# Mexico, picturesque, political, progressive/Shrines and Pilgrimages

CHAPTER VI
SHRINES AND PILGRIMAGES
There is something at once inspiring and dreadful in the intensity with which these men work. Where or how the fallacy concerning their laziness has gained ground, it is hard to understand. Whatever they do is done as if salvation depended upon it, and the exertion demanded where manual labor takes the place of steam or horse power is so bitterly hard that it makes their continuous application the more wonderful. We have yet to see the first instance of shirking or of carelessness. Slight of frame, small in stature, with every appearance of delicacy in physique, they will take upon the shoulders as much as five or six men can lift, and carry it an indefinite distance. Under these immense burdens, they trot instead of walking. To see a mozo climbing five or six flights of stairs, and traversing acres of corridors, at this ​swift pace, with a heavy Saratoga trunk on his back; or to meet four laborers rushing through the city streets with a Chickering piano on their shoulders, is a sight to which we are becoming so well used that familiarity robs it of its first painfulness. These brave workers are so surprised and unprepared for either pity or sympathy that we begin to cover both with the negative quality of indifference. Still, to look day after day at street pavers and sweepers, working as if fame or fortune depended on despatch; porters hurrying under the weight of their enormous burdens; farm laborers ploughing, reaping, gathering wood, drawing water, hour after hour, without a turn of the head or lifting of an eye-lash for the world outside, decidedly upsets one's preconceived notions, and leaves one in a maze of reflections. This utter absorption of self in his occupation gives a certain dignity to the man; and one finds here often, amid the most menial surroundings, something of that fine spirit — that in-breathing of purpose into action — that makes Millett's Sower a heroic figure. Think of the men lifted above these by every accident of education and fortune, whom we so often see in the fair ​fields at home, listless, uninterested, careful only to fill the time of their contract; and these earnest, eager, constant laborers become superb. The miraculous shrine of Our Lady of Guadalupe, six miles outside the City of Mexico, is of great interest, as every spot must be around which centres the hint of spiritual manifestations. This is no place to venture a single comment upon the truth or superstition of the claims made by friends and enemies. To the people of the country it is a real and abiding evidence of the personal intervention of the Divinity in human affairs, and a closer link between the seen and the unseen world. Deluded they may be, and ignorant and absurd; but can a land that believes in spiritualism and faith-cures afford to laugh at them? Are not the crutches and staffs, the votive tablets, and touching simple offerings hung within the silver railing of the shrine at Guadalupe at least as worthy of respectful attention as the voluntary letters and paid advertisements which attest the miracle cures of a more matter-of-fact civilization? "People who live in glass houses should never throw stones;" and I am tired of listening to the audible sneers at so-called ​Catholic superstition, when we preserve in our midst to-day a score of myths and delusions equally as vague and less dignified.
From the height upon which the upper chapel is perched, which is reached by such interminable flights of stone steps! a lovely view of the valley of Mexico, only less beautiful than that of Chapultepec, is obtained. The shrunken outline of Lake Texcoco, in the midst of its carbonate plains, shows more clearly than from the other eminence; and piles of shining white chemical matter, like that of the alkali fields of Nevada, glisten in the sun, waiting refining in the reduction works beyond. One understands from this outlook the enormous change that must have taken place in the natural aspect of this vicinity since Cortes and his warlike band crossed the narrow causeway that formed the only communication between the mainland and the city built in the lake, and only a few elevated points like this of Guadalupe lifted themselves above the shining waste of water which stretched for ten miles about. The present condition makes the question of drainage for Mexico a most complex problem. Its surroundings to-day make it not unlike a vast sewer, made possible to live in, ​or rather not to die in, by the wonderful air and sunshine, and the purity of atmosphere caused by great elevation. Coming from the north, the smooth tablelands rise by such gentle gradations, that one is not conscious of being lifted above the sea-level; but the eight thousand feet are actually there to separate one from the lower world, and bear him into at least comparative security. If it were not for this blessed altitude, and the purity which belongs to it, the city would be a simple death-trap. As it is, matters are bad enough.
It was on the road to Guadalupe that we once saw a picture, which has since become common, but which looked then like a scriptural illustration made real. A young woman, decently and simply dressed, with a sleeping infant in her arms, sitting upon a small, patient burro, passed down a dusty lane under the shadow of a hedge of yuccas, which looked not unlike the Eastern palm. Her long, blue reboso was wound modestly about the head, and covered the form of the little child, whom she was regarding as fondly as the most tender mother could desire. By her side walked, bare-headed for the time being, a handsome, middle-aged man, with a magnificent shock of ​coal-black hair, and a full, waving beard. A long staff in his hand, and a dull red zarape wound about the body, he looked as much like St. Joseph in the pictures of the Holy Family and the Flight into Egypt as if some artist had assisted at his reproduction. It was a living tableau. We have seen many similar ones since.
As the time comes for leaving this lovely country, its attractions increase, and its discomforts diminish in geometrical progression. The dust, the smells, the heat, the fatigue — what are they now, compared with the full measure of delight which memory has heaped with treasures? What, indeed, have they ever been but passing hinderances, interfering no more with the ultimate sum of happiness, than the fluttering of a swallow's wing breaks the beauty of his swift flight? These two months, taken from the dreariest portion of the Christian year, from sleet and snow and marrow-chilling winds, and given up to largesse of sunshine and flowers, to the superb abundance of a richer summer than we had ever dreamed of before, are something to have lived for. So many unnoted strange excellences clamor now for mention before this most inadequate record closes, ​that one scarce knows where to begin,——the faint, spicy smell of cedar-wood which perfumes the warm air through the entire kingdom; the twitter of small bird voices, sweeter but not so loud as our sparrows at home, in the dawning; the lifting of palm branches knotted with clusters of scarlet poppies in the nave of the great cathedral on Palm Sunday, as the priest's hands were uplifted, in blessed remembrance of the entrance of Christ into Jerusalem; the novelty of waking morning after morning to the delicious certainty of bright skies and warm air, as if some clear-eyed, silver-tongued angel were calling the weather record, instead of the tricksy-sprite that presides over New England. And yet I am more convinced than ever of the superiority of our own climate, impish as it often is, for all purposes of progress and advancement. Weak human nature needs the impulse of reaction: it needs sting of cold to spur toward effort. The warm kisses of this southern air would relax the energy of Alaric the Goth. You might transplant a model Vermont household, where the mother rises before dawn, and has hot doughnuts every morning for breakfast; where the children dress by candle​light, and do their chores like clockwork; where the father works like an automaton from cock-crow to dusk, without taking time to eat, preferring wicked dyspepsia to unholy leisure, — you might transplant a colony of these just but sad souls, and in one generation they would be reclining in hammocks, looking at the world through great, contented sleepy eyes, and overpowered by the exertion of clapping their hands in order to call mozo or maid to their side with chocolate and cigarettes. The mother might not smoke, but her daughters probably would. The sharp voices would have lowered three full tones, and fallen into a tender minor key; the swift jerkiness of motion would have subsided to a languid, swaying glide; and the whole family would have succumbed to the inertia of this luxurious atmosphere. For, unhappily, laws of nature are stronger than laws of grace; and the law of climatic limitations is strongest of all.
​The great improvement which statistics show to have taken place since the advent of rail-roads, and in direct proportion to their use, is one of the most encourageing signs of the times. Already the states have grown to see the enormity of placing barriers between their own free intercourse; and the law has thrown down the petty system of customs which prevailed on each boundary line, as well as the differences in currency which made a cent taken at Zacatecas useless in Querétaro. A common coinage and common laws are to be put in operation throughout the republic. Equally blind is the present system of duties between it and our own country, placing an insurmountable obstacle between free interchange of products and manufactures, and shutting two great nations out of mutual advantages. On our side especially there would be everything to gain, and nothing to lose, by abolishing the protective tariff. Business is conducted now upon a most unhealthy basis. Credits of a year are given with interest of at least one per cent a month meantime; an unfair taxation makes landed property and incomes free, and leaves the entire burden to fall on the already overladen shoulders ​of the poor man; and the national school system, which would naturally, by education, open the eyes of the people to these absurdities, is made available by only ten per cent of the population. The railroad has already accomplished much to secure permanence of government, and protection for business ventures, by breaking up the organized bands of robbers which infested some of the richest districts; by bringing newer and more wholesome customs into the slovenly ways of trade; and by minimizing the opportunities for revolt and revolution, which used constantly to threaten permanence of government, by bringing all parts of the country into close and swift connection with the heads of departments at the capital. The next ten years will do wonders to help progress and utilize resources; but, alas! it will change the beautiful, picturesque, unpractical world we have rejoiced in. There is no rose without its thorn.
​That the tyrants in this case are of your own race, makes it but the more harrowing. If they can be mean enough, or absurd enough, with their nonsense about protection and tariff, to hunt through all your possessions, and pick out your armful of poor, dear, pretty things, why let them. You, at least, will not help them to make out the list. If they take them, they shall do so without leave or license. And so, having seized the bull by the horns, you wait to see whether it is going to toss, or leave you alone. In our case it proved to be the mildest-mannered animal possible; we entered into our kingdom again as untouched by scathe of customs-man or duty as we left it; and so home, without trial or tribulation.
I wonder, if we ever are happy enough to go to Mexico again, whether the long brown fields, with their tufts of strong green grass, will stretch away to the brilliant mountains in the distance; and here and there a water-course gather about it its small oasis of beauty, with the great unsheltered corn-bins looking like high-peaked Arab tents on the horizon; whether the picturesque shepherds with their long wands will guide their wandering flocks of sheep and goats across the brown ​desert slopes, and the veiled women will gather about the great gray stone fountains, dipping their red jars full from the shallow water within. I wonder whether the clatter of the tinkling church-bells will steal across the land from softly-tinted towers; and reptile forests of cactus snare the sun in shining, prickly leaf and glowing blossom; and hundreds of miles away, past walled town and domed city, the shining peaks of the old volcanoes lift themselves into the bright air against the glowing sky of dawn or sunset. And places like this little valley of Nombre de Dios, which we are passing to-day, lying under the mountains by the river-side, its poor cottagers riding home on tired horses to the desolate, small adobe huts, and the evening meal of tortillas, or walking across the pretty fields, husband holding the hand of wife and child, — I wonder whether, with its Name of God changed to the name of some bustling American manufacturer who will develop the silver and copper of its background of mineral hills, its huts replaced by comfortable frame-houses, its scant mesquite fires changed to labor-saving stoves, its rags discarded for decent clothes, and its ruined towers rebuilt into trim ​steeples, it will be as lovely, as contented, or as happy as it is to-day. May Heaven grant it! and as to this, so to every other spot in Mexico. But how glad one should be to have seen it before improvement stepped in to civilize and spoil! Just as it is, strange mixture of industry and unthrift, of sweetness and impurity, of barrenness and luxurious richness, of poverty and wealth, of repulsiveness and fascination, has the world to-day anything better to offer than a Mexican holiday?