BENITO JUAREZ.
Let us now take a pleasant stroll through the Alameda and along the great highway leading to Tacuba, until we come to the grand old church and pretty plasuella of San Fernando, and the Pantheon, bearing the same name. The little plaza is shaded by giant trees, fragrant with myriad flowers, carpeted with soft, green turf, and the air rendered sweet and delicious by the ripple of the sparkling fountain: a place for day-dreams, so quiet and redolent of the past. But, in pursuance of our object, we suddenly find ourselves within a broad, grated doorway, and the next moment a polite little old man, clad in domestic, comes forward, hat in hand, with a smile, and the question:
"What will you have?"
"We wish to see the monument to Juarez;" whereupon he leads the way, halting as we halt to read an inscription on this or that tomb or vault, and volubly relating the history of the occupants of this grand old burial-ground. He became so interesting at last, that I found myself desirous to know something of him, this plain, humble, polite old man. Without ceremony I asked:
"Tell me something of yourself."
"Muy bien, señora. You have heard of the battle of Chapultepec, between the Americans and Mexicans?"
"Yes!" I replied; "but what has that to do with you?"
He shook his head, as he recalled the scenes then enacted, and responded:
"I was the bugler on that awful day, and saw our dear old flag go down and the Americans take possession of that place, so sacred to every Mexican."
He then went on to relate the tragic and heart-rending incident of the death of the gallant forty-eight students, boys from fourteen to twenty, who had their swords wrested from their hands and died nobly in defense of their country. We listened to the old man's reminiscences as we passed the tombs of Zaragoza, Miramon, Mejia, and others; but welcomed the timely silence which fell on the party as we
