# Mexico, picturesque, political, progressive/Into the Sun Land

MEXICO
PICTURESQUE POLITICAL PROGRESSIVE
CHAPTER I
INTO THE SUN LAND
In these days, when a passion for travelling has become one of the manias of American civilization, and people seek the excitement of novelty in despite of difficulty and danger, it is not strange to find that fashion so tempers fancy as to set the tides of desire flowing in special directions, while equal or greater attractions are left high and dry outside the current of sentimental regard. Thus it comes to pass, that, where thousands cross the seas to gain a more or less superficial acquaintance with the main points of European scenery, one could reckon within the limits of as many hundreds those who become in any degree familiar with the wonderful beauty ​which Nature has lavished upon our own land. It is evident that many instincts of love, of remembrance, and of affection naturally go to increase pilgrimages to the shrines of the Old World. But, when every allowance has been made, there still remains an unaccountable lack of curiosity and knowledge concerning that portion of the world which is essentially ours.
This being so, it is small cause for surprise to find near us, united to portions of our southern country by ties of common origin, customs, and language, a land almost unknown, much misunderstood, and wholly misrepresented. A country picturesque beyond description, and beautiful beyond belief; with traditions of the past to interest the antiquarian, and problems of the future to occupy the progressionist; with the fascinations of a strange tongue and a strange people, and with that indefinable charm which those indolent, lotos-eating lands exercise always over the sterner and colder nature of the north-man,—Mexico lies among her mountains, almost as far removed from human ken as the Enchanted Beauty before the Prince kissed her sleeping eyes.
Separated from Texas at El Paso only by the ​narrow waters of the Rio Grande, one enters Mexico with no more consciousness of change than in passing from one portion of a frontier town to another. Until within a few years the passage was made by means of a primitive rope ferry, with a delicious slowness and uncertainty which were partial preparation for the strangeness beyond. Some taint (or shall we call it tonic?) of Bohemianism there is in most healthy human natures, which creates delight in the unconventional, and makes the pulse throb with excitement at the first escape from routine. At the entrance to a new world, one craves something beyond the practical methods of commonplace, but to-day the triteness of a hackneyed civilization follows one to the very threshold. A jingling little tramway crosses a wooden bridge, and the traveller steps into the streets of El Paso del Norte with the straws and dust of a familiar world still clinging to him. But in a moment it is as if a magician's wand had been raised. He left on the other side of the river the busy, bustling American settlement, thriving but ugly; he enters upon enchantment here. A soft, caressing air woos like mild breath of welcome after the ​sharpness of a northern February; linnets sing deliciously to the morning; willow withes are turning yellow by the narrow ditches of clear water. Through the brown, dusty plains stretch winding lanes, outlined by high walls of dried mud, behind which shine the rosy glow of peach blooms, or scarlet-tipped hedges of cactus spikes. Low, flat-roofed, adobe houses fit into the blank wall, relieved occasionally by a heavily barred door, or stand in the midst of bare, dry fields, as cheerless and desolate as they. On each side, shallow streams, brought from the hills or from hidden springs, run in sluiceways which at intervals cross the roadway. Here and there a carpet of delicate green, the drooping grace of a plantation of young cottonwoods, or the checkered squares of a thriving market garden show where the precious water has been freely used; for here, as elsewhere, the most barren tract blossoms at touch of moisture. The field laborers are usually dressed in white cotton, fashioned into short trousers and sleeveless shirts. The women move shyly, covered to the eyes in the long blue scarf, or reboso, which is part of the national costume. Half-naked children, with dark skins and ​glorious eyes, play about grated door-yards, which open into small patios, or courtyards, beyond, bright sometimes with shrubs and flowers. The men, with wide-rimmed sombrero and gay zarape, lounge or work or walk about with a grave, dark-eyed imperturbability which contrasts strangely with the inquiring vivacity of their class at home. The blank white walls of the old cathedral, with its broken belfry of adobe, rise across the fields; down one narrow lane comes a caravan of enormous covered wagons, each drawn by sixteen mules in bright trappings, and driven by swarth muleteers in costumes that seem borrowed from Carmen. Around another corner dashes a mounted caballero, sitting his small but fiery horse as if the two made but a single creature full of superb motion. The man wears a broad sombrero, brilliant with silver braid; his short, loose velvet jacket is bright with rows of silver buttons, as are also the wide velvet trousers which lose themselves in stirrups of fringed leather. The animal is resplendent in silver mounted harness, with embroidered saddle heavy with inlaid work; across his neck is thrown a folded blanket of scarlet wool; over his flanks ​falls a long fleece of silky black fur. And the Centaur-like grace of steed and rider flashes before one's delighted eyes, to disappear as mysteriously again behind the jealous hedges.
Under a mesquite-bush by the wayside one may see an Indian woman scouring a tall earthen jar, preparatory to swinging it, fresh filled from the well, upon her shoulder in the old biblical fashion; under another, a couple of wrinkled crones are washing clothes in a shallow ditch, and spreading the wet pieces upon the cactus plants to dry. Now and again a drowsy little tienda shows one or two unhurried customers at its narrow counter; or a corner cantine has its inevitable handful of quiet pulque-drinkers; or a silent brown group, their glowing eyes alone showing trace of excitement, gathers around a pair of fighting cocks. The sky above is as blue as Colorado; the air is pure and sweet, with the softness of a late May day; and between you and the matter-of-fact, work-a-day world you left a few hours ago, are a thousand miles of distance and a lifetime of difference.
Every step into the new territory to the southward deepens the impression which this first ​glimpse at people and country makes upon one. The table-lands, separated by long, parallel mountain chains, now approaching and now receding, are full of infinite variety. Aside from the loveliness of the heights themselves, which, rich in mineral dyes and exquisite in outline, make a fresh beauty for eager eyes at each opening of the landscape, a hundred forms of interest and novelty offer a constant series of surprises. It may be a hacienda,—one of those enormous properties covering square miles of country, divided into villages and hamlets, rich in corrals and sheepfolds, watered by streams, luxuriant in gardens and fields of springing wheat. Across the plains, mounted shepherds drive flocks of white silken-fleeced goats and immense droves of cattle; long lines of trees follow the curves of the water-courses; the dome of a church rises amid the foliage; groups of burros and horses follow their Indian keepers through the fields; and the manifold industries belonging to a great and rich estate gather about the central courtyard, with its hollow square surrounded by massive stone buildings. Or it is a break in the hills, through which one looks down into some exquisite valley, ​deep with purple shadow, faintly luminous with dreamy light, and a glint of water shooting like a silver arrow through the pale green foliage. Or it is a silent city far away on the horizon, its domes and towers tinted in soft shades of pink and blue and warm amber; its tiled roofs flashing; its low gray walls, with masses of drooping trees behind, barely rising from the white level of the plain, like an oasis in the desert. Or it is a forest of cactus stretching for miles in every form of contortion known to this reptile of the vegetable world; or a waste of Yucca palms, each stem tipped by a Hercules club, four feet in height, of waxen lilies; or a plain of unfamiliar flowers, gorgeous but scentless, stretching like a Persian rug to the base of the wonderful heights beyond. Always a sudden change, and each change as splendid as the one before which seemed perfection.
​Across the low, green, rolling foothills the mountains still keep their dusky heights stained with mineral dyes; mines rich in copper, iron, and silver honeycomb the entire country; fine, fertile valleys fill every atom of space that has the blessed luxury of water; and even this is being brought extensively at present, through the medium of artesian wells and springs, from the hills. When one remembers the ditches and flumes extending thirty and forty miles in the California districts, it seems an easy matter to convey it here, from so much nearer sources.
At one or two points, the train stopped to let us load the cars with flowers. A tall cluster of bare rods, each tipped with a vivid scarlet blossom, fine white and purple bells that were found at the root of mesquite bushes, bright little yellow cups like small jasmine buds, and quantities of delicate green soon made our rooms like a travelling greenhouse, and we revelled in bloom and insects until we tired of both. Soon after leaving San Juan de Gaudeloupe, flat, table-topped mountains began to make a change in the landscape. They looked not unlike the old Aztec Teocalli, and might, perhaps, have served the sun ​worshippers with the idea of their temples. Lofty, terraced sides and level summits extended far enough to allow room for the imposing ceremonial of their worship.
Sometimes for hours, fields green with springing corn, or the soft verdure of young wheat, lined each side of the road; sometimes a herd of sheep gathered about the rare water-courses, or were grouped under great roofs of thatch, held up by forked poles without any side coverings.
Nine miles below the city of Zacatecas, the railroad begins to rise, by a triumph of magnificent engineering, up a grade of one hundred and seventy-five feet to the mile, making on the passage some of the most abrupt curves conceivable. It recalled the old Colorado cañons, only that here we went around the hillside instead of plunging over precipices and bridging gorges with trestles. The powerful engine panted like some hard-pressed animal, and the train of heavy cars dragged wearily up after it. We forgot fatigue, forgot fear, forgot — what is harder to forget than either — supper, and crowded the narrow platforms with an excitement almost painful. At last, with one mighty, final effort, we turned the ​last sharp mountain spur, and with the Büfa rising high on the left, its enormous crest of rock above like the dorsal fin of some fossil monster, with a glow of red gold over all the western sky, and the evening star shining palely in the east, we rested on the crest of the hill above the dark, little, sleeping town, with only three faint points of light to indicate its location or give any sign of life.
When we passed next morning down the steep slope into the city, a long line of convicts, under direction of an armed guard, were carrying earth upon their backs, in bags, up the side of a long embankment, and into a fortified place above, which was being repaired. Grouped about, and giving the grave attention of idle people to each detail, were a number of Mexican men, women, and children, picturesque in rags and brilliant scarfs. In recognition of a bow in passing, the convicts lifted their hats and showed so many sets of white teeth and gleaming eyes; such a careless, easy-going set of criminals it would be hard to find elsewhere.
​Down a steep side street — every street climbs up or runs down a hill — to the beautiful old church with its monstrous façade of carved freestone and three unique spires, and the covered market with its double rows of open Moorish arches, we passed with new delight at every step. Every thing is glowing with color — the sky deep as Italy, the frescos, the flowers, the fine ash trees, the brightly dressed people, the broad white stone seats. The inner court of the governor's palace — patio is a prettier word, so we will use it hereafter — was finished with dado and frieze of blue and yellow; the slender pillars, rising in a double flight of columns between the arches of the first and second floors, were gay with stencilled wreaths of bright flowers; the broad gray stone steps, curving in wide sweeps to the upper galleries, were dressed with fanciful large pots full of tropical plants. From a corner of one of these shaded upper galleries, a most beautiful picture was made by the three red sandstone towers of the cathedral, — one with the round, flat dome of the mosque, one a slender campanile, and one a solid square, but each a mass of most wonderful stone carving, almost barbaric in splendor, and ​still kept within the bounds of harmony. Against the glowing depth of sapphire sky, it was superb.
In and out, up and down, there was no end of novelty. One market-place was devoted entirely to the coarse potteries of the place, — jars for water and cooking, table articles and kitchen utensils, all good in shape, with an excellent glaze, and some attempt at decoration. Their fire-proof qualities were tested by hundreds of small fires of mesquite and cedar, which kept them bubbling here and there with boiling soup and vegetables. At the Zacatecano Hotel, for dinner, we had our first experience of real Mexican cookery. A very good onion soup was succeeded in regular courses by steak dressed with mint; a good omelet; rice, prepared with curry, tomatoes and garlic; chicken, in a sort of fricassee; cold tongue, with a dressing of lettuce and eggs; cauliflower; sweet custards; and good but bitter coffee.
We entered this country so incased in barbed points of prejudice that we are, like hedgehogs, bristling all over, and ready to prick against every thing. We have found the people courteous beyond expression. The poorest laborer as gracefully lifts his hat as the high-bred ​gentleman; and the kindliness of unassuming hospitality opens every house, rich and poor, to the visitor. It is amusing to think what scant politeness a company of strange tourists, curious, eager, and almost impertinent, would receive in Boston and New York. And still, with all our good-breeding, it is so hard to keep New-England noses from curving superciliously at the degraded Mejicano. Are we beyond taking a lesson?
There are a good many that we might take, without hurting ourselves. There is the good, honest building, without sham or pretence, which looks as if it were made for eternity. There is the power of restfulness and leisure, which, though unhappily a crying evil here, would be one of the cardinal virtues if we could only ingraft it on our stubborn, rushing, uneasy nervousness. There is their way of holding the dear, dark little babies, with a long fold of the nurse's rebozo, or scarf, wound around the little creature from mouth to hips, supporting the back and neck well, and throwing the child's weight on the bearer's shoulder instead of her arms and hips. And there are the exquisitely clean streets, which would make us blush hot with shame, ​remembering the filth of Chicago and New York, if our sallow Eastern skins could ever show so beneficent a change of color.
The plan of spending our days visiting or sightseeing, passing to the next important point in the cool of the evening, and resting luxuriously for the night drawn up on some quiet sidetrack, works wonderfully well. There is something gorgeous in the idea of a special train, that moves when one pleases and rests when one desires; that goes on like an obedient carriage-horse, stopping here to let you pick flowers, and there for fear of disturbing your after-dinner coffee; that meets you with welcome, homelike face after each new pilgrimage into the strange, unknown country; that offers you plenty of plump pillows and soft cushions to poultice the bruises of fatigue. It is a little nest of such comfort and luxury as these Mexican cities, enchanting as they are as studies and full of brilliant novelty, have not as yet the slightest conception. To come back from a tiresome and exciting ride in quest of pleasure or information; to find your quarters swept and garnished; your neighbors in their customary places; the judge's pretty wards at their ​knitting or crochet; the blonde-haired Vassar girl sharpening her clever pencil; and Peter, your man-of-all-work, waiting with smiling welcome and a helping hand at the door, — is to know something still of home feeling in the midst of strangeness, and to thank Heaven silently, but emphatically, for the Pullman. Ice-water in the tank, and your slippers on your feet; your books on the table, and a good bright light under which to read them, — these look like trifles to you, O easy-going devourers of the corpulent good things of beloved Boston, but wait till they come to you in Méjico!