A Plunge Into Summer

THE broad floor of the valley of Mexico is nearly a mile and a half above the sea-level. But the tierra caliente, or warm country, stretches far inland from the Pacific coast, and the lofty mountains which tower above this high-lying valley to the southward and southeastward, some of them mantled in perpetual snows, slope down on the farther side into the tropical luxuriance of everlasting summer. Thus they fulfill the conditions necessary to a healthy body laid down in a familiar injunction, keeping their heads cool and their feet warm. We winter dwellers in the Aztec capital were not so fortunate as our neighbors the mountains, for in our hearthless houses we found, at times, the greatest difficulty in keeping our feet warm when we were sitting still. It was not a little tantalizing thus to be dwelling beneath the southern sun and have summer only a few leagues away, within reach by a slow railway trip of six hours. Sometimes, under a gray cloud-tent spread over the valley by a norther blowing down in the Gulf, we would look wistfully off through the melancholy, November-like air to the mountain walls surrounding us, longing for the joyous landscapes which they shut out from our sight. Therefore, one chilly January morning, with frost whitening the ground in the shadow’s where the sun had not reached, and dripping, as it melted, from the roof of the streetcar which took us out to the San Lázaro railway station, we set out for the blessed lower lands beyond, seeking a four days’ bath of warm air.

One seldom has to make a search for the picturesque in Mexico. It presents itself on every hand. The street railway ran for a great part of the way to San Lázuro along the banks of a canal, with rapidly running but not particularly clean water. The canal was bordered by old, thick-walled houses, with stone steps leading down to the water from their doors, their broad surfaces washed in varied hues, weather-worn into fascinating tones for color studies. The canal was animated with boats laden with country produce: large flatboats, poled slowly along, and light little dug-outs, deftly paddled, skimming swiftly by. The great markets which we passed were swarming like bee-hives, and masses of fruits and vegetables were piled around in bewildering combinations of brilliant color, The pulquerias, or pulque shops, on the corners, gay with tinsel and gaudily frescoed without and within, were full of peons, lightly clad in cotton that once was white, indulging in the cheap luxury of their favorite and mildly intoxicating drink, the sales of which in the capital alone amount annually to three million dollars. These pulquerias all bear fantastic names; we passed one called El Recreo del Autiguo Gato, — The Recreation of the Old Cat!

The Cuautla Valley, our destination, is reached by the Morelos division of the Acapulco, Morelos, Mexico, Irolo and Vera Cruz Interoceanic Railway, whose object of ultimately affording communication between the Pacific and the Gulf coasts by way of the capital is indicated with considerable explicitness in its extraordinary name. The line is a narrow-gauge, built by Mexican capital and equipped in the American style, but with a kind of native slouchiness and lack of modern appliances that contrasted unfavorably with the two American railways terminating on the opposite side of the city, the Mexican Central and the Mexican National. Our train was phenomenally slow. It was a “ mixed” one, carrying both passengers and freight; loafing leisurely along, and making long waits at every station for taking on and leaving cargo. With a train of average speed our journey might have been reduced to something like one half the time occupied.

Crossing the wide reach of marshes between the city and Lake Tezcoco, we saw the lagoon near the track literally black with ducks, and, as they started up, frightened by the train, they made dense clouds in the air. Never before had I seen so many water-fowl together.

The two great mountains, Popocatepetl and Iztaccihuatl, loomed up before us without a cloud about them. Their snowy summits were pallid gray in the morning air, for the sun was on the other side, and cast their shadows towards us. The peaks were glittering coldly where the night had frozen the snow-crust. These mountains would be in sight all through our journey and throughout all our stay down in the underland, presenting themselves in varied aspects to our charmed eyes.

We passed by and through various Indian villages. The train ran through the long main street of one, where clamorous venders of food and drink besieged the cars. Another village was perched attractively on a craggy hillside, the humble huts apparently scrambling upwards to a quaint chapel occupying the crest above. The whole place was walled around by a tall hedge of organ cactus. Lakes Chaleo and Xochimilco, the great fresh-water bodies of the valley, with clear waters, fenny shores, and bold mountain backgrounds, were seen here and there from the train. These scenes were of unceasing interest, with the great volcanoes ever growing nearer and nearer. But not until Amecameca was reached did we fully realize the Alpine grandeur of the scene dominated by the loftiest mountains of North America.

Amecameca lies between the two mountains, and at the foot of each. They overtower the place to wonderful, awful heights, pine-clad below, and then with wide spaces of rocky, craggy barrenness between the lines of timber and of snow. On Iztaccihuatl, far above, we could see cascades trickling down from the melting snow. Iztaccihuatl has laurels in waiting for some ambitious climber. Although it is much lower than Popocatepetl, it is so rugged and so seamed with deep gorges that no one has yet succeeded in scaling its heights.

There are pine woods all around us here, and the landscape has a thoroughly northern character. Amecameca looks like a Swiss town. Nearly all the houses have Swiss-like roofs of light shingles, with wide eaves, and weighed down with stones. The railway station is in a beautiful spot at the foot of an isolated hill covered with a dense grove of magnificent cedars. This is the Sacro Monte, or Sacred Mount, the seat of a famous shrine. Far up, on a shoulder of the hill, is the chapel, with white walls and graceful towers gleaming against the sky above Lhe dark treemasses.

A short distance beyond Amecameca, which is sixty-four kilometres, or about forty miles, from Mexico, we pass the highest point on the line, 2453.5 mètres, or 8047.4 feet, above the sea. At Ozumba, on the slope of Popocatepetl, we had a half hour for dinner; a substantial, well-served meal, with unlimited pulque. The station, a light frame structure, looked more Western than Mexican, and might have been on the Denver and Rio Grande in the Rocky Mountains. Strips of paper were pasted over the wide cracks in the walls of the dining-room.

Just beyond here a rapid descent began. We went curling around a mountain, and caught glimpses of the track far below. At one point we could see it directly beneath us, crawling along the face of the ledge; and when we had descended to that level, there it was again, running below in relatively the same position.

The wide Cuautla Valley now lay spread out before us, — a magnificent vista. Great expanses of light golden green, which were plantations of sugarcane, filled the levels, liquid-like in the delicate haze. Areas of dark, bosky hue seemed to float among the lighter tints, like islands in a lake. These were towns, buried in the dense foliage of their trees. One of them, over on the further side of the valley, was Cuautla, but two hours would pass before we should get down to that level.

Deep ravines yawned beside us and widened out into the valley. The slope was very gradual, and therefore the valley’s great depth was not evident. Indeed, one was inclined to wonder how it was that off there the climate might be so different, with pine-trees all around us and sugar-cane yonder; for the impression of depth was slight in comparison with that of distance. But to reach Cuautla we were to descend a perpendicular three quarters of a mile. The changes were very gradual; there were no abrupt transitions, like those which startle us on the railway between Mexico and Vera Cruz. We slid imperceptibly down from one zone into the other.

At one place where the train stopped for a few minutes the scene was like a New England woodland hillside in August. The trees and the bushes were much the same, and beside the track we picked an abundance of ripe high-bush blackberries. The midday sun was hot, but the air had a keen vigor like that of our northwest wind in summer.

At another station we waited for the up-train to pass. When it came I noticed the front of the engine festally decorated with tropical fruits. A garland of oranges bordered the head-light, bunches of bananas depended beneath, and tall sprays of sugar-cane stood in the flag-holders on the pilot. I asked the engineer, a youthful looking Aztec who seemed hardly nineteen, — nearly all the railway employés appeared to be fullblooded Indians, — what was the meaning of this decoration. It was a regular custom on this railway, he said ; all the engines of the up-trains were so adorned, but it was not done on the trains going below. It was a pretty piece of sentiment, this daily greeting sent up from the warm lands to the cold with an offering of their fruits.

The view from this station was like that from a terrace. Off to the southwestward there stood a line of extremely rough and jagged mountains, with summits below our level. On one of the peaks was the exact semblance of a monster feudal castle, with a square, sturdy tower. To the southward a blue mountain line grew lower as it melted away to the distance towards the coast. The tops of the furthest peaks were just peeping up over the valley’s edge, though from the other side they must rise to goodly altitudes. Our train went curving down the slope in an interminable succession of sharp bends. The motion resembled the swooping flight of a swallow, as we incessantly faced all the points of the compass in quick alternations. Our beads were kept continually turning to catch the views, so that this long waltz down the mountain side almost made us dizzy.

As we descended, the vegetation rapidly changed. Brilliant new flowers bloomed by the way with summerish profusion, and new trees appeared, although the pines seemed loath to part company with us. There were some remarkable tree groups standing in the fields; leafage thick and dark green, umbrella-like in shape, with breadth something like three times the height, apparently. The crown of foliage had a lower horizontal line, which, had it been cut, could hardly have been more exact. It may have been the work of browsing cattle, who thus marked the highest line of their efforts.

At last we found ourselves running through far-spreading fields of sugarcane in all stages of growth, from the freshly planted sprouts to dense masses rising as high as the car-tops. Everywhere rills of sparkling water were dancing hastily along, as if they had a great deal of work to do and no time to lose, while they jumped continually from one level to another, distributing their life-giving bounties on every hand as they went. The separate estates, or haciendas, were marked by clusters of buildings standing here and there. Large factory-like structures were joined to the manor-houses ; tall chimneys, frequently painted a brilliant white, were smoking. These chimneys, laying an energetic emphasis upon the landscape, gave a busy, prosperous look to the region. The dry uplands, robed in russet brown, which we had just left, gave way to deep, fresh grass and luxuriant vegetation, under the influence of the ceaseless irrigation.

So we reached Cuautla, the train hacking over a " Y ” to the station. This was a remarkable structure, having been converted to its present uses from an old convent, sequestrated by the war of the Reform. Parts were still in ruins. The dome was flanked by graceful flying buttresses ; beneath, a spur-track pierced the chapel, in which were stored barrels of rum, or aguardiente. The cloister court was occupied by a pretty flowerbed.

The air was deliciously soft and luxurious. The summer fragrance with which it was laden saluted our longunaccustomed nostrils like the delicate scents of woods and fields borne by the land-breeze to one approaching the shore at the close of a sea-voyage. The air was also pervaded by a lurking odor of sugar-making, which hung over the whole valley.

We had time to note all this, and also the pretty plaza upon which the station faced, during the long wait before the train started for Yautepec, the present terminus of the railway. Notable sights on the way thither were a strikingly picturesque old ruined church standing alone in neglected fields, and a most beautiful aqueduct, with high, graceful arches, striding across the fields to the buildings of an hacienda, terminating above the level of these, and furnishing water-power as well as irrigation. The aqueduct did not have the severe, Roman-like character borne by most works of the kind, for a charming aerial effect was given by open spaces, through which gleamed the light, left above each pier between the arches.

Passing through an environment of orange-groves, we found ourselves at Yautepec. Never was the fact more fully borne out that the opinion formed of a place, as it is seen from a railway station, is apt to lead one far astray. As we walked across bare fields and approached a long range of low huts, we began to think with consternation of the prospect of having to pass the night in such a forbidding-looking hamlet. But we walked on, and presently the row of huts gave place to more substantial-looking edifices, and we soon found ourselves in the midst of a well-built town, with some handsome dwellings and businesslike shops. There was a charming plaza, brilliant with flowers, and faced by a municipal palace, whose front displayed a large illuminated clock. A second story was building over the central fountain of the plaza in the shape of an ornamental iron kiosk, or band-stand, an adornment which every Mexican town of the least pretensions feels that it must have.

The spirit of American enterprise had penetrated even to this remote town. The mail-agent, who had come on the train with us, and whose acquaintance we had made, called us into the apothecary’s, where we were asked to trailslate a letter just received from New York. It referred to an illuminated sign which the apothecary had seen advertised in a trade journal, and he had sent to learn the particulars. He was so enchanted with the idea of astonishing the town with the splendor of the lighted mortar flashing through prismatically glittering glass that he said he would order it at once.

Yautepec is beautifully situated, ranged close up against the mountains on the south side of the valley, which is narrow here, and bordered on the north by the extremely precipitous mountain wall which we had seen below us in our descent from Ozumba; the feudal castle still maintaining its semblance, though now beheld from the other side and high above us. These mountains appeared much like those on the Pacific coast around Guaymas, and quite unlike anything else in this part of Mexico.

A clear, pebbly river runs through the city, bordered in places with line trees and thick shrubbery. There is a street along one bank, and on it there stands a large church, built in 1567, more than a halt century before the Pilgrims landed at Plymouth. It has the usual abandoned cloister attached. In passing we looked through a lofty archway into a small court; there was a high wall opposite, with a dark passage in line with the entrance, and a heavy stone balcony projecting above. Through the gloom of this passage gleamed the light of an interior cloister-court; beyond, still another dark archway, — remarkable alternations of light and shadow.

Yautepec is full of sketchable bits for an artist. At a bend in the river we looked back and saw a massive stone bridge spanning the high-banked stream; buildings of Italian-like architecture on one side, and the lofty cone of Popocatepetl looming high in the background. It was a perfect picture, and when night came it was enchanting in the full light of the tropic moon, which was rising from behind the volcano, the sky Suffused with a delicately lustrous creamy tint. Yautepec reminded me of some of the Italian towns on the south side of the Alps.

We found the hotel, La Concordia, monopolized by an American circus troupe, which was on the way from the capital to South America by way of Acapulco; stopping to give performances in the towns through which it passed. All the rooms were occupied, but we were told that we might have beds made up in the corridor, which ran alongside a pleasant garden, plants in handsome urn-llke pots standing on the parapet between the arches. It was a pretty place, and we accepted the offer rather than go to another posada, where the diminutive bed-chambers were like bathrooms. We did not regret it, for we had comfortable beds, and the night air was mild and pure.

The theatre adjoined the hotel. There are few Mexican towns without a theatre. This was a wooden, barn-like structure, with a high pyramidal roof that seemed almost Dutch. On the wall was a poster with the programme for the town festivities of the preceding Christmas. These, it appeared, began with “ a grand religious performance,” followed by various games, including bull-fights and cock-fights. The latter included a contest of “ Cuautla against Yautepec,” like a base-ball match between two of our American towns.

The next morning, after a saunter through the place in the fresh, pure air, we took the train back to Cuautla at the comfortable hour of nine o’clock.

Arriving at Cuautla, we found an excellent hotel, the San Diego, directly across the plaza from the railway station. The landlord was a German, and had been in the country about thirty years. The hotel was a one-story structure, built around a large court, the rooms opening upon a tile-roofed veranda. In the court was a tall date-palm, with sprays of rich, orange-hued blossoms rising among its graceful plumes of dark green.

I hardly expected to meet in an obscure Mexican town a party of American tourists passing the time in placid ease, just as they might be encountered at a nice Swiss inn in some Alpine valley. Yet we encountered at the San Diego a most delightful company of our compatriots. One, an eminent artist, who was something of an invalid, was enthusiastic over the delicious air and glorious scenery of the place. These winter days in Cuautla were all like our ideal June weather at home, he said. There was no intense heat, while cold and chilliness were absolute strangers. Mexico he regarded as superior to Florida as a winter refuge. In these warm lands, beside the endless scenic variety, there was an unchanging climate all through the winter ; at least on the Pacific side of the mountains. On the Gulf slope, as at Orizaba, there were occasional fogs, rain, and raw northers.

“ And then there are no mosquitoes here,” said another friend. “ I have never seen a land so free from them. The few insects one meets here are really contemptible ; I feel inclined to pity them for their feebleness.”

It is, indeed, a great mistake for people to come to Mexico from the North in the winter, and confine themselves to the capital. They experience the chilly weather which now and then visits the high regions of the central tableland at that season, and with the abrupt transitions of cold and heat from morning to noon and night they at times feel more discomfort than in their wintry Northern homes, where genial hearth-fires glow, until at last they perhaps leave for home in disgust, anathematizing the whole country. All this is a mistake, when on every hand are pleasant places like Cuautla within easy reach of the capital by rail, journeying to which might fill many weeks with a round of health-giving pleasure, novel scenes greeting the eye everywhere. There is much of the greatest interest to tourists to be seen in and around the capital, but there are pleasanter winter abiding-places near by. It is, however, a good central point from which to make agreeable tours all over the country. Now that railway communication with the United States is completed, there will be many pleasure travelers to Mexico. When they come, they should remember that there are rich, warm valleys down below, close at hand, where simple existence seems a luxury, amid the delicious airs of genuine tropical surroundings.

Mr. Haller, the landlord of the San Diego, was also the administrador, or manager, of the great sugar estate of Coahuistla, the largest sugar plantation on the North American continent. At his invitation we set out to visit the place on Monday morning. Our conveyance was a railway platform car, upon which, just after the departure of the train for Mexico, we took our seats. A peon pushed us for a few rods along the “ Y,” and then we began flying, with increasing momentum, down a gentle grade, first through green pastures bordered by thickets of bananas, and then among vast fields of sugar-cane. The warm air had an invigorating sparkle, and our rapid motion made a refreshing breeze. It was the perfection of railway motion ; the broad view was unobstructed on every side, and there was not a particle of dust. The buildings of Coahuistla appeared ahead of us, a complex group, with a variety of roofs, from flat to steep-sloping, and three tall chimneys, two of them painted in stripes, like barbers’ poles. They stood on a considerable slope, inclosed by a high, fortified wall, outside of which, were clustered the huts of the two thousand laborers employed on the place.

Dashing across a bridge spanning the river, our car stopped at the foot of a short grade just before reaching the place, where we found two mules and their drivers awaiting us. But before the mules could be hitched to the car they broke away, and ran frantically. Just at the hacienda gate were some horsemen, who galloped after the runaways, and with an easy swing dropped the nooses of their lassos, or riates, around the necks of the fleeing animals. The culprits were brought back, looking as meek as if they had never been guilty of any mischief in their lives, and they hauled us inside the hacienda walls without further ado.

We found ourselves surrounded by an animated scene. The great yard was swarming with laborers. Some were turning and gathering the crushed cane which covered the ground, where it reflected the sun with a whitish glare. Others were handling the fresh cane, which was coming in in cartloads; stripping off the green succulent leaves as food for the cattle, weighing the stalks, and carrying them to the crushing-mills. We ascended broad stone steps to a larged vaulte hall forming the main entrance. This was open to the air on one side. Massive piers supported the heavy, castle-like masonry of the building. The place was gratefully cool, and commanded a charming view over the valley. Accountants were at work at desks in the corner.

Leaning over a parapet at one end of the hall, we overlooked the great interior, where the cane-crushing was going on. The mills, as throughout the valley, were moved by water-power. When we entered the gate, we had seen the water gushing out from a low arch in the wall in a powerful cascade. The mill building was a lofty, massive stone structure, with walls composed of Roman-like arches in two tiers. It was new, but parts of the main building were over a century old. The laborers came and went below, like two streams of busy ants. Their brown forms, in the dim light of the high, shadowy interior, looked like dusky demons, as they staggered beneath their loads of great bundles of cane. They wore the minimum of clothing, and many, for some mysterious reason, had but one leg to their pantaloons of white cotton, while others wore no pantaloons at all. The machinery made a low, rumbling noise, and the mills seemed like insatiable monsters, devouring the cane incessantly, and disgorging the crushed masses in well-chewed fragments. Beer glasses full of the fresh sap were brought to us. It was black and foamy, looking like English stout, and had a sweet and not disagreeable taste. The natives are fond of a drink made from this sap by letting it ferment in a gourd for two or three days.

In the upper stories we saw the huge vats of molasses which was slowly crystallizing into sugar, the surface covered with a crust resembling wind-roughened ice turned a dark brown. In one vat stood a naked Indian, breaking up the crude sugar with a pick, and shoveling it out to two other laborers, who were carrying it away. The sugar was refined on the premises into two grades, the superior of which was equal to the best American loaf. The machinery in use on the estate was of the best modern kind, and cost something like half a million dollars. After the syrup had been worked over into sugar three times the residue was distilled into aguardiente. Of this, six thousand barrels were produced annually on the place.

After inspecting the works we returned to the shady office, where we met the proprietor, a courtly Spanish gentleman. He invited us to stay to breakfast, and as noontime approached we were shown through vaulted passages, across an irregular court like that of an ancient castle, up an easy stone stairway, into a pleasant corridor leading into a large dining-room. Here a long table was spread beneath a broad stone arch which sprang from one side of the room to the other. Our host was at the head of the table, and below the guests sat the various officials of the estate, ranged according to their rank.

“ Is n’t this quite baronial ? ” whispered my youthful neighbor. “ See the retainers eating with us at the same table, sitting below the salt! ” And he quoted some lines from Walter Scott, adding that the knights, instead of returning from crusade or tournament, had come in from the sugar-fields, hanging their broad sombreros on the wall in place of shields. There is, in fact, something very feudal-seeming in the character of Mexican country life.

It was an excellent meal, of the true Mexican country-house type. Everything was perfectly cooked. Never have I tasted more tender and delicate mutton than that in the puchera, or Mexican stew, served on a great platter, with the various vegetables, including carrots, white and sweet potatoes, turnips, beans, green peas, and bananas, — not all mixed together, but each kind occupying its own place on the dish. The fine flavor of the mutton was due to its being raised on the place upon particularly choice feed. There were two thousand sheep kept for the exclusive use of the estate. At each course the dish was first placed before the host, who served, in order, the ladies, the consul-general, the artist, and himself. The dish was then brought to us minor guests, for us to help ourselves, after which the retainers were helped by a servant. At the plate of each guest stood a bottle of Spanish wine; red, but quite different from claret. It had an individual flavor; much body and a slight resemblance to sherry, with a saccharine acidity. The character of the Spanish grape could be detected, as in the wine of the Rio Grande Valley in New Mexico and that of California made from the Mission grape. The servant poured glasses of wine for the chief officials of the retainers, but none was served to the others.

From the entrance to the building were seen the great cane-fields of Coahuistla spreading their cheery emerald mantle, gold-tinged in the sunshine, far into the distance. There were twelve thousand tareas, or nearly seventeen hundred acres, under cultivation. These produced annually about three and a half million pounds. The sugar was sold from the hacienda at two and three dollars an arroba, of twenty-five pounds. Aguardiente brought twenty-one dollars a barrel. Therefore the gross receipts of the estate cannot be far from half a million dollars a year. I should say that the net profits must amount to a good proportion, since on most haciendas in Mexico the labor is nearly, if not quite, paid for by the profits of the store from which the laborers are supplied. The stock is fed on the cane-leaves and other stuff raised on the place, fuel for sugar-boiling is furnished entirely by the crushed cane, and the machinery is moved by waterpower.

The annual sugar yield of the entire Cuautla Valley is about 15,625,000 pounds, and large quantities of corn and fruit are raised. The valley of Cuernavaca adjoins that of Cuautla, and also produces a great amount of sugar.

I have spoken of Cuautla de Morelos as an obscure town. Although it is hardly known beyond the borders of the republic, it is famous in the annals of the long Mexican struggle for independence. The siege of Cuautla by the Spaniards was one of the most notable events of that war. The patriot Morelos, who, like Hidalgo, was a priest, succeeding to the revolutionary leadership on the death of the latter, here made a heroic defense against the Spaniards for sixty-two days. He was at last forced to evacuate by the Spaniards diverting the river and thus cutting off the water-supply. While the retiring army was crossing a ravine the Spaniards cut a dam above, drowning a great number. When Mexican independence was gained, the name of the patriot was added to that of the city, which now frequently goes by the name of Morelos alone.

Cuautla is a beautiful town. Among its most charming features are the lanes rambling all about the place, narrow and shady, reminding one of the midsummer lanes of New England, with something strange and enchanting added. They are bordered by tall banana plants, which bear a part icularly delicious fruit. Noble great trees, with glossy green leaves, overarch the lanes from the gardens, where they shade coffee of excellent quality, as our hotel table testified. Many varieties of fruits hang in the tree-branches,—oranges, limes, citrons; mameys, which are natural pumpkin pies; zapotes, which are yellow, white, and black inside, the latter variety being soft, mushy, and looking like decayed apples, but frozen it makes a good ice-cream, in color like chocolate. A beautiful tree is the papaya, growing up slender like a palm, bearing a fruit which looks and tastes like a musk-melon, though more squash-like in flesh, and filled with seeds which look like caviar, or capers, and taste like nasturtions.

Few of the buildings in Cuautla have glass windows, since it is never cold enough to occasion shutting out the air. The humbler dwellings are largely of reeds, with thatched roof’s, very steep pitched, and conical in shape. The accidental combinations shown by many of the roofs in the local architecture make highly picturesque effects. There are a number of points of interest, one being a small ruined chapel just out of the town, with a magnificent view of Popocatepetl, which rises up from the fields beyond and shows for its full height, unforeshortened, while Iztaccihuatl, which from Mexico seems higher than its mate, being nearer, from here looks low indeed by comparison. At the other end of the place there is a beautiful cemetery, with orange-trees growing among the graves. In the quiet lanes the musical gurgle of clear, sparkling water is heard everywhere, leaping hither and thither. To me it seemed to be ever repeating the liquid name of the place, “ Cuautla, Cuautla, Cuautla,” as it ran through copse and garden. But Cuautla has nothing to do with water in its signification ; in the Indian language of the locality it means “ a place where there are trees.”

The most remarkable natural feature of the place is a stream of sulphur water, which bursts in one bound from the rocks about two miles out of town. A bath there is a luxury to be remembered. We crossed the large river— which furnished our table with some capital fish resembling trout — by a substantial new iron bridge, and a lively gallop on horseback soon brought us thither. The way led over brown, dry uplands, dotted with shrubby trees of various species, mostly in bloom, with morning-glory-like flowers. Passing a cultivated field with a canebrake bordering the way, we saw a peculiar growth rising from the brakes, looking in the distance like gigantic ferns. It was our first sight of the bamboo. Its exquisite grace is indescribable. Growing tall and slender, it is covered by long thin leaves of a tender green, in shape much like those of the willow. They are the original of the delicate sprays which we often see flung across the face of Japanese drawings. As we looked down the hill toward Cuautla, the town had disappeared, and in its place was a forest, with just a single tower to tell where it lay hidden.

Long before we reached the bathingplace its neighborhood was made manifest by a strong smell of sulphur in the air. We found the stream in a deep ravine, roaring and tumbling over the rocks. The water flowed strongly and silently from under the face of a ledge out into a calm basin, and then fell in a pretty cascade, a few feet high and strong in volume. The basin was like a large bath-tub, and the stream below was just deep enough to swim in. The water seemed particularly buoyant. Its temperature was eighty-one degrees, Fahrenheit. Strange to say, it had no taste of sulphur, notwithstanding the odor in the air. The banks were grassy and covered with shrubbery, making it a charming spot. Families were in the habit of bringing their lunches and spending the day, taking a bath every hour or so. Morning was the favorite bathing-hour, and people frequently started out in the cool hours just at daylight, and while they were bathing their servants cooked coffee, affording a breakfast al fresco. There is a popular belief that the temperature of the water varies at different hours of the day, but the apparent change is owing, of course, to contrast with the air. Legend among the peasants has it that whoever goes to the spot at midnight can boil eggs in the stream, but as the Lord of Sulphur himself is believed to haunt the place at that hour, nobody has had the curiosity to try the experiment.

Sylvester Baxter.