministering spirits catch up the fleecy masses of clouds as they hurry swiftly along, envelop her in their vapory shroud, and imprint kisses on her placid brow, and, whispering mournful words of endearment, pass silently back to their heavenly home.
Once, on a visit to Tlalpam[3] I glanced into the clear waters of a shimmering lake. Reflected on its glassy bosom were these two mountains—peaceful, snow-clad, and as exquisitely limned under the matchless sky as though the water was a canvas, and a giant master-painter had planned and painted the whole grand scene.
The immutable laws of God create sublime works of sculpture and sublime paintings. Stand afar from Smoking Mountain and the Woman in White. Stand in their shadows, when the sun is sinking behind their lofty summits. The one rises, bold, rugged, misshapen, and chaotic. It may be, perchance, once on a time, that he was linked with the snow-white and pure Iztaccihuatl; and charmed the eye as he nobly towered over her—the two one. But his rude, tumultuous violence severed from his side, nevermore to again return, the Woman in White, who was once a part of his soulless self. His mutterings were heard for a time; but the fabled anguish that once found vent is no longer heard; his grief for his once loved Iztaccihuatl is hushed. Men suffer and are silent, mountains are silent but suffer not. Men and mountains may never grieve, because they may be alike soulless. Contrasting with the dark, gloomy cone that seems to scowl on the scene, ever ready to break out into angry thunders, and startle the sleeping world, is clearly outlined against the sky the Woman in White at rest upon her couch in the peaceful sleep of the just or the dead. Her face is upturned to heaven, white, cold, beautiful, looking into the great unknown depths of the sky, smiling in her hopes of the great hereafter, unmindful of the grim, misshapen cone that towers from afar.