The chief club and sport centre of the wealthy Mexicans is the Jockey Club, in a handsome old building in the plaza of Guardiola, and it is considered a mark of distinction by the foreigner to be invited as visiting member to this institution. The British and the American Colonies each have comfortable club-houses, the Spanish their casino, and the French and Germans their respective centres.

The Army of Mexico consists of some 28,000 officers and men, efficient and disciplined, on a footing far superior to the dilapidated soldiery that the traveller generally observes in, and ascribes to, Spanish-America. The rank and file have that remarkable power of performing long marches and heavy work on short rations, which characterises the Spanish-American native soldier in times of stress. Their officers receive an excellent training, and the military schools are considered to take high rank as such. Every citizen, by law, is obliged to serve in the army, but this is not necessarily carried out, and needless to say the upper class, except as officers, do not figure therein. A picturesque and remarkably efficient body of men are the rurales, exceedingly expert horsemen, who range the country, and whose work of the last few decades has entirely wiped out the prevalent highway-robbery of earlier years. Mexico's Navy is small: she does not require a large one, and it consists at present of two training ships, five gunboats, and two transports.



The cost of living in the capital, like all other cities, varies much according to style, but in general it may be considered high. Even native produce is not cheap necessarily, whilst imported goods are very expensive. Correspondingly high is the rent of houses or flats. The houses of Mexico City are very generally constructed and let as viviendas, or flats, usually of about six rooms to each floor, a time-honoured arrangement among all classes. Such a flat, according to its position, costs from 5 to 15 pounds sterling per month; and a private house, such as in England would rent at, say, 200 pounds sterling per annum, or, say, 300 pounds sterling in the United States, brings 50 pounds sterling per month in Mexico City, whilst the rents in the suburbs, and those of business establishments are scarcely less. Such property is always expected to yield 12 to 15 per cent. per annum upon the investment. The values of landed property or real estate in the city have risen in an unprecedented manner of late years, from a few cents per square yard a few years ago to 30s. or 50s. per square yard at present, and they are still rising. The cost of building is also exceedingly high. These conditions refer, of course, to the capital. Elsewhere values are often exceedingly low.

The capital and the Federal District, which is that containing the city and its suburban towns, are administered by Ayuntamientos, or Municipal Councils, with Boards of Health and Department of Public Works. The city is policed by mounted and unmounted gendarmes, a total of some 2,300, and travellers may bear witness to the vigilance and courtesy of these officials. Whilst the ordinary gendarmes are recruited from the Indian class largely, they are efficient. The British traveller finds them as obliging as London police, in their more humble sphere, and the American is startled at the possibilities of official courtesy after the rude and aggressive policemen of the United States. The water-supply of the city belongs to the Federal authorities, and is being augmented from the springs of Xochimilco, as the present amount per capita of 137 litres is not sufficient. The new works will ensure a per capita supply of 400 litres, for a population of 550,000 inhabitants. The lighting of the city and suburbs is by electricity, and is efficiently performed, giving the capital the reputation of being an excellently illumined community. A Canadian Company, the Mexican Light and Power Company, holds the contract for this work. The drainage and sewerage of the capital form a fine modern sanitation system, which has recently been completed at a cost of nearly six million pesos; and these works, in connection with the great drainage canal and tunnel already described, form one of the most perfect systems in the world, and a point of interest to visitors.

The system of electric tramways embodies more than 100 miles of line, and gives an efficient urban service as well as furnishing communication with the suburbs and residential towns, as Tacubaya, San Angel, Tlalpam, Guadalupe, and others. There are still some 40 miles of mule-car in operation, such as a few years ago existed over the whole system. The mules were kept going at a gallop over these lines by the incessant thwacking and shouts of the drivers, and the modern system, if less picturesque, is more humane and speedier. The Mexicans, both upper and lower class, are inveterate travellers—many of the latter simply journey on the cars for amusement—and, picturesque and ill-smelling, they crowd the third-class coaches on every journey. In the year 1907 a total of nearly 65 million passengers were carried. The enterprise is in the hands of Canadians—The Mexico Tramways Company, in connection with the Mexico Electric Tramways, Limited, a British corporation. The great plaza, the Zocalo, presents an animated scene with the numerous starting and stopping cars on their incessant journey; and the figures of the saints upon the cathedral facade gaze stonily down upon the electric flashes from the trolley line, whilst the native peon and Indian on the cars has not yet ceased wondering what power it is "that makes them go"!

Life in the City of Mexico for the foreigner contains much of varied interest and colour, although he or she will have to support with philosophy much that is incident upon its peculiar character. The hotels often leave a good deal to be desired, yet they are sufficient for the transient visitor, and the more permanent resident prefers to take up his abode in a hired house. The former palace of Iturbide, a building of handsome architectural form, with a patio of noteworthy style, forms one of the principal hotels. It has been shown that the Republic contains a considerable foreign population, and in addition there is a constantly floating one, brought about largely by American tourists from the United States. The Americans and Spaniards are by far the most numerous among the foreign element, and Great Britain is represented mainly by the fine works of public utility constructed by British contractors, and by other railway and banking interests. British commercial enterprise in Mexico has almost entirely fallen away of recent years, and has been supplanted by American and German activity. Various reasons are assigned to this loss of a once paramount commercial pre-eminence; possibly the real one lies in the diverting of British enterprise to various parts of the British Empire, and also to a slackening of activity from the great centres of British industry as regards foreign lands, which seems to be apparent of recent years. Capital does not venture forth so easily as it did some decades ago, from the shores of Albion, due to a variety of causes.

A noticeable feature of Mexican business life in the capital is what may be termed the Anglo-Saxon—or rather Anglo-American—invasion, for of Britons there are but few in comparison with the ubiquitous American from the United States; and smart, capable-looking men from New York, or more generally from Chicago, or Kansas City, or St. Louis, or other great commercial centres of the middle west, have set up numerous offices and enterprises. They have brought a good deal of wealth into the country, in the form of capital invested in mines and railways, and Mexico has welcomed her primos, or cousins from the North, both for their gold and for their spirit of enterprise. The class of American business-man who goes to Mexico has much improved of late years; and these hijos del Tio Samuel, "sons of Uncle Sam," as the Mexicans sometimes jocularly dub them, are more representative of their country than the doubtful element of a few years since. The junction of these two tides of humanity which roll together but never mingle—the Americans and the Mexicans—affords much matter for interesting observation. The American influence on Mexican civilisation is partly good, partly bad, but it cannot yet be considered more than a drop in the ocean of change in the deep-seated Spanish individuality of the Mexican people.

To sum up a mental impression of Mexico City, there rise before us the old and the new on the threshold of change; the antique, the quaint, and the refined, pressed close by the modern, the commercial, and the cheap: the hand of a haughty Castilian hidalgo-spirit held forth to the "cute" and business Yankee. But there is a great breach yet between the Chicago "drummer," or the American land-shark; and the Mexican gentleman. Here is a rich and developing soil, with—perhaps—some benefit for the masses: a new civilisation in the making; a new people being fashioned from an old; a plutocratic bulk trailing off into a mass of white and red-clothed poor peones and swarthy Indians. Beautiful women, serenatas, bull-fights, courtesy, azure sky—all have inscribed upon the traveller's mind a pleasing and semi-romantic impression, a conjunto, whose interest and attraction, with perchance a regretful note, time does not easily dispel.



CHAPTER XI MEXICAN LIFE AND TRAVEL

Travel and description—Mexican cities—Guadalajara—Lake Chapala— Falls of Juanacatlan—The Pacific slope—Colima—Puebla—Cities of the Great Plateau—Guanajuato—Chihuahua—The Apaches—The peones— Comparison with Americans—Peon labour system—Mode of living—Houses of the peon class—Diet—Tortillas and frijoles—Chilli— Pulque—Habits of the peon class—Their religion—The wayside crosses and their tragedies—Ruthless political executions—The fallen cross—Similarity to Bible scenes—Peon superstitions—The ignis fatuus, or relacion—Caves and buried treasure—Prehistoric Mexican religion—The Teocallis—Comparison with modern religious systems— Philosophical considerations.

The City of Mexico, typical as it is of Mexican people and their life, by no means embodies or monopolises the whole interest of the country, and the mere tourist who, having paid a flying visit thereto, thinks thereby to gain much idea of the nation as a whole, will naturally fall short in his observations. We must depart thence, and visit the other handsome and interesting centres of Mexico's life and population, and sojourn for a season among her people, and observe something of the "short and simple annals" of her labouring classes. During the several years which it fell to my lot to pass in this interesting land the various phases of Spanish-American life as portrayed in Mexico were often brought vividly before me, and indeed it is only after arduous journeyings in a land of this nature that pictures of its life and topography can be truly portrayed.



The general type of Mexican cities has been set forth in the former chapter: their distinctive Spanish-American character and atmosphere. The city next in importance to the capital is Guadalajara, in the State of Jalisco. This is a really handsome community, with fine public buildings; and it forms a centre of Mexican civilisation and education of which its inhabitants are proud: not without sufficient reason. The people of Guadalajara love to term their city the "The Queen of the West," for the city lies upon the Pacific watershed, although the Western Sierra Madre intervenes between her and the great ocean. The population of Guadalajara numbers rather more than 101,000, and the city is famed for its public monuments and institutions, religious and secular. The elevation above sea-level of 5,175 feet insures an equable climate, tending to a spring-like warmth, yet of an exhilarating character, due to the breezes which sweep over the broad valley in which it is situated. The region around the city is one of varied topographical interest. To the south-east is the great Lake Chapala, eighty miles long—a sheet of water of marked scenic beauty—and from its broad bosom the Santiago river flows upon its two-hundred-mile journey to the Pacific, near Tepic, of Toltec fame, but first forming the well-known falls of Juanacatlan. Surrounding this region are great plains of wheat-growing capacities, and indeed this State has been termed the "Granary of Mexico." The railway carries us westwardly to Ameca, a picturesque town, and thence the saddle is our means of conveyance. Far down towards the Pacific coast, and southwardly, one of my journeys took me, over vast stretches of plains and among timber-clad hills: timber-clad, as the devouring wood-burning locomotive has not yet reached so far, and the stump-studded lands as along the railway are not encountered. Further on are the abrupt precipices of the Pacific slope, and above them rises the high volcano of Colima with its everlasting crest of smoke, breaking in leaden spirals against the sky by day, and illuminating the night scenery of haciendas and palm groves with its fitful flames. Colima is the only active Mexican volcano at present.

In quite a different direction is the city of Puebla, one of the foremost of the State capitals, lying within a short distance by rail from the City of Mexico. This city has acquired a considerable commercial and industrial importance of recent years, largely due to the local cotton-manufacturing industries and general flourishing agricultural resources. The city is not, however, spoilt by the manufacturing element as regards its character and appearance, and the cleanliness of its streets and general beauty and severity, in their various fields, of its church and domestic architecture charm the traveller, and elicit admiration from those who had expected a less advanced community. The cathedral is one of those handsome colonial structures for which Mexico is famous. The elevation of the city is slightly over 7,000 feet above sea-level, with a corresponding excellence of climatic conditions, whilst the general environment and azure tropic sky form a whole which remains pleasingly upon the memory. A busy population of more than 93,000 people is supported in the city, mainly by the natural products and manufactures of its environment. Overlooked by the picturesque hills where the struggle for independence was raged in the historic years of last century, and sentinelled to the north-west by the two volcanic peaks of snow-crowned altitude, Popocatepetl and Ixtaccihuatl, the city of Puebla is of much interest.

To the north, and of a somewhat different character as regards their environment and population, are the cities along the Great Plateau, especially those upon the mineral belt, although they bear the inseparable stamp of the Spanish-American people and their life. Some of these cities sprang to being upon the very flanks of the mountains which give them their source of life—silver—centuries ago. Among these great towns of the plateau, especially those whose wealth and population have accrued from or depend upon the business of delving into the earth for minerals, is Guanajuato, picturesquely situated among the foothills of a mountain range known as the Sierra of Santa Rosa. Its elevation above sea-level is 6,850 feet, and the dry, clear atmosphere, bright hues of buildings and churches, sloping hills with houses and gardens perforce terraced thereon, with the brilliant sunlight overhead, form a characteristic Mexican centre of industry. The houses of Guanajuato are built of a species of freestone, which as a fine-grained tufa caps the Sierra in places here, and is known as cantera. It is easily worked and hardens on weathering, and its use gives a well-constructed appearance to the streets. I have noted the same aspect in other Spanish-American countries, notably the Peruvian city of Arequipa. According to the calculation of Humboldt, the great veta madre, or "mother lode," of Guanajuato, had yielded, up to his time, silver to the value of fifty-eight million pounds sterling; and, indeed, it is to be recollected that, a century ago, Guanajuato was a larger city than New York!

Of Zacatecas, Durango, San Luis Potosi, Aguascalientes, and others of the numerous important cities and towns, linked together by the great trunk lines of railway along the vast reaches of the mesa central, we cannot speak save by name. Each has its peculiar circumstance and interest, and the different States of which they form the political and industrial centres are described in the chapter devoted thereto. We will, however, take a momentary flight to the fine city of Chihuahua, far to the north, situated among its great plains and mineral-bearing mountain ranges. Among these vast deserts, now slowly yielding to reclamation by the hand of civilised man, scorched by a merciless sun by day and bitterly cold by night, which form this part of Mexico, the savage Apaches formerly roamed—the abominable Apaches: the cruellest and most treacherous race the world has ever known. Well might these savages have been hunted to the death by the invaders of the white race, both here and on the great American deserts north of the Rio Grande, and well might their scalpings and torturings form the theme for those adventurous novels which made our flesh creep as we perused them in boyhood's days! Now the degenerate descendants of these once formidable Redskins seek a living in desultory cultivation of the soil, although bands of them and of other tribes still cause trouble to soldiery of the Mexican Republic at times. But the capital city of Chihuahua is an example of man rising superior to savagery and Nature, and this splendid centre of modern life and industry is far removed from the condition of its natural surroundings. It stands at an elevation of nearly 5,000 feet above the level of the sea. The climate is a healthy one, eminently suitable for the white race and its activities; and the population of 30,000 inhabitants forms the centre of a great growing region whose natural resources are manifold. Upon the river Conchos, and upon the Casas Grandes, affluents of the Rio Grande or Bravo, are some of the ruins which are amongst the oldest and most interesting of Mexico, from an archaeological point of view.

We have said that the Mexicans are an hospitable people, and this is eminently true of the upper class. As to the peones, they are, in the more remote districts, by no means of an untractable or surly character, although the lowest in the scale, and some of the Indian tribes, are excessively stupid and suspicious. The Mexicans of better class divide these people into gente de razon, or "rational" people, and gente intratable, or people with whom it is almost impossible to treat or to comprehend. These people vary much throughout the country, but as a rule they are unaggressive and harmless. Whilst thieving is generally ascribed as a strong vice of the Mexican lower class, this must not be rashly applied. The peon, or Indian, may take articles of small value which are left about, but he does not commit crime in order to rob; and the extraordinary outrages constantly perpetrated in the "Wild West" of the United States, in the shootings, "holding-up" of passenger trains, wrecking of express cars by dynamite, bank robbery, and the like exploits of the Anglo-American desperado, to steal, are unknown to the temperament of the Spanish-American. The latter are creatures of impulse, and lack the "nerve" for a well-planned murderous exploit of the above nature. Nor are they capable of the lynching, burnings of negroes, and race riots which characterise those parts of the United States which bound Mexico on the north, and once formed part of her territory. If, however, their crimes are smaller, so is their power of initiative, sustained effort, and the working for to-morrow characteristic of the Anglo-Saxon and Anglo-American peoples. Yet the police are much in evidence in Mexican travel. A gendarme with sabre and revolver accompanies every car on the trains which cross the great plateau. Indeed, in former years robbery with violence was the chief "incident" of travel in Mexico. Footpads and armed bandidos infested every highway and mountain road twenty years ago, and travel was impossible except with an armed escort. But this was before the work of President Diaz and his rurales. The conditions are now very different, and the traveller may journey almost anywhere, except in a few districts, without danger of molestation, with ordinary precautions such as the characteristic conditions of the country call for. In those places where the peones are distrustful of the white foreigners it is generally due to the influence of these, who have ingrained their own bad habits and vices upon them. A gentleman, if he holds the demeanour covered by the designation, ever carries respect in Mexico.

Incidents of life and travel in remote regions, among the petty authorities and the hacendados, rancheros, and landowners generally, are full of colour and interest for the traveller. Our belongings are securely packed upon a couple of well-appointed mules; we are astride passable Mexican horses, seated on comfortable saddles, with our servant and the arriero in attendance, and we have left the last of the city streets; with our face to the open country the true charm of travel comes upon us—the touch of Nature, solitude, and the far horizon which nothing else can ever supply. Thus accoutred we shall hold real converse with Nature, and with the typical people of the land over which we pass.

Let us therefore turn our attention to the picturesque world of the great bulk of the Mexican population, the class which earns its daily bread by the sweat of its brow. These are the peones, and to their work is due the cultivation of the ground, the working of the mines, and all the manual labour without which the industries of the country would be non-existent. The peon is not necessarily a forced labourer. Nevertheless, the conditions of his life are such that he is not a free agent as the working men of other countries are. His payment is largely received in goods which he is obliged to purchase in the general store of the hacienda, belonging to the proprietor, or by some one licensed thereby. This is a species of "truck" system. High prices and short weight—in accordance with the business principles underlying such systems—generally accompany these dealings. Moreover, as the peon has often been granted supplies in advance, against future wages, he is generally in debt to the store, a condition which, purposely, is not discouraged. The law does not support the system, but as the whole area of land surrounding the hacienda belongs thereto, the proprietor may or may not—generally the latter—permit the establishment of any independent shop in the vicinity. Indeed, such temerity on the part of any would-be merchant would soon call down punishment—if such it may be termed—from the myrmidons of the landowner, to whom the hunting of "contraband" vendors of goods or liquor is fair game.



The house of the peon—the single-roomed adobe-built habitation, or the wattle-built jacal in which he dwells, belongs to the estate owner; and if the dweller, through laziness or other similar cause, fails to put in an appearance in the fields, he is soon forced to vacate it, and, supposing him to be free from debt, to leave the hacienda. He toils all day in the fields, drawing a scanty wage, and retires at night to this primitive abode, which he shares with his female consort and her progeny.

Yet it is not to be supposed that under this autocratic and patriarchal rule—for the regime in some respects has an atmosphere of the pastoral scenes of the Old Testament—the peones are oppressed or unhappy. Men who know no other state are contented with their lot, and the poor Mexican creates matters of pastime and enjoyment in his simple life. Bull-fights, horse-racing, cock-fighting, together with dancing and the consumption of liquor—the latter his serious and principal vice—furnish him with distraction, whilst religious feast-days make up the sum.

This description applies mainly to the agricultural labourer. The miner stands somewhat apart as a class, pursuing his more arduous, yet possibly more independent, labour under the ground, and living in the clustered adobe huts upon the bare hillside in the vicinity of the mine-mouth. With his pick, bar, and dynamite he jovially enters his subterranean passage, where, generally working under some system of contract, his energies are spurred by the hope of profit depending upon his own efforts—ever a stimulus which the mere day-worker lacks.

The system of contract work also obtains in some cases with the agricultural labourer, especially in the cultivation of sugar-cane, which is an important Mexican industry. Fields, with water for irrigation, are allotted to the responsible worker—Mexico is a country whose rainfall generally is insufficient for cultivation without irrigation—and this he cultivates, the hacienda lending seed and implements, and taking as payment a stated portion of the crop.

So, if the people generally are poor, they are not discontented. Their wants are exceedingly simple and easily supplied. Furniture and other household chattels are not acquired nor required by the poorer class of peon. If he has no bedstead, the earthen floor serves the purpose, and here he and his family sleep, rolled together in their ponchos or blankets for warmth, with an utter disregard for ventilation, damp, or kindred matters. Indeed, if need be, the hardy peon will sleep out upon the open plain without feeling any particular discomfort.

The interior menage of a Mexican hut is naturally primitive. The fireplace is often outside, and consists of unshaped stones, between which charcoal or firewood is ignited, and upon these the earthen pot, or olla, is balanced, containing whatever comestible the moment may have afforded, and whose contents we will proceed to investigate. If the fireplace is inside, there is often no chimney, and the habitation is smoky and dark, with only a hole in the roof for ventilation. En passant, it may be said that some of the methods of the poorer Mexican peones are not much in advance of those of our common ancestor—primeval man!

To observe now the contents of the olla. First it should be noted that earthenware vessels fulfil nearly all the purposes of the peones' culinary requirements. In these seemingly fragile articles the women bake, stew, boil, and fry in a fashion which would astonish the English or American housewife, accustomed to the use of iron utensils. The diet of the peon is largely vegetarian, and indeed he is a living example of the working force contained in cereals and leguminous plants. Meat is a scarce and expensive luxury which he is rarely able to obtain.



Most important of all in this primitive menu is the tortilla; and, indeed, this simple article of food is worthy of being blazoned upon the country's escutcheon! for it may be said to be the basis of all labour here. The tortilla is simply an unsweetened pancake of maiz flour, patted out thin in the hands and baked, and its preparation is the principal occupation of the women of the peones during the time their men are toiling in the fields. Let us watch a Mexican woman of the working class making her tortillas, probably sitting on the threshold of her habitation for purposes of light and neighbourly gossip. She has brought forth a grinding-stone or flat mortar known as a metate, for the purpose of grinding the maiz—an article shaped out of a block of a special kind of volcanic stone, called recinta, an implement inherited from Aztec times. The maiz has been boiled with a little lime, and is somewhat softened, and she places handfuls of the grain upon the metate, adding water, and shortly reduces it to a stiff paste under the grinding of the upper stone. The tortilla is then patted out into the form of a thin pancake and baked in an earthenware dish, or casuela. If it is to be our fortune to partake of this preparation—and if we have been travelling in a remote part of the country it may be so—it is advisable not to inquire too closely into the cleanliness of the operation, for the Mexican peon and his woman do not consider morning ablutions at all a necessary part of their toilette! The supply of tortillas being finished, they are sufficient for the day's requirements, and take the place of bread, and, indeed, of plates, knives and forks, for the peones scoop up their food or put it upon these handy pancakes for depositing it in their mouths, and munch them with their frijoles with the utmost gusto. To re-heat the tortillas they are placed for a few moments upon the glowing embers of the fire, and with a roll of tortillas in his pocket the peon will undertake a day's work, or toilsome march, and ask little else. The tortilla, and, indeed, the consumption of maiz in this form, seems to be peculiar to Mexico. In Peru, Chile, or other Spanish-American countries it is unknown.

Mention has been made of frijoles. There is more contained in that word—which we should translate as haricot beans, a small white variety—than might be supposed. Next to the tortilla it is the staple article of diet of a good many millions of Mexico's inhabitants. The preparation of the frijoles is simple. They are boiled in an earthen pot until they are cooked, and then fried in lard or other fat. They acquire a rich brown colour, and are appetising and wholesome. Even in the homes of the upper class frijoles are—or were—served as one of the courses, although there is a certain tendency to despise this as a national or Indian dish—a little weakness of advancing civilisation! But beans cooked in the Mexican way might well be adapted in English households, whether for reasons of novelty or economy. In the United States they are used in the form of "Boston baked pork and beans," but are considered a delicacy rather than an article of ordinary diet.

The next important item on the Mexican peones' bill of fare is Chile. This is the chilli; the pepper-pods of that name, a species of capsicum; the guinea-pepper. The pods are eaten either green, which is their unripe condition, or ripe or sun-dried, when they acquire a scarlet colour. In the first state they are only slightly piquant and are consumed largely, cooked with cheese or pork, which latter favourite dish is known as Chile con carne. When red they are exceedingly piquant, but are largely consumed with the frijoles and tortillas. They might certainly form a useful article of diet in England or the United States, where they are practically unknown, except in the form of chilli pepper.

Potatoes come next in the diet of the peones. The Mexican potato, however, seems often to be small and of inferior quality, and probably the soil and climate are not favourable to its production. Camotes and sweet potatoes, however, are excellent.

The national beverage of the Mexican is the well-known pulque, a fermented and intoxicating drink made from the maguey, and elsewhere described. Coffee is much esteemed by the peones, and purchased when circumstances will allow, and tea also, although in lesser degree. Milk and butter are scarce, and rarely used by the peones, but cheese made from goats' milk is a favourite article of diet. Meat is often used—when obtainable—dried, in strips, generally of beef. Mutton, or carne de borrego is consumed to some extent, and goats' flesh more frequently. The Mexican peon is not necessarily particular as to the quality of this meat. If a cow or bullock perishes upon the plain from drought or accident, the villagers soon get wind of the fact and the carcase is cut up and appropriated in short order. Indeed, the flesh of horses is not despised at times! And, as may be supposed, there are no troublesome municipal restrictions or health officers in such places to interpose authority against the practice, and the struggle for life, especially upon the great plateau, is keen.

Of course, as we rise in the social scale a large variety of foods are consumed, of excellent quality and unstinted quantity, such as we have described in speaking of the upper class. Even here, however, a Mexican "Mrs. Beeton" would have to describe a number of novel and appetising dishes of national character, and peculiar to the country.

The peon, like his superior the educated and wealthy Mexican, is excessively fond of tobacco. His cigarette is his great solace and enjoyment. No manufactured and papered article is the peones' cigarette. The dried husk of the maiz is taken and cut into pieces of the required size. Into this he sprinkles a small portion of strong tobacco and rolling it into a thin roll in a certain dexterous way, smokes it without necessity of gumming or fastening the edge. These cigarettes have a distinctive and agreeable taste and aroma, and the foreigner who has grown accustomed to them will certainly find nothing superior in the machine-made cigarettes of the United States or Great Britain—especially the former. The upper-class Mexican does not use these cigarettes of hoja de maiz, or maiz husk, but unceasingly smokes either the imported Havannas, or the Mexican paper-covered varieties, which are generally excellent.

The peon does not generally use matches to light his cigarette. He produces an eslabon, or small steel link, which he strikes upon his piece of flint, deftly dropping a spark upon his rag tinder, and so creates the means of ignition. Matches cost money—why spend unnecessarily? Or, seated at the camp-fire, he takes a glowing wood ember for the purpose, and indeed the traveller finds that this method of lighting a husk cigarette imparts a peculiar flavour or sense of satisfaction, unknown before. The peon who accompanied me on my expeditions picked up the cartridge cases, especially the brass ones, which I had ejected from the rifle, or carabina, after firing at bird or animal, and preserved them carefully. What for? "It forms an excellent tinder-box," he replied, asking permission to retain it.

The Mexican peon, like the Cholo of Peru, has become deeply imbued with the Roman Catholic religion, as expounded by the priests of Spanish-America. His was a nature to which the realistic ceremony and outward show of this system strongly appealed, and the superstition which in Spanish-America is an inseparable adjunct of this religion among the poorer class—and indeed to a certain extent among the upper—is at times scarcely distinguishable therefrom. To speak first of the religion. This manifests itself in their excessive reverence displayed towards the priests, the adoration of saints, and the naming of objects and places after these, and in the devout method of expression employed even in their ordinary tasks. Shrines and crosses are found everywhere—upon inaccessible hill-tops and in the depths of mines. As we ride along the dusty road our eyes rest suddenly upon a cross set by the way-side, apparently without any explanation of its presence at that spot. We turn to our mozo, or servant, who himself is only a more or less intelligent peon, and ask him the reason. "Senor," he will make reply, "may God preserve you: a highwayman—un bandido—was overtaken and shot here some years ago," or some kindred explanation wherein death has befallen some one by the wayside, whether by accident or punishment. There is much that is attractive and good about this religious sentiment—far be it from the philosophical observer to scoff thereat.

Yet the frequent occurrences of these crosses along the mountain-roads are terribly indicative of past disorders, and of private and political revenge, and even murder. Inquiry reveals that highway robbery and assassination, private feuds, love, drunken quarrels, and—frequent as any—pronunciamientos and revolutions are responsible for the deeds of bloodshed upon the spots where the emblem of Christian love and brotherhood is raised up. A certain lonely hill, which it was my fortune to pass on one occasion, was marked by three decaying crosses set among the stones and thorns at its base. I inquired the reason of their presence there from my servant, a faithful old peon who was a native of the vicinity. "Ah, senor," he replied, crossing himself devoutly as we drew rein and gazed upon the melancholy spot, "three caballeros died here—pasado por las armas[31]—twenty years ago." "For what reason?" I inquired. "That no one has ever known," he answered. "They were roused from their sleep in yonder town"—pointing to the white cluster of buildings and trees on the far-off horizon which we had that morning left—"taken by a file of soldiers under arrest, with orders—it was said—to conduct them to the capital." "Well?" I said as he paused; and the old fellow looked round as if fearful that rocks and cactuses had ears and might report his utterances to some jefe politico, and continued, "A volley was heard, and the officers afterwards reported that the prisoners had attempted to escape and had been shot down." Drawing closer to me he added, "But, senor, it was not true. My brother happened to be on this very hill and saw it, and the prisoners had been stood up in a line and shot."

[Footnote 31: That is to say, shot.]

I did not feel called upon to doubt the old fellow's words. Probably the three caballeros had been implicated in some political plot, and the Federal Government had—as was common in Mexico a few years ago—disposed of them by this swift and ruthless method. The pretext of "endeavouring to escape" was often a convenient one to hide the summary execution both of political suspects and criminals in the turbulent days of Mexico's recent history, and indeed has not altogether disappeared yet! Pasado por las armas was a common penalty, and is a somewhat poetic nomenclature for that form of execution which the soldier prefers.

Absorbed in such reflections, I rode on for some distance through the rocky defiles and over the alternating plains—absolutely sterile and verdureless—which some parts of the great mesa central present. On the summit of a small eminence I beheld yet another cross—a large wooden structure, which, however, had fallen from its base of loose rocks and lay upon the ground. Old Jose, my servant, was some distance behind assisting the mule-driver with my baggage with a refractory mule, and there was no one to say why the cross had been erected. The dusk was rapidly falling and we had yet some leagues to my objective-point. But there was something pathetic about the lone, fallen cross, and I felt loath to pass and leave it there, prone. Dismounting, I looped the long bridle over a projecting rock, and, ascending the eminence, took hold of the fallen cross, exerting my strength to raise it. It was large and heavy, and the footing on the slippery rock made it difficult, but at length I managed to lift it up and put it in position, piling heavy stones round its base to keep it there. Engaged in this self-imposed task, I did not observe that my horse—a spirited animal I had bought some months before—had freed its bridle from the rock below, and when I looked round it was just breaking into a gentle trot away across the desert! At this juncture old Jose rode up with the mule-driver and took in the situation, and I directed the latter individual to tie up his pack-mule and pursue my horse at all speed. "This cross," said Jose, in response to my questions, "was placed here when I was a boy," and he recounted how it had been erected in memory of an old Spaniard, a rich landowner of that region, who had been murdered there by the lover of his wife; she a beautiful young Mexican woman. The details of the history are too long to record here, but according to the legend current among the people, which Jose recounted, the spirit of the penitent wife visited the cross at evening, and hung a phantom wreath of white flowers upon it. "But," added the old peon, whose diction and ideas, notwithstanding his superstition, were superior to his kind generally, "the cross has never fallen before, and when from afar I saw the senor lifting it up I was astonished. But it is a blessed act, and no evil can now befall the senor!"

Inquiring what he meant by this, I learned that, in the opinion of the natives of some regions, the raising up of a fallen cross secures immunity from danger for him who has performed it for a season afterwards! This belief of old Jose's seemed put to the test, in his view, for half an hour afterwards, on crossing a steep-sided ravine, my horse slipped and fell, and carried me down the almost vertical cliff face for 50 feet or more. The sand and stones poured down in an avalanche, but I kept my horse's head up, and we landed on the sandy bottom below, unscratched, in a normal position! "The senor has been saved because of the cross!" Jose and the arriero both averred, after congratulating me upon the almost miraculous escape from injury.

But the cross set up in Mexico means many things, and is always in evidence among the lower orders. Here is a little path winding away among the rocks, pressed flat by the bare feet of generations of Indian women. Let us follow it. It leads to a feeble spring of clear water, which flows from the bare hillside into a scooped-out rock basin, and close beside it is a rude wooden cross, adorned with fading flowers. Perhaps we have met on the path a damsel with peasant dress and bare brown feet, who passes us with downcast eyes, bearing upon her shoulder a huge earthenware olla of water of quaint form—a figure such as in the land and time of Jacob and Rachel might have graced the sterile landscape. The cross has been placed there as a mark of gratitude for the existence of this frail water supply. Indeed, in these Spanish-American countries—as Mexico, Peru, and others—the conditions and atmosphere of everyday life often remind us of the scenes and colour of the Bible narratives. The absence of the conditions of modern life—railways, factories, the scramble for commercial wealth—induce this. The quaint and primitive methods of travel, the long distances, the sterile landscape, and the simple dress and pastoral life of the people, all contribute to this environment. Amid the haze of some long, shimmering road as we ride along a figure approaches. We do not see him; we "behold him while he is yet afar off," and if he happens to be a native friend he does not greet us with a handshake, but "falls upon our neck." Here in these wilds what typical places there are where the traveller might "fall among thieves" in some rocky defile or on the desert's edge! Here men are close to nature. They are unconsciously tinged and imbued with its picturesque and chequered incident, as was the great singer of Israel. Nature is ever present in Mexico, and man's struggle with her is his daily task. The wilderness is ever before his eyes, and circumstances often compel him to fast there in the wilderness, whose broad, arid bosom does but accentuate the valleys which intersect it, flowing veritably with milk and honey, and which we ofttimes behold from some Pisgah's mountain of the rocky Sierra. The "patriarchal" condition of life, moreover, as regards family life, "handmaidens" and natural sons, are reminiscent of Biblical story. Nature will not admit too rigid regulations against increase of population in Mexico: Hagar and Ishmael dwell in every hamlet!

Just as the religion of the Mexican peon causes him to people his daily surroundings with the presence of the saints, so does his superstitious mind assign supernatural causes to things not easily explained, and bid him see evil spirits and hobgoblins in strange or unfrequented places. Naturally, much of this superstition has come down with the traditions of his Aztec forbears, whose polytheistic religion set up many imaginary gods and spirits. The devil and his attendant hobgoblins are active people in this people's minds. But—happy tribute to the strength of Christianity!—the sign of the cross is potent to banish imaginary fiends on all ordinary occasions.

But the peon loves not to journey alone at night, nor to enter dark caves and grottoes where the bones and mummies of dead men are found. Peculiar superstition attaches to the vicinity of buried treasure. Enter into conversation with your mozo, or other of the peones, in their hours of relaxation, and they will impart strange stories of apparitions drawn from their own or some acquaintance's experience, and—for they are given to romancing—partly from their imagination. As to buried treasure, it is supposed that this is always guarded by a spirit, sometimes good, sometimes evil, and generally that some evil will befall those who meddle with it. In the immediate vicinity of concealed treasure at night, upon the plain, the peones say that a mysterious light is seen hovering over the spot, especially when damp and misty. This light they term a relacion; and although they dare not approach it, it serves as a guide to mark the place, which they proceed to dig over when daylight comes—although in some cases they dare not do so, fearing that an evil spirit will draw them in—in the hope of enriching themselves with treasure trove. The same light is said by the Mexican miners to "burn" over the place where a lode of rich metallic ore exists undiscovered, or even within the workings of a mine, sometimes, when a body of rich ore has escaped attention.

The truth or falsity of these stories of the peones I must leave to the inclination of the reader. On one occasion I observed a phenomenon of this nature, however. It was a damp, misty night, and I was sitting in my tent after a long day's examination of the hills. "Senor," suddenly exclaimed one of my men, entering the tent, "there is a relacion burning on the plain by the point of the hill!" I started up, willing to observe whatever might be visible, or have the satisfaction of showing them what tontos they were. They conducted me round the spur of the hill close at hand. The sky was dark and frowning, and an eerie feeling took possession—at least of the two peones!

"There!" they exclaimed, and following the direction indicated I observed a pale fluctuating flame or light a few hundred feet distant. I began to advance towards it, but the fearful peones strove to detain me. "No, senor," they urged; "it is a spirit; do not approach." But disregarding this admonition, I began to walk towards the spot, telling them to follow, which, however, they would not do. In unknown situations in wild countries a revolver gives a certain sense of security, and drawing mine I approached the mysterious light, which went and came intermittently. I knew it must be an ignis fatuus. As I reached the place it disappeared; my feet suddenly sank in marshy ground, and a heavy mist-cloud enveloped the place, so that I could see absolutely nothing. I confess I felt a species of "gooseflesh" creeping over me. But my feet were sinking deeper in the bog, and more by good luck than anything else I floundered out and regained the rock, and, directed by the shouts of the peones, made my way through the dense mist to the tent. I heard some time afterwards that excavations had been made at the spot in the hope of finding treasure, but could not learn the result.

Ancient caves in different parts of Mexico often contain the skulls and bones of former inhabitants, whether prehistoric or of later times, sometimes containing finely fashioned flint implements. The natives, as a rule, fear to go into these places. "Do not enter, senor," they will say, as, with Anglo-Saxon lack of superstition, you determine to explore them; "some evil befalls those who meddle with the remains of the dead." And if they are prevailed upon to assist they cross themselves devoutly before descending or entering. Weird tales they unfold afterwards of men who have gone into such places and found their exit barred by some evil spirit, they themselves having been encountered dead and cold upon the cavern floor when discovered by their relatives, who had searched for the missing one! According to the peones, the scenes of murder or wickedness which may have taken place in such situations are enacted again to the terrified vision of the unhappy witness who had the temerity to venture into these places possessed of the devil, for the King of Darkness is an ever-present and active element of the poor Mexican's superstitious world.

As to buried treasure, it is a favourite subject of the peon for conversation. Quantities of silver money and other articles are frequently found concealed throughout the country, where they were often placed for safety in the turbulent times of former history. At the time of the dispossession of the clergy it is probable that a good deal of concealment of this nature was made, whether in lonely places in the hills or plains, or in the floors and walls of convents and houses.

It was with considerable difficulty that I persuaded my peones on one occasion to assist me in the examination of a cave which was said to contain the remains of the dead. The cave had a corkscrew-like opening from the surface of the hill, a barren limestone hog-back in the State of Durango. It descended spirally for some 30 feet or more, as I found when my men lowered me down with a rope, at my command. When my feet touched bottom I lighted the candle, which had been put out in the descent, and looked around. The place was of small extent—little more than a pit—and it seemed to be a natural cavity, with nothing remarkable about it. But I turned my attention to the floor, which felt curiously soft and greasy to the touch. It was strewn with pieces of human bones and skulls! The gruesome place weighed rather upon me, I confess, silent and stifling as it was, but having come to explore I proceeded to excavate lightly in the yielding material of the floor with a light pick. The singular nature of this material aroused my attention, and well it might, for I afterwards learned that there was a legend to the effect that the pit had been the scene of a massacre, and that numbers of persons alive and dead, had been thrown into it, and the soft material was the decayed human remains! When this had taken place no one knew, but it must have been at a very remote or prehistoric period, for during my digging in the floor I unearthed a flint spearhead, beautifully chipped and fashioned, lying by a skull it had cloven. The spearhead, or blade, is some 6 inches in length and 4 inches in width, about a quarter of an inch thick, and I still preserve it.

So, as we have seen, religion and superstition are much combined in the mind of the Mexicans, the result of both ancient and modern creeds. As to the antique beliefs and cult, there is much that appeals to the philosopher in the religious structures and history of the prehistoric, semi-civilised peoples of Mexico, or indeed of Spanish-America, whether North or South. The pyramids and temples, which the Toltecs and the Aztecs and the Incas built, have something grand and broad underlying their main idea, the idea of being able to get on their temples rather than in them. There is ever a source of inspiration in being upon the point of an eminence, to commune with Providence, rather than being immured within some gloomy walls, with toppling spires overhead. The spirit ever tries to get out, to ascend, and is exalted in accordance with its altitude. Did not Moses at Sinai bring forth the enduring Decalogue from the summit of a great natural pyramid, rather than from the gloomy interior of a temple? The exceedingly numerous pyramids throughout ancient Mexico seem to attest some exalted idea of a natural religion, which found outlet and habitation in the great Teocallis.

Man, semi-civilised or modern, ever strives to commune with a God, an unseen Being. Is it not nobler and more inspiring to gaze towards the setting sun with solitude around us? An environment of Nature, the nearest approach to the "unknown God" which exists, subtly attracts us as the handiwork of a power unknown. Well may the altar lights and emblems, and the oppressive enclosure of temples, be more and more rejected by the thinking mind, as the dark ages of religion leave us and true reverential knowledge unfolds. We might almost be tempted to say that the cathedrals of Mexico are not a philosophical exchange for its Teocallis, nor that the stake and axe of the Inquisition were much advance upon the sacrificial stone of the Aztec war-god! The frenzied priest who cut open the breast of the human sacrificial victim with an obsidian knife, and tore out the palpitating heart to cast it before his fanciful gods, does not present a picture of such refined cruelty as that of civilised European man, the Inquisitors in long black cloaks, calmly sitting by whilst their victims were slowly roasted to death at the stake because they would not change their faith, or for other equally reasonless cause. There is, and ever will be, something peculiarly sinister and abominable about the recollection of the Inquisition and its operations, under the sky of the New World. And to the philosophical observer, who pins his thoughts to no mere creed of whatever designation, the fact seems palpable that the sinister authority which did those things is only slumbering, and did not civilisation and antagonism restrain it those scenes would be repeated. The germs of an Inquisition exist in almost every religious organisation, but the old original one would burn its victims again if it could!

As to the Teocallis, perhaps their form was suggested by the natural pyramidal hills of the mountain landscape, whereon men must have stood to watch the sunset and feel nearer heaven, even in those savage lands. Even to-day this hill-ascending influence is not banished among the primitive class of the Mexican people. Every hill in the neighbourhood of a hamlet is surmounted by a cross, up to which culminating point processions constantly ascend. Indeed, at times the devout—or fanatic—Indian and peon ascends these rocky steeps upon his knees, leaving blood-spots to mark his way! Processions of fanatic Indians were formerly common; they journeyed over great distances upon their knees towards some popular shrine, and although the law now prohibits these, they are surreptitiously carried out at times, and I have witnessed them myself. Onwards and upwards towards the "Unknown God" these poor people grope their way—

"Upon the great world's altar stairs."

Can we say much more of the most civilised among us?

Much of beauty and interest there is in a study of both the old and new religions of this land; much of the romance of the former we may feel, as, standing on the pyramid whence the rays of the orb of day were flashed back from the golden breastplate of Tonatiah in days of yore, we mark the sun-god of the Aztecs sink in the Occident.



CHAPTER XII MEXICAN LIFE AND TRAVEL (continued)

Anthropogeographical conditions—The Great Plateau—The tropical belt— Primitive villages—Incidents of travel on the plateau—Lack of water— Hydrographic conditions—Venomous vermin—Travel by roads and diligencias—A journey with a priest—Courtesy of the peon class— The curse of alcohol—The dress of the working classes—The women of the peon class—Dexterity of the natives—The bull-fights—A narrow escape—Mexican horse equipment—The vaquero and the lasso—Native sports—A challenge to a duel—Foreigners in Mexico—Unexplored Guerrero—Sporting conditions—Camp life—A day's hunting.

The picturesque incidents of life and travel in Mexico vary much according to the particular part of the country we may be sojourning in or passing through. Civilisation has advanced more upon the great plateau, threaded by numerous railway systems, than in the less accessible regions of the Pacific and Atlantic slopes. Mexican national life has not developed much upon the littoral. A harbourless and riverless country, aboriginal civilisation made little use of its coasts, and the same natural conditions have existed until to-day, although now, at great cost, harbours are being created and transverse railway lines being built.



Yet upon the great plateau, which, indeed, embodies a large part of Mexico, life is harder—at any rate for the labouring classes—than in the tropical regions bordering upon the Pacific and Atlantic slopes, and of that equally or more tropical region to the south of the Sierra Madres. Scantily clad, the peon suffers from the brusque change from torrid day to bitterly cold night which the climate of the great tableland produces. The ground is generally sterile by nature—as elsewhere described—and all produce is grown under irrigation. In many parts of the region water is scarce, or is employed for the irrigation of highly remunerative crops, such as cotton, leaving a minimum for the growing of food products. In this arid region natural pasture is scarce, with a consequent dearth of cattle and their produce, whilst cereals, fruits, and vegetables are far from plentiful. Consequently the peon has but a small choice of comestibles.

In the more tropical belt, however, the vegetation is profuse, and fruits, cereals, and any product of the vegetable world grows almost spontaneously, or with a minimum of care. Bananas, oranges, sweet potatoes, sugar-cane, and a variety of eatables—all easily acquired—increase his range of food products, even if they do not augment his working powers.

Not all the peon inhabitants of Mexico are necessarily attached to the large estates. Upon the great tableland the traveller, as he pursues his sun-beat and dusty road, will constantly come upon small hamlets and even single dwellings, set near the base of some hill or in the broken ground of a ravine, or arroyo, where perchance a feeble stream or spring provides the inhabitants with the means of satisfying their thirst. Failing that a dammed-up pond may form the only supply of water.

These places are generally of the most primitive and miserable character. Often, were it not for the sterile nature of the land and the lack of water they would not be in the possession of the people at all, but would long ago have been taken by the nearest hacienda. Indeed, possibly they may be upon the territory claimed by such, but of too insignificant a nature to be disturbed. Let us survey briefly these poor dwellers on Nature's waste places. We have ridden for hours under the sun and wind; our faces are scorched and our lips are cracked. "Is there no sombra where we can eat our lunch and take a siesta?" I ask of my servant, who is acting in the double capacity of mozo and guide. He shakes his head doubtfully. "Quien sabe, senor," he replies, but recollects a publecito, a little farther on, where we may obtain shade. We ride on. Oh for a drink from some crystal stream! The water in the bottle is lukewarm; it is not a bottle, but a gourd, such as in Mexico are fashioned from the wild calabazas for this purpose, stoppered with maize-cob freed from the grain, and it preserves the water fairly fresh.

The vociferous barking of a legion of dogs announces our approach, for however poor the inhabitants of these places may be the bands of mongrel curs which they keep seem to find means of living. We approach the huts, our horses kicking and snorting at the attacks of the dogs. A few of the houses are built of the usual adobe bricks; the major portion—there may be a dozen or so—are simply jacales, as the Mexican wattle-hut is termed. Dirt, rags, and evil odours surround the place, for primitive man is a filthy being, and defiles the environs of his habitation for a considerable area around him. My visions of the crystal stream vanish. Close at hand is a foul pond of waters collected from the last rainstorm, wherein a lean-backed hog wallows, and we learn that this is the villagers' water supply! Naked children of both sexes run about under our horses' legs, and supplicate me for a centavito. A horse, or at least the framework of a horse—for the animal is attenuated beyond description—stands tethered under the shade of a rude roof of boughs and whinnies feebly to our sturdy mounts.

"There is no water, senor," the old crone, who has emerged from one of the huts, replies. "God has sent us no rain for many days, but if the senor would like some pulque—" I close with the suggestion and instruct the mozo to try it, to see if, in his experienced judgment, it is good. This he does, nothing loath, and pronounces it fresh. Pulque is a refreshing and not unwholesome drink. It is not a spirit, although in quantities it is intoxicating. Its manufacture is unknown outside Mexico, and in Peru the chicha, or maiz beer of the natives, takes its place.

I quaff a gourd of the liquid; custom has rendered it not unpleasant to the palate, and its singular odour I disregard. And in the cool shade of the interior of the most respectable of the adobe huts we rest awhile until the sun's fiery disc has descended somewhat from the zenith. Then I distribute some small largesse to the woman and her numerous progeny, for am I not an ingles, of that famous race whose pockets are ever lined with silver and who are known even throughout these remote regions?

How do these people live? The only vegetation at hand is some gaunt nopales or prickly pear cactus, forming a protective hedge around the settlement, and a few other specimens, all armed with spines and prickles after the fashion of Nature's handiwork in arid regions. Truly, these outcasts must gather "grapes of thorns and figs of thistles" if they reap anything here! But probably at the head of the arroyo there is a little tilled patch of maiz and alfalfa, such as supply the inevitable tortilla for the denizens of the place, and fodder—and thereby some small revenue, as in our own case—for the beasts of passing travellers.

But this region is not always dry. At certain seasons heavy rainstorms occur, and a veritable deluge descends upon the cracked ground and fills the dry river-beds and arroyos with a turgid flood. In some situations, as, for example, on the river Nazas, a wave of water comes down, covering 10 or 15 feet deep and 500 feet wide in an irresistible flood what a few moments before was a parched and sandy bottom. In the great gullies of the plains similar conditions occur, and woebetide the unfortunate horseman or foot passenger who may be journeying along them at the moment! These sudden freshets are a remarkable feature of the hydrography of the great plateau, and have been more fully described in another chapter.

Such a storm we shall have encountered in our expeditions. The rain comes down in torrents, and the lightning flashes and the thunder reverberates among the rocks and canyons; for we have approached a mountain spur, perhaps, in our examination of its mineral resources.

The peon in such situations, if there be no shelter at hand, not infrequently, when alone or only with his companions, takes off his clothing and places it in some sheltered rock-crevice, where it keeps dry, until the storm has passed, he himself remaining nude and unconcerned amid the downpour. A mouthful of mezcal, or fiery native spirit, will ward off a chill.

At night we have sought the hospitality of the owner of some adobe hut. He has done his best for me, but sleeping on the floor is ever trying, and the pack-mule with my baggage and camp-bed has tarried on the road. A rainstorm in this region has the effect of bringing out the noxious vermin from the soil, where they have lain during the heat. Among the most uncomfortable of these are the alacran, or scorpion, and the centipede, both of which reptiles are found freely upon the walls and roofs of the adobe dwellings. For my peace of mind we have carefully examined the interior, with a candle, before turning in, and the mozo, with a piece of firewood, has smashed the offending centipedes, of which there were a number. Both the scorpion and centipede have a venomous sting, the former sometimes fatal. As to the peones, they display small concern at the presence of these vermin. "God willing we shall not be stung," they say, and, rolling themselves in their ponchos on the bare floor in a corner of the habitation, they are soon asleep. But sleep does not visit me so easily. An uncomfortable impression remains, which has not been lessened by the casual remark of the owner of the hut regarding the habits of the scorpions. "Very knowing creatures, senor," he says, as he obsequiously helps to arrange my couch in the middle of the floor—a position chosen by myself—"they have a habit of dropping from the roof on to a person sleeping beneath"!

Mexico, unlike other Cordilleran countries, lends itself to travel in certain directions by means of roads and vehicles. The diligencias which give communication from remote places to the wayside stations of the railways, where the nature of the topography admits of roads for wheeled vehicles, are canvas-topped carriages drawn by half a dozen mules. Over the dusty plains of the tableland and through the rugged scenery of hill-passes these somewhat crazy vehicles perform their journeys, starting often before sunrise and arriving after sunset in order to accomplish their toilsome trajectory. Jolting over the ruts and arroyos of the scarcely-tended "roads"—if by courtesy they may be termed such—and baked by the sun blazing upon the carriage-hood, the traveller would often prefer to exchange his uncomfortable seat for that of the saddle. Often a more agreeable method is by alternating these methods.



I journeyed, on one occasion, with a padre, or village priest; not, however, in a public diligencia, but in a vehicle of similar nature which I had chartered to convey me to a distant point. As I was starting some Mexican friends of a neighbouring hacienda approached the vehicle, accompanied by a stout padre. "Would I do them and the padre the great favour of taking the latter in my coach, which would save the worthy representative of the Church a long, hot ride?" they asked. "Of course I would; nothing would afford me greater pleasure," I replied, although in strict truth this was an expression of courtesy rather than of actual fact, for the padre looked very heavy, and I had desired to journey rapidly without a change of mules. The reverend gentleman was of a type commonly met with in Spanish-America, of little education and predominant native physiognomy, but jovial withal. A basket containing good and liberal provisions to sustain the padre upon his arduous journey was put into the coach by his friends, and simultaneously put at my service, as a matter of course. From the covering of the basket protruded the tops of various bottles of wine and beer, which my travelling companion eyed with satisfaction, and indeed before we started he insisted upon opening one—of cognac—and giving us a copa all round. This habit of drinking brandy in the early morning is a common one in Latin America—it is said to ward off malaria!—but is not an acceptable one to the temperate Briton.

Well, the coach started. The peon who held the mules' heads—a necessary precaution—let go, and the half-broken animals bounded forward along the rough and dusty road, in a way which rendered both the padre and myself quite speechless for a space. However, they soon settled down into their rapid jog-trot, and I found my companion quite loquacious. His mission had been to marry a number of peones at the hacienda, who, at such places, where the visits of a representative of the Church are apt to be few and delayed, have to wait for the Church's blessing for some time, and then receive it in batches. This delay, however, does not necessarily cause a postponement of their matrimonial relations in other respects—as, indeed, the reverend father informed me! Other interesting matters and views of men (and women) and their customs the padre unfolded as we went along, drawn from his professional experience, and recounted, perhaps, with more freedom to a foreigner who understood his language, and doubtless rendered of more facile delivery by the frequent investigations of the contents of the bottles which he made as the day wore on.

As evening approached my coach halted at a small village at the foot of a range of hills which intersected the desert, in order that the mules might water. The inhabitants of the place, eager for the least distraction, approached; and, learning that a padre was within the vehicle, the women and girls crowded round to receive the good man's benediction and kiss his hand, which he graciously extended from the carriage window. But the throng was considerable, and our stay short, and it seemed that many of them would not be able to kiss the brown hand of the priest. And now I absolve myself from having done it on purpose! My own hand lay upon the sill of the window upon my side of the coach, and suddenly I felt the pressure of a pair of lips upon it! Looking out, I saw that some of the girls and women had come round to that side of the vehicle, and, doubtless, supposing that I was also a padre, had begun to kiss my hand. A certain feeling of pity or delicacy caused me to refrain from removing it—let them be happy in thinking they were also the recipient of some attention; and so I left it there. No one peered into the gloom of the vehicle's interior, or the supposed padre would have been discovered as a clean-shaven young Englishman, dressed, not in priestly black and cassock, but in riding garments! And when the vehicle started I did not consider it necessary to inform my companion of the role I had unwittingly played.

But the day's adventures were not over. In crossing the dry bed of an arroyo a wheel gave way and the coach overturned, fortunately for me on the side of the padre! Had it been otherwise the weight of the good priest might have caused me much inconvenience; but as it was I fell upon him. It was in no irreverent spirit that I afterwards cogitated that, at least on one occasion of my life, the Romish Church had interposed between me and injury! And as the priest was not hurt, I could afford to impart this view to him.

The poor peon class is there much under the influence of the priest, especially the women, and, indeed, among the upper classes the confessional and other priestly operations are attended with as much rigidity as in past centuries, although the male sex has very greatly emancipated itself therefrom, and receives any allusions to the priest with a shrug of the shoulders, or, at times, with coldness or open hostility towards that worthy. The Church has fallen into disrepute in Mexico, and it is impossible that it should ever regain its former preeminence. The humble peones arouse the foreigner's pity. Poor people! they are bound by centuries of class-distinction and priestly craft transplanted from an old-world monarchy. These people are generally affectionate and respectful; they will undergo hardship and toil to serve us if we have by justice and tolerance won their respect and sympathy; and with a faithfulness that is almost canine. Their feasts, ceremonies, griefs, are quaint and full of colour and the human touch. Their simple state of life and humble dress take nothing from their native courtesy. Behold yon sandalled and manta- (cheap calico) clad worker. He will never think of addressing us without taking off his grimy and battered hat, nor will he speak to his acquaintance or fellow worker save as "Don"—Don Tomas, Don Juan, or whatever it may be. His first salutation in the morning is always to ask how we have slept. Indeed this is a common form of salutation with all classes in Mexico, "Como ha pasado usted la noche?" And it is but an indication of that importance which they attach to sleep. None would think to disturb our siesta, no matter who might be waiting to see us, and nothing short of actual danger to us would cause us to be awakened before the usual hour, or aroused after we had retired.

The great enemy of the peon and Indian class is alcohol. Whether it be the mild intoxicant pulque of the plateau—for the beverage will not keep in the tierra caliente—or whether the fiery aguadiente, or cane-rum, or the potent mezcal, also made from maguey, the habit of drinking to excess is the ruination of the working class. Wherever it may be, whether under the shade of a tree in the noonday sun, or riding an attenuated horse across the plains, or at the dwelling of some compadre or other acquaintance, there is a bottle protruding from pocket or saddle-bags, and the odour of spirits in the air. The remedy lies largely in prohibition, but, alas! the country's legislators are generally great landowners, and part of their revenue comes from the growing of the maguey, or of the sugar-cane, and in the making and sale of pulque and aguadiente.

The dress of the peon is picturesque, and to the foreign observer ever strikes a note of almost operatic strain. As the sun sets the peon dons his poncho, or serape, as the red blanket which is his invariable outer garment is termed. In the cool air of the morning or evening he speaks but little, covering his mouth with a corner of the serape, for he has a constant and, as far as the foreigner can observe, unfounded fear of pneumonia. The crowning point of his dress is the great conical, broad-brimmed hat, which is the main and peculiar characteristic of the inhabitants of this land; a national and remarkable headgear which is met with nowhere else. There is ever a brigand-like local colour about the Mexican peon, and indeed of some of the upper classes in their national dress. The peon, or the vaquero,[32] as he stalks muffled through the streets or plaza, or lurks within his habitation with a corner of the serape thrown over his shoulder and a knife stuck in his belt, is a subject which might have stepped from the boards of a theatre! Although he is respectful in his demeanour, and often devout in his language, the open greeting and confident demeanour of the Anglo-Saxon is absent. Who can blame him? The oppression of centuries weighs upon him; he has been doomed to ignorance and poverty ever since his Iberian conquerors set foot upon the soil which was his, and the descendants of this same conquering race do little but perpetuate his melancholy state. In the years since the Republic was established he has been constantly dragged from his peaceful labours to serve this or that revolutionary malcontent, and so made to destroy rather than create industry. And to-day he is the subject of such unequal wealth and class distinction whose change it seems impossible to hope for. Yet there is some progress.

[Footnote 32: Cowboy.]

As to the women of the peones, their dress is generally sombre-hued and modest. No scarlet blanket covers them, but a blue reboso, or shawl, which is generally placed over the head in lieu of a hat. The women of the poorer classes accept, with what to the foreigner seems almost a pathetic resignation, the style of dress which custom has dictated to their class. There is no aping of the rich in their attire. Whether it be the fine lace mantilla or the Parisian hat which the far-distant-from-her senorita wears, as in temple or plaza she takes her dainty way, or the pretty frock or delicate shoes, the poor woman of the peon, or the mujer of the petty shopkeeper, casts no envious glance—but no, that would not be true! She casts them, but she will not strive to imitate. Is there not some virtue in such non-emulation, or is it but the spirit of a deadened race? Yet this rather sombre and unattractive apparel is found more among the peon class; the Indian girl in some parts of Mexico—as at Tehuantepec—wears a handsome native costume, derived from Aztec days, at holiday time.



The reboso, or shawl, is a useful article of clothing of the women of this class. We shall meet her trudging along dusty roads or over steep mountain trails, sad-faced and patient, with her baby slung behind her in a reboso tied round her waist; or possibly she has utilised it to collect some scanty lena, or firewood, from among the dry scrub of the arroyo, just as her man uses his serape as a universal hold-all on occasions for potatoes, maize, or other articles which he has purchased at the village market.

The complexion of the Mexican peon class is generally exceedingly dark, approaching coffee-colour, although they have, of course, no strain of African blood in their composition. But the types of faces vary much for different parts of the country—due to the numerous distinct races. Some purely aboriginal faces are almost clear-cut and attractive, especially among the women. The peon women, too, are often soft and pretty, and attract, and are attracted, by the foreigner. Near the lines of the railroads the progeny of Mexican women—Anglo-Saxon in type—are often seen!

The Mexicans, peones and Indians, have a remarkable aptitude—like those other peoples of aboriginal blood in America, as Peru—for making things by hand which require care and patience. The exquisite figures with delicately carved features and dress, pottery, woven material, as mats and pouches, straw (and Panama) hats, and so forth, are such in delicacy and texture as it is improbable could be made by the workmen of Europe.

Indeed, the elements of care and patience are much developed among these semi-civilised peoples. A Mexican peon will not miss his way on the plains or in the mountains—the least indication will serve his recollection of the route, and, indeed, it is not necessary to enlarge upon the aborigine's natural science of woodcraft. Moreover, the peon will carry any delicate object—a theodolite or barometer, or other scientific instrument, for example—with such care over the roughest and most precipitous places that it will never be injured, and where in similar situations, the clumsy European or American would inevitably bring it to disaster.

The Mexicans are dexterous in pottery-making, and they fashion great ollas to a wonderfully symmetrical form without other appliance than that of a small wooden paddle or beater, with which the red earth-mortar is shaped and patted into form. This method, indeed, dates from Aztec time, when there was no potter's wheel. They are sun-dried first and then baked. The makers of these, or the vendors, carry numbers of them about bound up in crates, a huge load on their backs; and as they are much in demand, the women rush out of their houses eager to purchase, as the olla-carriers enter the villages. These huge pots are mainly used for carrying water from the spring, and with a reboso or shawl as a pad upon their shoulder or their head, the women walk gracefully along with their heavy burden of the necessary water-supply, at morning or evening.

The peon is ever ready to exchange work for play, or indeed to shelve the former altogether at times, and the numerous feast-days—the dias de fiesta—which are the despair of the foreign employer of labour in Mexico, fall in well with this disposition. The spectacle of the bull-fight appeals greatly to him, ever the national sport. Even in the small villages and haciendas, remote from the capitals, bull-fighting is the favourite sport, and local toreros from among the middle-class young men of the place enter the arena to display their valour. A bull-ring is easily made in the plaza, or a corral or courtyard, and young bulls, sometimes with their horns blunted to render the pastime less dangerous, are harried about the improvised arena in the usual style, the picadores, bandilleros and capeadores all taking up their office in approved style. The sport tries the mettle of these aficionados, as the amateur bull-fighters are termed, and many, considering discretion the better part of valour, promptly retreat and hurriedly climb the barrier as the angry bovine makes his entrance to the ring. As a rule, however, the young Spanish-Mexicans show a bold front to the animal. Is this not the sacred and national sport of the land of their forefathers? Does not the sangre espanola run in their veins? None so low as to turn before a bull, or if he does the howls of the peon spectators who line the walls will make him blush for shame.

In such a scene I found myself on one occasion. A remote hacienda, and bull-fight, of aficionado nature, inaugurated in honour of some occasion of birthday or other anniversary of the proprietor, whose guest I was. Some lively bulls were performing in the arena, and more than one ambitious amateur bull-fighter had retired the worse for his temerity. "Senor," said one of the guests turning to me, "doubtless you would like to try your hand!" The idea met with instant approval by the others present, and the word went round that the ingles was to enter the ring. I confess the invitation did not appeal to me. The bull at that moment occupying the arena had already drawn blood from one of his tormentors, who was outside repairing his injuries, and the animal stood in the centre of the space, lashing his tail and throwing earth over his shoulder after the manner of his kind, what time he wrathfully eyed the audience. My host—he was a Spaniard, a large landowner—possibly seeing some disinclination reflected on my face, interposed: "There is no shame in refusing," he said. "It is not to be expected that an Englishman knows anything about this sport." But the ladies of the party looked, I thought, disappointed, and the peones around the walls were already shouting my name, and calling upon me to "entrar"! This would never do. "Senores," I said in the most grandiloquent Spanish I could muster, "you are much mistaken if you think an Englishman is any more afraid of a bull than a Mexican or a Spaniard"; and, taking a proffered pair of banderillas, I descended from the platform and entered the arena.

The cheers and yells which arose from the peon audience were deafening, and then an ominous calm. The bull advanced towards me and—I must confess it—loomed large as a locomotive! But perhaps fortune favours the brave, and whether from often having seen it done or whether from good luck alone, I placed the decorated banderillas successfully in the animal's neck, and instantly leaped aside with instinctive agility, having felt the breath from his nostrils upon my face, whilst the animal, smarting with the pain from the barbed points, bounded some paces away, and the audience cheered itself hoarse and gave repealed vivas for the ingles. Now was the moment to retire in "peace with honour," but desirous of showing how little I cared for the animal—a sentiment I did not really feel—I turned my back to the bull, and ostentatiously unrolled a Havana cigar from its lead-foil covering, and calmly cutting off the end, I proceeded to light it. The bull saw it. With a bound he was upon me, and as I turned to leap aside his horns passed clean under my waistcoat and shirt, and ripped them open to the flesh. Hurled aside by the impact, I lost my balance and staggered wildly, but faced the brute again, whilst deafening yells—whether of delight at possible disaster or encouragement to go on, I could not tell—arose from the spectators who thronged the barriers. But up came the capeadores, and diverting the animal's attention as was their office, I retired, not without dignity, and received the congratulations of my friends, and a Spanish sash from the presiding "queen" of the entertainment. But I took no credit for it myself; rather I felt that I had done wrong and barely escaped punishment, in countenancing and taking part in what every Englishman must consider an uncivilising form of sport.

Horsemanship and its accompanying callings play a prominent part in rural life in Mexico. The hacendado, or estate owner, or ranchero, mounts his horse directly after early morning coffee, in order to make the round of his plantations. The vaquero, or cowboy of Mexico, is possibly the most expert horseman in the world, and the method of training the horse to the lightest touch of the rein, and the comfortable yet swift paso, or rapid march to which the animal is trained, are such as the foreign observer notes with interest. Indeed, is he wise he adopts this paso himself, instead of the English trot.

A distinctive riding dress is used by the Mexican horseman—the charro costume, which is a remarkable and even gorgeous habiliment, both as regards man and horse. The short coat and tightly-fitting trousers are made of soft deerskin, tanned to a rich burnt-sienna hue. Down the edges of the coat and upon its lappels a border of luxuriant gold or silver lace is worked, and round the buttonhole similar profuse ornament is planted, and upon the cuffs. A stripe of intricately patterned gold lace runs down the seams of the trousers, which latter, tight-fitting at the top, are adjusted very closely at the calf of the leg. For riding in rough country a further leg-covering is worn; a kind of loose trousers put over the others and buckled round the waist, called chaparreras, made and ornamented with similar material. The crowning glory of the whole is the huge Mexican hat. This is made of thick beaver-looking felt, with a soft silky surface. Its form is well known with a very high tapering dome-like crown and very broad brim. This great headgear is also profusely ornamented with gold or silver lace, worn principally by the rancheros, and the owner's initials are generally worked upon the front of the crown in large gold letters. The hat is of considerable weight. To return to the lower members again, the feet are armed with a pair of spurs of appalling size and weight, the "wheel" portion being several inches in diameter, and the whole weighing several pounds each. These are often of steel inlaid with gold or silver, and are buckled upon the foot with an elaborate strap and embossed medallion. These spurs do not lacerate the horse, as their points are blunt. The effect of the whole dress is almost dazzling, but the big hat set over the tight trousers and short coat gives a somewhat top-heavy appearance.