VERA CRUZ AND PUEBLA.

My former Mission—The present one—Why called Franco-American—Vera Cruz—Railway from Vera Cruz to Mexico—Warm Region—Temperate Region—Cordova—Orizaba—Maltrata—Cold Region—Esperanza—Puebla and Tlascala—The Old Route.

When I started for Mexico in 1880, I already knew something of the country, having, in the year 1857, been sent out as delegate for my Government to explore parts of it. At that time I was rich in hopes and full of grand intentions, but poor in knowledge and light of purse, and I soon learnt that the work I had undertaken was of so difficult and complicated a character, that the whole thing was beyond my powers; and, finding that from want both of money and of technical knowledge I was unable to carry out the great schemes I had imagined, I contented myself with simply photographing some of the monuments as I visited them, without even venturing to add any comment thereto. Now all was different. Better prepared in every way: with additional knowledge, backed by influential supporters, and with the aid of numerous documents which I had collected, I felt I might reasonably hope to be able to throw some light on one of the most obscure corners of the history of man.

But at the very moment when the Minister of Public Instruction, on the advice of the Commission for Missions and Travels, was again entrusting me with the exploration of Mexico, that I might study its monuments, it so chanced that a rich American, Mr. Lorillard, of New York, was also minded to fit out a scientific expedition for the same purpose, and that I was the man he had fixed upon to direct it. The latter had already set apart a considerable sum of money for the expedition, so that I found myself placed in a somewhat delicate position, for, by refusing Mr. Lorillard, I should have risked a dangerous competition in the very country and the very places I was to explore; and, by accepting, I should have seemed to give up my nationality, and to deprive my own country of many precious documents and interesting collections. I felt myself, therefore, fortunate in being able to combine the two rival expeditions, and, under the name of a Franco-American Mission, to carry out the important work, and in this I was assisted by the unparalleled generosity of Mr. Lorillard, who gave up to France all the fruits of my labour, my researches, and my discoveries. It was under such circumstances that I started on the 26th of March, 1880, and taking New York on my way, to pay my respects to my generous sleeping-partner, I reached Vera Cruz at the end of April.

The aspect of Vera Cruz, seen from the sea, is anything but pretty, consisting of a monotonous line of houses, blackened by heavy rain and the driving Norte. Built on a sandy shore, surrounded by barren hills stripped of all vegetation, and low-lying lagoons, Vera Cruz may safely be pronounced the most unhealthy place in Mexico. Yellow fever is never absent from its shores, and with every new batch of immigrants it becomes epidemic and violent in the extreme, fastening on the newcomers with unusual severity. We learnt that to our cost, at the time of the war of intervention, when our soldiers were literally decimated by this fearful scourge. It became necessary to replace the white troops by negro battalions, the latter withstanding better than Europeans the fury of the epidemic.

Vera Cruz can scarcely be said to possess a harbour, having only an indifferent anchorage, in which ships are far from safe. Fort St. Juan affords the only shelter, but in bad weather vessels frequently break from their moorings, and are thrown or driven on to the coast. A storm here is synonymous with north wind, and when it blows no words can give an adequate idea of its violence; it is not a straightforward, honest tempest, such as every good manner knows how to cope with, but it comes in terrific and sudden squalls, carrying whirlwinds of sand, which penetrate the best-closed houses; consequently, on the first indication of its approach, every dwelling is securely fastened, barges are taken in and chained up, vessels lower their double anchors, the harbour becomes empty, all work is suspended, and the place wears the aspect of a deserted city. The thermometer falls suddenly, the porter, with teeth chattering, wraps himself in his blanket, a woollen overcoat is quickly substituted for the ordinary white holland jacket, and every one goes about shivering with cold. The pier is soon hidden by the huge waves raised by the disturbed element, in the harbour vessels get foul of one another, and steamers to avoid shipwreck get up steam, ready to take their station outside.

Vera Cruz welcomed us with one of these strong north winds, which obliged us to stay for three days in the roadstead, unable to leave our steamer; and when I did land, I was so glad, so happy at once more feeling the ground under my feet, that I failed to notice, as I had done before, the very uncomfortable pavement of the town, which consists of sharp pointed stones; but just as a sheep has a portion of his fleece torn from him by every bramble he passes by, so does every traveller leave some portion of his individuality in every country which he visits—and on seeing again the places he has known before, he thinks to himself that he will be welcomed by the same impressions, the same friendships, nay, the same adventures as before will be there. He believes he will find everything exactly as he left it, he looks forward to shaking hands with a particular friend, to revisiting a certain spot, to entering a certain house, whose kind inmates had always had a warm welcome for him. He arrives, but the scene is changed, the old well-remembered spot is laid waste, the house a heap of ruins, friends dead, and Time, alas! has done its fatal work.

After two-and-twenty years’ absence, I eagerly looked forward to shaking hands with the friends I had left. The returning traveller looks back on two-and-twenty years as but a day; to him it seems but yesterday that he left the place; every one will, of course, know him again; every one will come forward and warmly welcome him back. Heaven help him! The quarter of a century, which he has hardly taken into account, has in reality weighed heavily on him, as upon all; even should he be fortunate enough to recognise a few acquaintances, they have completely forgotten him, and like Rip Van Winkle, he seems to awake from a hundred years’ sleep—to find all changed, and everything about him strange and new. In my own case, the only friend I found was the oldest of all, whom I thought I was never likely to see again. But it was not until I had told him my name that he recognised me; for at first he saw nothing but a perfect stranger standing before him. I inquired after A—he was no more; and B?—dead; and C?—dead also. I stopped, I was afraid to go on. It was under the burden of impressions such as these that I found myself once more in Vera Cruz.

And yet Vera Cruz, situated at the extremity of the Mexican gulf, is not commonplace, but rather an Eastern city, and her origin is marked everywhere; in her cupolas, painted white, pink, and blue, her flat terraces, and ornaments mostly of a pyramidal form. But cities live longer than men, and I found Vera Cruz rejuvenated, younger and more animated than of yore.

A slight breath of French activity seems to have crossed the seas and to pervade everything. The houses are freshly painted, the steeples whitewashed, cupolas enamelled, and new blocks of houses and monuments meet the eye in all directions. The square, which was formerly squalid and intersected by watercourses, is now a charming place, paved with marble and planted with trees, in which squirrels and ouertitis gambol and play the whole day long. The centre is occupied by a fountain, and the sides by arcades, giving access to magnificent cafÉs, beautiful shops, the Cathedral and the Town Hall inlaid with gleaming tiles.

In the day-time the shade is deep and the air cool, whilst in the evening numerous loungers and fair women, their hair chequered with phosphorescent cucuyos, fill the green walks, and give it the appearance of a huge hot-house. Vera Cruz, to those who are used to its climate, is a very pleasant abode, and though in some respects not so desirable as many European cities, life here, on account of the great heat, is easier, fuller, more satisfying. Wines are not dearer than in Paris; fish is both plentiful and excellent; tropical fruit of every kind is to be found in the market, as well as all the feathered tribe, varying from the laughing-bird and the parrot to the beautiful red and green Aras of Tabasco. Add to this the constant incoming and outgoing of every nation in the universe, eliciting a daily interchange of news with the outer world, and in a sense annihilating the distance which divides you from the mother country. Then, too, there is the Gulf with its blue waters, tempting to the most delightful dives man ever had; the jetty, which, insignificant though it be, is none the less a favourite resort, where in the evening people go for a little fresh air, beneath a magnificent canopied sky; and where in the day they can watch on the horizon the white sail disappearing out of sight. Picture to yourself this marvellous sky, filled with innumerable noisy sea-birds and small black vultures dotting it at a dizzy height, whilst far below, hoary, venerable pelicans, quite at home in the harbour, from long habit seem to spend their lives in diving and rising solemnly, then come and perch on the Custom House flag, with a grotesque kind of dignity, as though conscious of having fully done what was expected of them.

But the great feature about Vera Cruz is the innumerable flights of black vultures, which fill the streets, and cover every roof and pinnacle. They are so tame as to be scarcely disturbed by the passers-by, and when servants throw out house refuse, there follows a general rush and a fearful fight, in which dogs take part, without, however, always getting the best of it. These dogs, like those of Constantinople, are the Ædiles of both town and country, which without them would be intolerable.

Beyond Mexico Gate, a fine public walk, planted with large cocoa-trees, leads to a suburb which has within the last few years grown into a little town; it is the great rendezvous for sailors and coolies who come to dance and flirt with the damsels of the place, and the evening is generally wound up with a hot dispute with their less favoured companions.

The coast along the Atlantic is a vast sandy plain, diversified by marshes peopled with herons, wild ducks, iguanas, and serpents, which are almost impervious from thickets of aromatic shrubs and wild flowers, in the midst of which tower magnificent trees; but the sound of no voice ever breaks on this wilderness in which lurks the malaria, save the hoarse cry of a wild animal, the passing of an eagle-fisher, or the whirling of a vulture in quest of some easy prey.

The journey from Vera Cruz to Mexico is now performed by railway, which has replaced the once cumbrous diligence, and traffic has increased to such an extent that the English Railway Company is unable to convey inland goods which have come by sea.

We start on our journey with an escort, even now a necessary precaution, for five-and-twenty years have not modified the manners of the natives, and highway robbers are still a flourishing institution in Mexico.

Pressing westward, we go through the sandy, marshy zone, and leaving behind us Tejeria, Soledad, Paso Ancho, and Paso del Macho, we reach the famous Chiquihuite bridge, when a glorious region succeeds to the flat country and parched vegetation of the coast; we continue to ascend through grander and grander scenery and more luxurious vegetation, having on our left the river Atoyac with its precipitous course, between deep ravines, and presently we come in sight of the iron viaduct, which is considered one of the best works on the line.

Still pressing upwards we reach the temperate zone, where we find coffee, tobacco, and banana plantations, spreading their broad green leaves under the shade of great trees which shelter them against the fierce heat of the sun; while little houses, embowered in orange-groves and creepers, peep out coquettishly from leaf and foliage.

And now the grand outlines of the Sierra are about us, and at every bend of the road charming views unfold before our enraptured gaze; a dazzling light colours all things with the richest tints, and Orizaba rears its magnificent head straight before us. Orizaba is, with the Popocatepetl, the highest mountain in Mexico; its snowy peak is visible for many a mile at sea. At its foot may be seen the city of the same name, extending over a large area, with her numerous and once gorgeous churches, now falling into decay, amidst a vast plateau, circled by mighty mountains, once gleaming with volcanic fires and grand summits. Mills and factories, greatly on the increase, are worked by water-power, which is brought by aqueducts or mountain torrents.

After Orizaba, the road becomes very steep; we enter the gorges of Infiernillo (small hell), where, along roads coasting deep ravines and unfathomable precipices, spanned by stupendous bridges, we reach Maltrata, where the train stops to change engines, when we ascend the heights, or cumbres, leading to the plateau.

And now the road opens out in long windings, rounding the steepest declivities; bridges and tunnels succeed each other with dazzling rapidity, and the huge engine puffs and hisses, sending out long, curling volumes of white smoke over the most glorious landscape; and our journey, which has lasted three hours, brings us to Esperanza, at an elevation of some 1,200 metres,1 and here we breakfast at an excellent buffet. After Esperanza, the country becomes a dreary, monotonous, dusty plain, contrasting painfully with the brilliant colouring of the warm zone; not a tree is to be seen, hardly any vegetation; some rare fields of stunted maize and wheat, a few meagre cactuses, with here and there a white hacienda, are the only indications that this forlorn region is not wholly uninhabited. Nevertheless, the monotony of this immense plain is relieved by the grand outline of mountains which bound the horizon, and the sand mounds, which are visible everywhere, give the landscape a peculiar and somewhat severe aspect.

The railway, strange to say, has deprived this region of its few inhabitants, and steam has done away with the arriero and the long lines of heavy carts, panting mules, and muleteers in picturesque costumes, and the tinkling bells of madinas (mules heading the trains) are no more.

Then, also, these dusty roads were enlivened by the presence of small cottages, whence the cheerful hand-clapping of tortilleros reminded the hungry traveller that here his honest hunger might be appeased, during which the muleteer would ogle or distribute somewhat questionable compliments among the belles of the district; all is gone, even to the meson, in whose vast courtyard weary mules were put up for the night. The cottage has left no trace behind, the walls of the meson are a mass of ruins, and the courtyard deserted.

And now we travel in a north-west direction; we pass Huamantla, round Malinche, and leave Puebla some twenty leagues on our left, and crossing Apizaco we reach the Llanos of Apam, famed for its pulque, or Mexican wine, which is made of the juice of aloes (Agave Americana), to be found everywhere; but Apam pulque is as superior to other pulque as Chambertin is superior to ordinary claret. Aloe plantations are everywhere to be seen, and at each station a huge train calls daily for the casks full of the liquor so dear to Mexicans. This intoxicating beverage is not tempting in appearance, for it is yellowish, thick and stringy, with a most repulsive smell, yet when a taste for it has been acquired even Europeans drink it with pleasure after a day’s trip. Here I am reminded how much the railway has destroyed the picturesqueness of the road. If in former times the traveller went over the ground at a slower pace, he had leisure to linger over the plain, admire the mountain round which the railway now twines, to stop at Amozoc, a time-honoured haunt of brigands; and though he missed Tlascala, the faithful ally of Cortez, and the hereditary enemy of Mexico, he had the opportunity of visiting Puebla de los Angeles, which lies at the very foot of great Malintzi or Malinche, faced by the snowy peaks of Iztaccihuatl and Popocatepetl.

The city of Puebla de los Angeles was founded by the Spaniards soon after the conquest, on the site of an insignificant village a few miles east of Cholula. After Mexico, which it rivals by the beauty of its edifices, it is the most important city of New Spain. Like ancient Cholula, she is remarkable for the number and the magnificence of her sacred buildings, the multitude of her priests, and the pomp of her religious ceremonies, and her cathedral, in an architectural point of view, ranks as high as that of Mexico, whilst her treasures are perhaps even more considerable than those of her rival—her grand chandelier of massive silver having alone cost £14,000. The innumerable steeples of a hundred churches, and the gleaming cupolas, give a remarkable character to the panorama of this city, which has sustained many a siege, while her last defence under Ortega was simply heroic.

In the time of the diligence the road led to ancient Cholula, and the traveller had the opportunity of visiting her pyramid, on which stands the temple dedicated to Quetzacoatl, “God of the air,” who was pleased to dwell among men, and, during his visit in Cholula, which extended over twenty years, he taught the Toltecs the arts of peace, a better form of government, and a more spiritualised religion, in which the only sacrifices were the fruits and flowers of the season. It was in honour of this benevolent deity that this stupendous mound was erected. The date of its erection is unknown, for it was found there when the Aztecs entered the plateau; but it has been variously ascribed to the Olmecs, the Toltecs, and even to a race of giants, who wished to save themselves from another deluge. Clavigero observes very naturally, that the builders were rather stupid in taking so much trouble to raise an artificial mound, when they had within reach the highest mountains in the world where to take refuge in any such emergency.2 It had the truncated, pyramidal form of the Mexican teocalli (temple), its four sides facing the cardinal points, and divided into the same number of terraces. The original outlines, however, have been effaced by the action of time, while the growth of shrubs and wild flowers, which cover its surface, gives it the appearance of one of those symmetrical elevations thrown up by Plutonic agency rather than the work of man. The height of this pyramid is 60 metres;3 its base, which is square, covers about forty-four acres, and the platform on its truncated summit embraces more than one. Cholula was of great antiquity, and was founded by the primitive race which occupied the land before the Aztecs. At the time of the conquest it was one of the most populous and flourishing cities of New Spain. “Nothing could be more grand than the view which met the eye from the truncated summit of the pyramid. Towards the north stretched the bold barrier of porphyry rock which nature has reared round the valley of Mexico, with the huge Popocatepetl and Iztaccihuatl standing like two sentinels to guard the entrance of this enchanted region. Far away to the south was seen the conical head of Orizaba soaring high into the clouds, and nearer, the barren, though beautifully shaped Sierra de Malinche, throwing its broad shadows over the plains of Tlascala. Three of these volcanoes, higher than the highest peak in Europe, and shrouded in snows which never melt under Pg 13
Pg 14
Pg 15 the fierce sun of the tropics, at the foot of the spectator the sacred city of Cholula, with its bright towers and pinnacles sparkling in the sun, reposing amidst gardens and verdant groves. Such was the magnificent prospect which met the eye of the conquerors, and may still, with slight change, meet that of the modern traveller, as he stands on the broad plateau of the pyramid and his eye wanders over the fairest portion of the beautiful plateau of Puebla.”4

Cholula was the holy city of Anahuac, the Mecca, Jerusalem, and Rome of the Indians; in it the kindred races had temples of their own, and ministers for the service of the deity to whom they were consecrated. The sanctity of the place brought pilgrims from the furthest corners of Anahuac, who came to offer up their devotions at the shrine of Quetzacoatl and other divinities. Here Quetzacoatl had dwelt, and on his departure for the countries of the East, he had bidden his followers to keep fast his teaching, promising that he and his descendants would return, to reign again over them. This remarkable legend, which was popular with all the Indian tribes, was one of the most powerful auxiliaries of the Spanish conquerors, in whom the simple Indians thought they recognised the lofty stature, noble mien, clear complexion, and blue eyes, of the deity they had so long expected.

But talking of Cholula has made us forget that the train is going to start: the guards, hurrying in every direction to look for us, summon us into our carriages, the signal is given, and we speed away.

And now we notice on the platform of every station, detachments of soldiers, with large felt hats, trimmed with silver ribbons and tassels, whilst their horses, ready saddled, are stationed close by. In spite of their baggy trousers and slouching hats, these men have a military bearing, which shows them to be a picked body of troops, and in fact they are the “rural guard,” lately formed, but already of the greatest service; thanks to their vigilant intelligence, the country is almost safe. This guard is recruited among the class described as “having no occupation and no permanent abode,” and the Government gave proof of its sagacity when it availed itself of this turbulent element, which after having been the scourge of the country, now keeps it quiet. It is a case of setting a thief to catch a thief; for the “rural,” acquainted for twenty miles round with all the “old customers,” whose accomplice he used to be, knows better than any one how to track an escaped convict, or discover a secret haunt; and thanks to telegraphs and railroads, pronunciamentos have gone out of fashion, nipped in the bud before they are given time to assume any large proportions.

From Apam, where we got out to look at the view, we proceed to Palma; then Otumba, where Cortez, a few days after his evacuation of Mexico, obtained a great victory over the Aztecs, in which their chief was slain; and leaving Teotihuacan with its pyramids on the left, we reach Mexico and St. Cosme Station.