A Mexican Vacation Week

FOUR o’clock in the afternoon of a mid-June day found me on the platform of the railway station at the little Mexican city of Acámbaro. The soft air had the kindly touch of the breath of the Bajío, that great depression in the central tableland which stretches from Querétaro and Morelia on the south to Lagos on the north, at a height of from five thousand to six thousand feet above the sea-level, giving beneath a tropic sun one of the gentlest climates that ever blessed the homes of men.

At half-past six o’clock that morning I had left the city of Mexico. At nine o’clock I had passed a height of over ten thousand feet above the sea, and stood shivering in the vivid sunshine and keen air of Salazar, trying to warm myself with a cup of abominable coffee, while a dozen eager-eyed curs watched anxiously for scraps of enchiladas and other peppery viands, which no Northern canine, I am sure, could have been persuaded even to smell of. Since then the train had dropped impetuously through pine-embowered gorges down into the magnificent great basin of the Toluca Valley, a sea-like expanse of young corn. Leaving Toluca, the highest of the Mexican state capitals, with an altitude of something like 8600 feet, we had sped all the rest of the morning through a long valley trough filled with grazing herds. In midwinter, they said, the trains sometimes ploughed their way through snow which covered this valley to a depth of several inches. This trough diminished to a narrow cañon, which opened out into all the wide world, it seemed, as we turned a corner and crept along a narrow shelf hewn for our track, halfway up the precipitous rim of a realm of checkered cultivation, spreading amongst an encampment of tent-like mountains. These mountains, which stood in social groups, their bases cut off by the lines of the land as it fell away in terraces to the northward into the Bajío, were darkly muffled in pine mantles or savagely naked with the desolation of eternal barrenness, though often a patchwork of the delicate green of young grain was thrown tenderly over their shoulders, skirts, and knees. The descents from terrace to terrace made our way turn and curve incessantly, and with the wide-spreading landscape below, revealed map-like for vast distances, we seemed to have a bird’s privilege of inspection over the world. It had been a day of varied scenic interest, as in most railway trips in Mexico.

We entered Acámbaro beside the Lerma River, one of the most considerable streams of Mexico. It had first greeted us where it takes its start towards the Pacific, a clear, strong brook near Salazar. In the Toluca Valley it was spread out into blue lagoons. Down here it was a tawny, rapid, and shallow stream, with a numerous escort of Ahuahuetes, or taxus trees, like those in the venerable grove of Chapultepec. Their great trunks were wading fearlessly midriver, and gray mosses streamed down from their branches like the tattered banners of a veteran army.

Acambaro had been raised into some prominence as the junction for the Pacific division of the Mexican National, the great narrow-gauge railway, with the main line. The railway station, a pine-board shanty, was something to flee from, and the sight of the narrow streets of the town, near by, was like release from a nightmare.

Nearly all Mexican towns, so far as I have seen them, have features which give them distinct individuality. These proceed from their great diversity in site and climate, from their local buildingmaterials and architectural forms, and from the customs of their inhabitants. For many generations they have been left to their own resources, and this isolation has encouraged these variations. How unlike the growth of the smart towns of our young West, which appear all to have been cast in the same mould, or rather, cut out by the same jig-saw !

There is notable architecture almost everywhere in Mexico. Some of the humblest villages are ennobled by churches whose domes and towers would give them a proud distinction in the greatest cities of our commonplace land. The architectural inspirations of Mexico come from Spain; the art has been transplanted, not developed here. Therefore it shows characteristics of the styles which mark Spanish architectural history. Gothic, however, is sparsely represented, and its influence is seldom traced, except in the light, aerial strivings of some purely Renaissance towers. The Romanesque and Moorish are found underlying the Renaissance, which dominated Spanish architectural thought at the time of the Conquest. The Romanesque influence is manifest almost everywhere in Mexico, and sometimes with striking nobility in almost pure examples of the style. There is also much extremely florid and undignified rococo. Fortunately, this often appears subject to Moorish influence, and in such cases its usual incoherence gives way to a piquant grace.

In Acámbaro I noted some charming architectural details. There was an old carved door, weather-beaten and richly wrought in high relief. In the upper part of the two panels large and grotesque twin heads looked grimly down, their beards uniting with the ornamental work below. A cherub head peeped out from each of the two upper corners of the doorway stonework, and the figure of some saint occupied the keystone, looking very comfortable beneath the shelter of a rococo canopy. There were some naive reliefs cut in the extremely hard stone of the great basin of the fountain in the market-place, including a series of comical-looking scenes from a bull-fight. The bulls and horses were of the size of dogs in proportion to the human figures, perhaps as an indication of the superiority of men to animals. A shapely column stood in the centre of the basin, with a Corinthian capital surmounted by the Mexican coat-of-arms, — the eagle, with a serpent in its beak, perched upon a prickly pear. This was painted, and so was the neighboring church. But I can forgive paint in Mexico, except in its stage of tawdry freshness ; for one rainy season and the intense sunlight of a few months are enough to tone it down into beautiful pale washes of innumerable tints, the underlying hues of perhaps a century’s chromatic applications showing through here and there. The church walls and tower were suffused with roseate purple and an exquisite green like that of old bronzes.

The domes of Acámbaro were below the average of prominence and excellence prevailing in Mexico, but there were some features of the surroundings of the parochial church which atoned for this defect. The churchyard, which was across the way from a lovely little public garden filled with a tangle of vivid tropical bloom, was deeply shaded by many great ash-trees, or fresnos, which occupy a similar place in Mexico to that of the elm with us, and they fill it well. A low, plain wall surrounded the yard, rising at the entrances into large arches, whose curves were interrupted by arabesque-like notches. The yard was spacious ; ample for the processional ceremonies which may not take place in the public streets anywhere in Mexico since they were forbidden by the reform constitution of 1857. The buildings adjoining the church were mostly falling into ruin. A solitary pillar, with the fragments of two arches meeting at right angles springing from it like the branches of a tree, was all that remained of the cloisters which formerly occupied a large quadrangle, at whose corner it stood. The façade of the Capilla del Hospital (Chapel of the Hospital), which fronted on this quadrangle, was of strikingly quiet, simple beauty, fitted to the placid shade and silence of the spot. An unfinished and ruined corner tower was void of all decoration, except the rich setting of a handsome little Romanesque window in its base. There was a tall rectangular surface, flanked by wallspaces entirely plain, and framed in by projecting lines, on one side beaded and the other fluted. The ornamentation was confined to this space. A purely Romanesque doorway was surrounded by a broad band of rich carved-work, and the entire façade was sprinkled with a constellation of stars, among which large rosettes stood here and there like suns, the whole wrought in a mellowhued stone of a yellowish brown.

The inhabitants of Acámbaro were mostly Indians. They appeared to be very little troubled by considerations of clothing. Nearly all had some slight pretenses of raiment, however. But once in a while a stalwart man or a shapely youth, who had come in from the neighboring country regions, might be seen striding through the streets in scornful disregard of urban conventionalities ; nothing on but breech-clouts and sandals. In the by-streets the children disported innocent of all attire. But somehow there was no impression of real nakedness. The warm brown color of the smooth skin, glossy as satin, seemed in itself a garment. I was reminded of what some ladies once said about a voyage they made up the Nile. They were at first embarrassed at the sight of the natives on the banks, but at last they agreed among themselves to regard them as bronze statues, and after that they got along very comfortably.

Passing through a street, I paused to look at an animated scene in a courtyard. A number of naked men were seated on the ground shelling corn, rasping it over sticks and tossing the cobs deftly over their shoulders. The brown group of laborers and the heaps of yellow ears in the sunlight made a superb color effect.

There were some pleasant-looking houses which showed the existence of a considerable upper class. In passing one handsome dwelling I saw through the open windows paintings hanging on the tastefully papered walls, and other indications of exceptional refinement. I was told that it was the home of a lady who had a library of fifteen hundred volumes or more, and who was devoted to the study of Latin and Greek literature. I found Don Alexandro, the jefe politico, or prefect, a genial, warm-hearted gentleman. He was a professed cosmopolitan, had spent years abroad, and was without prejudices of race or nationality. His heart went out to the American friends whose guest I was, and he did much to make their voluntary exile pleasant.

From Acámbaro northwards the railway first traversed a fertile, prairie-like valley, mountain-inclosed. One of the ranges to the westward was magnificent in form, with abrupt sides and dome-like summits, like a mass of cumulus clouds. We passed through a considerable forest of the largest mesquite-trees I had seen. They looked as if they might have been standing at the time of the Conquest, and were an indication of the finely timbered state which nearly all similar valleys of the central tableland probably once presented. These trees were larger than the average of our northern maples, although the mesquite, in its usual state, is rarely over twentyfive or thirty feet high. A mesquite growth always has an orchard-like appearance, the trees standing apart and in general form resembling apple-trees, although their foliage has a feathery fineness. In this forest the ground was covered with excellent grass, and many cattle were feeding. Some of the trees had fallen, but their prostrate trunks were putting forth foliage as vigorous as that of their erect companions. Mesquite makes one of the best of fire-woods. It is frequently the custom not to cut down the trees, but simply to lop off the branches, leaving the trunk to put forth a new growth.

The railway followed the course of the Lerma River, which led us past the important manufacturing city of Salvatierra, where the stream supplies waterpower to large cotton and woolen mills. Here there were extensive fields of sugar-cane, which, we were told, was not converted into sugar, but wholly sold to be eaten in the surrounding cities, the natives being very fond of it as a dulce. Near by, to the northwestward, there rose the lofty mountain of Culiacan, one of the great landmarks of this part of Mexico. It is prominent from the Mexican Central Railway near Salamanca. I had seen it from nearly all directions, and from every side it appeared a perfect cone, with furrowed sides sloping uniformly to its broad base. It was evidently a volcano. There is another high mountain of the same name near the Pacific coast in the State of Sinaloa.

A friend and compatriot with me pointed out a pass in the mountains to the eastward where there was a village whose inhabitants were all bandits. He had made a trip out there one holiday with some friends. There was nothing unusual, he said, in the appearance of the place, which had its church and priest. They were courteously received and hospitably entertained, but they felt that their hosts would have cut their throats very quickly had opportunity and incentive offered.

It was near sunset when we entered upon a wide plain and drew near the city of Celaya with its group of beautiful domes, the design of a celebrated architect of the past century, Tres Guerras, and unsurpassed in symmetrical grace. They were covered with glazed tile of an old-gold hue, and glowed in the sunset rays, against the deep clear sky, as if illumined by an inner flame.

It was ten o’clock when we reached San Miguel de Allende, at present the northern terminus of the railway. There is always a mystery about a town which one enters at night for the first time. The carriage went rattling up hill for something like a league. We finally struck rough pavements where the way grew steeper. The streets were straight, and down their centres ran threads of water, gleaming away into the distance under the light of the lanterns strung overhead like the lines of a railway track reflected from the locomotive headlight.

I was dropped at a hotel, where water was pleasantly trickling into a large tank in the court. My room was plainly furnished. The brick floor was covered with a pretty matting ; the bed was hard, but clean, as usually the case in Mexico. When I awoke in the morning the air seemed peculiarly pure and fresh, with a perceptible tonic quality. As the tourist in Europe often becomes a connoisseur in wines, so the traveler in Mexico becomes a connoisseur in atmospheres, recognizing many subtle and indescribable changes, from the soothing, flower-perfumed breath of warm valley depths to the invigorating airs of wind-swept heights.

Stepping to my window I found that the town was built on a gentle slope, the houses falling away before me into a wide brown valley, whose smooth undulations were bounded by a rugged mountain range. It was a gloriously spacious view. The street beneath my balcony ran up to the main plaza, terminating in an arcade. The great Gothic church-tower which met my eyes was an astonishing feature for Mexico. Its site, with streets falling away on three sides, and the uneven contour of the city, seemed appropriate for the presiding stateliness of the style. The tower was of great breadth, lacking the airy lightness characteristic of the Gothic at its best; but it had a majesty of its own, with something of an individual quality. An interesting contrast was furnished by a fine dome not far away, one of perfect symmetry, like those of Celaya. The Gothic tower was that of the parochial church, and I learned that it was the work of an illiterate Indian, who traced with a pointed stick in the sand the working-designs of the details for the stone-masons. I repaired to the plaza, finding almost everywhere in the streets rills of clear water, from which the laden donkeys often stopped to drink as they passed. The usual little garden which occupied the plaza was terraced on three sides to give a level surface, the square being on sloping ground. I did not like the painting of the cemented sides of the terraces in imitation of brick-work, but I did like the cheery, neat aspect of the garden itself, with its four little plashing fountains, strikingly limpid; its trimmed grass and pruned trees. It was all expressive of the thorough cleanliness of the town itself, with its well-washed countenance and not a foul smell in the streets. Buildings and towers grouped finely around this Plaza de Allende, as it was called. The great church was undergoing a transformation from a plain Renaissance into the Gothic. The great tower had been completed for some time, and the old twin flanking towers were disappearing behind the incasing of the new façade. An old chapel stood at right-angles to the church, facing the yard. It had a very plain, square tower, reminding me of the severity of mediæval architecture. The yard was populated with large cypresses, a tree which seems always to have an architectural expression, so associated is it with architectural forms in southern lands ; just as certain animals appear to take on the expressions of people they belong to. These cypresses played an admirable part in the composition, lending breadth and dignity to the base. Among their dark solemnity a few small young orange-trees were sporting, spangled with their golden dots. The yard was terraced three or four feet above the plaza, surrounded by a high and heavy stone balustrade, which had the charm of an indefinite coloring, produced by the weatherworn character of the latest coating of whitewash, with under-colors, from rose to aged gray and black, showing through.

Rambling through the narrow, undulating streets, I was led by my young Mexican friend, José, to the baths of El Chorro, on the southerly side of the town. We came to the foot of a precipitous slope, covered with a beautiful shady garden. Pebble-paved paths zigzagged up the hill, and clear water came hurrying down beside them with a gossiping prattle, as if telling about the lively scenes above. Banana plants, ranged along the way, languidly marshaled an army of gay geraniums to present arms to the passers. Above was the long stone bath-house, with a graceful arcaded front facing a terrace with stone seats, where at all hours in the changing lights of the day’s progression views of quiet idyllic beauty were at command, looking out from under the deep overarching shade of the tall fresnos that clothed the slope. In this bosky framework appeared the clustering domes and towers of the city sloping away to the green fields and meadows down in the valley. In front, below the terrace, a number of washerwomen were at work in places constructed for them ; little compartments where they knelt before scrubbing-stones inclined away from them, dipping water from the stream running close alongside.

In this stream minnows darted about, and the children of the women sported. One chubby little fellow removed a lacework of rags, which passed for a shirt, his only garment, revealing more than it concealed, and had a merry time. But he had more trouble dressing himself again than if he had a complete suit of clothes. It was comical to see him exploring his way among the capacious holes of his garb before he found the place where his neck belonged, while his arms worked cautiously down into the sleeves, his fists appearing several times before reaching the end.

The taciturn old fellow in charge of the place shuffled about with the air of a sexton. He took a key and unlocked a door for us with the air of showing us into a receiving tomb, but it was a grotto-like place in the upper part of the building, where the water gushed out from the rocks of the cliff, forming a number of large pools, some of which were so still, glassy, and wonderfully transparent that the presence of the water was hardly to be detected. Rills flowed out from here in considerable volume, supplying not only the bathingtanks, but the city water-works, the water being led in pipes over the place. Each householder had the perpetual right to the water on the payment of thirty dollars, and so abundant was the supply that it was left always running in the houses, the rills in the streets being formed of the waste.

We walked over the flat roof of the building and looked down into the swimming-tank for boys, whence merry cries resounded, as from bathing children the world over. Is there anything like water-sports to induce gayety and an overflow of animal spirits? The dozen or so naked boys illustrated the diversity of blood among the Mexican people, their bodies ranging through all shades, from the delicate pinkish-white of the blonde, Goth-descended SpanishAmerican and the light olive of the Iberian, the dusky twilight of mixed bloods, to the ruddy bronze of the pure aboriginal. Another large bathing-tank was for women, and there were several private baths in vaulted, cell-like compartments where the bather descended into a tank of smooth brick-work with water about four feet deep. This Chorro water was tasteless, but its mineral properties were testified to by the greenish deposit which it left on the rocks and masonry. It had excellent medicinal qualities and, being slightly tepid, was pleasantly refreshing. It left the skin feeling as smooth as satin.

On descending from these baths in the delicious late afternoon air it was pleasant to stroll through the beautiful neighboring rural lanes, among rich gardens and cosy country-houses, out to the Cañada de Aguacates, or Ravine of Aguacates. There were long shadows falling athwart and forming carpet-like figures, streaked and interwoven with sunlight. These lanes, smoothly paved with small stones, rambled over the hillsides and were the favorite pleasure-walks of the place. They passed over deep ravines on arched stone bridges, amid thickets of fruit-trees, where aguacates, chirimoyas, zapotes, and figs grew side by side with apples, peaches, apricots, and pears. The shade was often deep, and there were frequent glimpses out into the tawny valley, the Guanajuato treasure range —from which many millions of silver and gold had been taken and in which many more lay buried — standing a luminous purple against the mellow sunset gilding the city buildings, with the lordly great Gothic tower resembling the Erfurt cathedral in effect.

We passed an archway surmounted with a statue of Allende, the hero whose name the city has borne since Mexican independence was gained. It was an unspeakably ugly statue, and its crudeness was heightened by the tawdry paint which set forth the general’s regimentals with startling would-be realism.

All this region is heroic ground. Dolores de Hidalgo, the cradle of Mexican liberty, is but a few leagues away from San Miguel de Allende, and from the high land just back of the town it could be plainly seen were it not for a projecting spur of hills in the valley. Ignacio Allende, who was the companion of Hidalgo, was born here in San Miguel de Allende, as it was then called, on January 20, 1779. His father was a Spaniard, and the family was one of the leading ones of the place. He was a captain of dragoons, and being enthusiastic for independence, he joined in the conspiracy with the patriot priest of Dolores, together with Aldama and Abasolo, fellow-officers in his regiment. Allende was with Hidalgo and his companions at Dolores when, near midnight of September 15, 1810, the famous grito de independencia was raised. The revolution began the next day, and the multitude, ever swelling, reached San Miguel that evening. Here, through the influence of Allende, the royal regiment joined the revolutionists, and an army was organized with Hidalgo at the head and Allende as lieutenant-general. It was queerly equipped, being armed with lances, clubs, and various agricultural implements. It marched southward, and at the little village of Atotonilco the curate took the standard with the painting of the Virgin of Guadalupe from the church, and it was made the banner of independence. The battle-cry was : “ Viva la Religion ! Viva nuestra Madre Santissima de Guadalupe! Viva la America y muera el mal gobierno! ” (Long live religion ! Long live our most holy Mother of Guadalupe ! Long live America and death to the bad government !) It is notable that while the oppression of the Spaniards was a strong incentive, a leading motive in the revolution was the fear that the church would suffer through the rule of Napoleonism in Spain, and this is said to account for the active part which the priests took in the struggle. While the church took a leading part in the beginning, real Mexican liberty was not gained until the church itself was overthrown and forever separated from the state by Juarez, in the great civil war which resulted in the adoption of the reform constitution of 1857.

The first great step in the revolution was the taking of the large and immensely rich city of Guanajuato, which enabled Hidalgo to organize thoroughly. He then took up his march to Mexico over substantially the same route which we traversed by rail over the Mexican National. His army numbered one hundred thousand men when he reached the Monte de las Cruces overlooking the valley of Mexico. Here, by some strange fatality, while the Spaniards were almost panic-stricken and final victory seemed within grasp, Hidalgo withdrew without a battle. His fortunes thenceforward declined, and the first chapter in the eleven years’ struggle for independence ended on July 30, 1811, with the shooting of Hidalgo, Allende, Aldama, and Jimenez in the city of Chihuahua.

One afternoon I went with José directly up the hill back of the town, following the course of a small aqueduct from one of the numerous springs in the neighborhood. The way was bordered with a hedge of cactus, the nopal bearing most refreshing tunas, or prickly pears, in abundance; while a tall cactus, with many upward-growing branches, like a candelabra, had a small berrylike fruit resembling set beads growing along the edges of its stalks. It was called the charambulla, and resembled a gooseberry. It had a bright carmine pulp filled with fine black seeds. A luxuriant huerta, or orchard, filled the neighboring little valley grooved into the hillside. It was a wild tangle of pear, quince, apple, and fig trees, together with grape vines, all growing so closely and disheveled that it seemed a wonder there was any fruit at all. Abundant water and a tropic sun do wonders, however, and the fruit of San Miguel was better than the average. Improved grafts and scientific horticulture would make Mexican fruit unsurpassed. I noticed a massive wall running along the barren hillside for a considerable distance. It seemed useless in that locality, and I asked whhat it was for. I was told that a kind-hearted rich man had built it to give employment to the poor people, at a time when there was little for them to do and there was much distress. He might have set them about some work of utility, I thought.

The upland reached away in a moorlike expanse when we attained a height of something like a thousand feet above the valley. It was another climate already, and the cool wind swept powerfully across. Dark mountains covered with pines rose to the eastward. Immediately below was the handsome town, with streets running down hill like furrows, the lines of water in their centre glistening like silver threads.

Rambling across the fields, we came to the verge of a deep cup walled in by towering cliffs. This opened into the plain, over which there was a vast view. At our feet, seemingly almost within a stone’s throw, there nestled an old stone mill. Near by were the arches of an aqueduct. A swift stream rushed past, a cascade gushed out from an opening in the wall, and lawn-like fields of green alfalfa spread around, — the whole a little landscape gem set in a sublime framework. The source of this stream was fifteen leagues away, whence it courses through an ever deepening gorge.

We scrambled down and then up beside the stream over a chaos of great boulders that strewed the way until we came to the foot of the high cascades of the Ingenio, which tumbled down in several steps over a total height of more than one hundred and seventy feet. Ingenio means a marvel, and here the marvel was said to be that an enormous serpent had fallen and caused this split in the rocks. The walls of the narrow cañon towered perpendicularly and made a most impressive solitude. In one place this wall was covered with a beautiful mantle of the Virginia creeper, the only spot where I have ever seen it growing wild in Mexico. At its foot there was a tangle of cactus.

Below the mill the stream ran into a presa, or reservoir, with a dam of astounding solidity and thickness. It was built of small rubble-stone, laid in cement so hard that it seemed a part of the rock itself. The basin was empty, but twentyfour hours were enough to fill it in the rainy season. The dam had been raised for over half its length something like a century before with a view to doubling the capacity of the basin, but the work had been abandoned, since the present supply for irrigation proved sufficient, for the wants of the papulation. Along this stream there was room for many reservoirs of the same sort. The same is the case throughout Mexico, so that, should it ever be needed, the agricultural production of the country could be many times increased.

The walk back to the town was a charming one, along a level, smooth, and winding road. The groups of towers were emulated by clusters of organ cactus, shooting up slenderly to a height of forty feet or more above the humble cots in the outskirts. The hills rolled away beside the town, brown on their slopes like cheeks well tanned by a scorching sun, their piny summits bluish black in the distance. The rich verdure of gardens and orchards filled the ravines running irregularly up the hillsides, inwreathing the town with their graceful fringe. High above, perched on a crag, rose the old convent of Santo Domingo, with square, belligerent-looking towers like a castle; elsewhere on the heights was a mass of white masonry, with graceful arcades, darkly recessed, gleaming among groves of trees. A tree of great beauty hereabouts was the pepper tree, or aÿrbol de Peru, lining the highways in places and growing unusually tall. Some trees were in blossom, others were in fruit; the bunches of scarlet berries, which are in some demand in the markets as a food for tame mocking-birds, gleaming vividly. The foliage, though drooping, had a sprightly cheeriness, and if its pendent form suggested tears at all, it would be those brought to the eyes by the piquancy of the fruit! The beauty of these trees was greatly heightened by the moss draping their branches, of a hue between orange and old gold. This moss makes the fine yellow and green dyes used extensively in local manufactures.

San Miguel has a most industrious population. It is famous for the manufacture of zarapes and rebozos, or blankets and scarfs, which are, respectively, universal articles of apparel among the male and female population of Mexico. The former are made of wool and the latter of cotton or silk, both woven on handlooms, whose lively clatter may be heard in passing about half the houses in town. Great skill is attained in the manufacture of zarapes, and those of San Miguel and Saltillo are the finest in Mexico, some costing over a thousand dollars each. I saw one which had taken over a year in the making, and its value was three hundred dollars. The weaving was a marvel of fineness, and it had a very close reproduction of a painting which was shown me. In market hours, particularly on Sundays, the plaza was enlivened by the sellers of zarapes and rebozos, who went around with their goods in little piles on their shoulders, seeking customers. This plaza was the centre of activity for the place. The principal shops were there, and on one side was the fruit-market, where the venders had light tents pitched on the pavement, the fruit displayed in little heaps spread on matting on the ground. The mushy, but delicious white zapotes, with flesh much like that of a Bartlett pear, were generally surrounded by swarms of wasps. On another side of the plaza a deal of cooking was always going on ; much frying over little charcoal fires. It was no wonder that crowds of peasants were attracted to buy, for the odor of meat and onions was savory even to more civilized nostrils.

The plaza was the club-room of the place, so to speak ; night after night the same young men might be seen quietly chatting together on the same benches of carved stone. Some evenings there was music, and then everybody turned out, promenading around the little garden. There was a goodsized theatre, with performances every Sunday night, and often two or three other evenings in the week. Some of the traveling dramatic and operatic companies which make the round of the Mexican provincial cities are excellent.

One afternoon I sat reading in my room while the first shower of the month was falling. The rainy season was several weeks later than usual, this year. It was a goodly shower, and the rivulets in the streets were soon converted into turbid torrents. While the rain was still pouring, though very gently, I heard music in the street. It was St. John’s day, and I thought it part of the celebration. I stepped to the balcony and saw a band coming, followed by a score or more of men with lighted candles. The band was playing a lively march. Ahead there ran a little boy with what looked like a tawdrily painted box-cover. The men were nearly all of the lower class, shabbily dressed. One of them carried on his head an open coffin, containing what I at first took for a doll, having something to do with the ceremonial. It was dressed in white muslin with some gilt tinsel. But as they passed below I saw that it was a dead baby, with long eyelashes and black eyes staring up to the sky. Meanwhile the rain kept dropping pitilessly on the senseless little form. Or, I fancied, since the form was senseless, was the rain pitiless, or compassionate tears from heaven ! The men sheltered from the wind with one hand the candles they were carrying. The procession marched along with the martial blare of the music sounding gayly down the narrow streets, seeming strangely inappropriate to mark the entry of a little child into the kingdom of heaven.

The rains fell daily now. Every afternoon the clouds rolled up and the skies grew black. Almost over night the landscape underwent a magic transformation. The brown, sun-scorched plains turned to the loveliest of springtime greens, and the fresh tint crept up over the gray rocks to the mountain summits.

When I returned to the capital I found that the railway, just below San Miguel, ran through a grand gorge, coursed by a river. On my upward trip I had missed this sight, having passed through in the dark. The river, usually a mere rill, was swollen to a powerful, broad-breasted current, with boats upon it for people to cross in.

Sylvester Baxter.