The JamaÏca and Mount Parnassus.

Mexico is the most beautiful city ever built by the Spaniards in the New World; and even in Europe it would take a high place for splendor and magnificence. If you wish to behold the magnificent and varied panorama which Mexico presents, you have only to mount at sunset one of the towers of the Cathedral. On whatever side you turn your eye, you see before you the serrated peaks of the Cordilleras, forming a gigantic azure belt of about sixty leagues in circumference. To the south, the two volcanoes which overtop the other peaks of the sierra raise their majestic summits, covered with eternal snow, which, in the evening sun, put on a pale purple hue flecked with delicate ruby. The one, Popocatapetl (smoking mountain), is a perfect cone, dazzling in the blue vault of heaven; the other, Iztaczihuatl (the white woman), has the appearance of a nymph reclining, who lifts her icy shoulders to receive the last beams of the dying sun. At the foot of the two volcanoes gleam two lakes, like mirrors, which reflect the clouds in their waters, and where the wild swan plays its merry gambols. To the west rises an immense pile of building, the palace of Chapultepec, once the abode of the old viceroys of New Spain. Round the mountain on which it is built stretches, in a long, waving belt of verdure, a forest of cedars more than a thousand years old. A fountain bubbles forth at the top of the mountain; its brawling waters leap down into the valley, where they are received into an aqueduct, and thus conducted into a large and populous city, to supply the wants of its inhabitants. Villages, steeples, and cupolas rise on all sides from the bottom of the valley. Dusty roads cross and recross one another like gold stripes on a green ground, or like runnels of water interbranching through the country. A tree, peculiar to Peru, the weeping willow of the sandy plains, bends its long, interlaced branches, loaded with odoriferous leaves and red berries, in the evening breeze, and a solitary palm-tree rises here and there above clumps of olives with their pale-green foliage.

But these are only the grand outlines of the picture. Turn your eye upon the city, or, rather, look at your feet. In the midst of the chess-board formed by the terraces of houses, and from among the flowers with which these are adorned, you will see rising, as from an immense bouquet, spires, churches with domes of yellow and blue tiling, houses with walls stained with various colors, and balconies hung with a kind of striped cotton, which give them a trim and jaunty appearance. On one of the four sides of the Plaza Mayor (great square) the Cathedral towers majestically aloft. This magnificent edifice overtops the turrets of the president's palace, a building devoid of all pretensions to architectural beauty, and now falling to decay. It is an immense pile, inclosing within its four walls the public offices of the government, a prison, two barracks, a botanic garden, and the legislative chambers. This palace occupies a whole side of the square. The Ayuntamiento (Municipality) and the Postal de las flores, an immense market, form the third side. The Parian, a market similar to the preceding, completes the fourth. Thus the legislative and executive power, the board of works, commerce—all the departments of the Mexican government, in short, are in one building, and seem as if grouped together under the shadow of the church. The people are there also; for the streets of St. Domingo, of St. Francisco, of Tacuba, of Monnaie, of Monterilla, all arteries of the great city, pour into the Plaza Mayor a flood of human beings, which is always changing, and ever in motion, and you have only to mix in this crowd for a few moments to get acquainted with Mexican life in all its diversified phases of vice and virtue, of splendor and misery.

When the hour of the Angelus approaches especially, horsemen, foot-passengers, and carriages are packed together in disorderly confusion, and gold, silk, and rags, mingled here and there, give to the crowd a grotesque and startling appearance. The Indians are returning to their villages, the populace to the suburbs. The ranchero makes his horse prance and curvet in the midst of the passengers, who are in no hurry to get out of his way; the aquador (water-carrier), whose day's work is over, crosses the square, bending under the weight of his chochocol of porous earthenware; the officer is bending his steps to the coffee-houses or gambling-tables, where he intends to spend the evening; the non-commissioned officer clears the way for himself with a vine-tree-staff, which he carries in his hand as a badge of his rank. The red petticoat of the townswoman is in glaring contrast with the saya and black mantilla of the fashionable lady, who holds her fan over her face to shade it from the departing rays of the sun. Monks of all colors flit through the crowd in every direction. Here the padre, with his huge hat À la Basile, elbows the Franciscan in his blue gown, silken cord, girdle, and large white felt hat; there goes the Dominican in his lugubrious costume of black and white, reminding one of Torquemada, the founder of the Inquisition; farther on, the brown drugget of the Capuchin contrasts with the white flowing robes of the Brother of Mercy. Incidents of different kinds occur continually in this motley crowd, and serve to keep one's attention alive. Sometimes, as the drum in the barracks are beating a salute, the folding doors of a sagrario[1] suddenly fly open, and there issues forth a carriage splendidly gilt, the slow toll of the bell is heard along with the harsh rattle of the drum, and the whole crowd uncover, and kneel with bent head to the holy sacrament which they are carrying to a dying man. Woe betide the foreigner, though bold and resolute, who, ignorant of the profound respect which the Mexican pays to his religious rites, fails to bow the knee to the host as it passes! Sometimes a military detachment of six officers, escorted by three soldiers and preceded by a dozen musicians, is seen marching into the square in all the majesty of military pomp; it is to proclaim a bando (law or edict) of the highest authority, for which all this display of military music and brocaded uniforms is deemed necessary. Such at this time of the evening is the general appearance of the Plaza Mayor, that square where the people of Mexico, the sovereign people (as their flatterers call them), flutter in rags, ceaselessly engaged in quest of a new master who can put down the master of the night before, quite indifferent as to political principles, mistaking disorder for liberty, and never suspecting that the continual assaults of anarchy may bring down one day the worm-eaten structure of their rotten republic, although it has not been in existence more than twenty-five years.

Every evening, however, at the first peals of the Angelus, all noise ceases, as if by enchantment, in the Plaza Mayor. The crowd becomes hushed and silent. When the last toll of the bell dies away, the din recommences. The crowd disperses in every direction, carriages rattle off, horsemen gallop away, foot-passengers hurry hither and thither, but not always nimbly enough to escape the sword or lasso of the bold thieves who murder or rob their hapless victims, and whose audacity is such that, even in open day, and with crowds looking on, they have been known to commit their crimes.[2] At nightfall the square is deserted; a few promenaders scurry along in the moonlight; others remain seated, or swing lazily upon the iron chains, which, separated by granite pillars, run round the sagrario. The day is past, the scenes of the night begin, and the lÉperos become for a few hours masters of the city.

The lÉpero is a type, and that the strangest, of Mexican society. The attentive observer, who has seen Mexico stirring with the joyous excitement that precedes the Oracion, and then abandoned to the ill-omening silence which the night brings on, can alone tell what is singular and formidable in the character of this Mexican lazzarone. At once brave and cowardly, calm and violent, fanatic and incredulous, with just such a belief in God as to have a wholesome terror for the devil, a continual gambler, quarrelsome by nature, with a sobriety only equaled by the intemperance to which he sometimes delivers himself, the lÉpero can accommodate himself to every turn of fortune, as his humor or idleness inclines him. Porter, stone-mason, teamster, street-pavior, hawker, the lÉpero is every thing at different times. A thief sometimes by inclination, he practices his favorite calling every where, in the churches, at processions, and in theatres; his life is only one struggle with justice, which is not herself safe from his larcenies. Lavish when he finds himself master of a little money, he is not the less resigned or courageous when he has none. Has he gained in the morning a sufficiency for the expenses of the day? he drops work immediately. Often his precarious resources fail him entirely. Tranquil then, and submissive, and careless about thieves, he wraps himself in his torn cloak, and lies down at the corner of the pavement or in a door-way. There, rattling his jarana (a little mandolin), and looking with stoical serenity at the pulqueria (public-house), where he has no credit, he listens distractedly to the hissing of some savory stew which they are preparing for some more favored being, tightens the belt round his stomach, and, after breakfasting off a sunbeam, he sups off a cigar, and sleeps quietly without thinking of the morrow.

I will confess my weakness: among this motley crowd, idle and brawling as it was, my attention was more engaged with the miserable tatterdemalions than with the well-dressed foot-passengers, as the former seemed to afford a truer index of Mexican society than the latter. I never met, for instance, a lÉpero, in all the picturesqueness of his tattered costume, without having a strong desire to become better acquainted with this Bohemian-like class, who reminded me frequently of the more uncommon heroes of Picaresque romance. It appeared to me a curious study to compare this filthy and ragged denizen of the great towns with the savage adventurers I had met in the woods and savannas. When I first came to live in Mexico, I sought, and succeeded in getting acquainted, through the kindness of a Franciscan monk, a friend of mine, with a thorough-bred lÉpero, called Perico the Zaragate.[3] Unhappily, our acquaintance had hardly commenced, when, for very good reasons, I was resolved to break it, for I only got the scantiest information from him about his class, and the number of piastres I was forced to pay him was so considerable as to induce me to reflect strongly upon the absurdity of taking such expensive lessons. I was resolved, then, to bring my studies with him to a conclusion, when, one morning, Fray Serapio, the worthy monk who had made me acquainted with Perico, entered my apartment.

"I came to ask you," said the Franciscan, "to go with me to a bull-fight at the Necatitlan Square; there will also be a JamaÏca and a Monte Parnaso, which will be an additional inducement."

"What is a JamaÏca and a Monte Parnaso?"

"You will know that immediately. Let us set out; it is nearly eleven, and we shall be scarcely there in time to get a good place."

I could never resist the attraction of a bull-fight, and I found an advantage in having the company of Fray Serapio while traversing in security those suburbs which surround Mexico in a formidable belt. The neighborhood of the Necatitlan Square is more dreaded than any, and it is almost always dangerous to appear there in a European garb; indeed, I never passed through it alone without uneasiness. The cowl of the monk would be a safeguard to me in my European dress. I accepted his offer with pleasure, and we set out. For the first time, I viewed with a tranquil mind the narrow, dirty, and unpaved streets, the blackened houses full of cracks running over the walls in all directions, lurking-places of the thieves and robbers who ply their calling on the streets, and who sometimes even break into houses in the city. Swarms of one-eyed lÉperos, their faces cut and scarred with the knife, were drinking, whistling, and shouting in the taverns, clad in dirty cotton clothes, or enveloped in their frazadas.[4] Their wives, dressed in tatters, stood in the doorways, watching their naked children, who were sporting in the mud, and laughing and shouting merrily. In passing through these haunts of cut-throats, the terror of the police, the judge mutters a prayer, the alcalde crosses himself, the corchete (bailiff) and the regidor shuffle humbly along with downcast eye but watchful look, and the honest man shudders, but the monk stalks along with lofty brow and serene face, and the creak of his sandals is more respected there than the clink of the celador's sabre; sometimes, even, like tame tigers who recognize their master, the bandits emerge from their lurking-places, and come and kiss his hand.

The Necatitlan Square presented an appearance at once strange and novel. On one side, where the sun darted his unpitying rays upon the palcos de sol,[5] stood the people, with cloaks and rebozos hung over their heads as a shade, clustered in noisy, animated groups on the steps of the circus, and keeping up a lively concert of whistling and groaning. On the shady side, the nodding plumes of the officers' hats, and the variegated silk shawls of the ladies, presented to the eye an appearance which contrasted strongly with the wretchedness and misery of the rabble in the palcos de sol. I had witnessed bull-fights a hundred times. I had seen this dirty mass of people, wearied and exhausted in body, but with as keen a relish for slaughter as ever, their tongues sticking to the roofs of their mouths, and their throats dry and parched as the sand, when the setting sun darted his long rays through the ill-joined boards of the amphitheatre, and when the scent of the blood lured the hungry vultures who were sailing in the air above, but I never saw the arena so transformed as it was at that time. Numerous wooden erections filled the space ordinarily devoted to the bull-fights; these, covered with grass, flowers, and sweet-smelling branches of trees, made the whole place assume the appearance of a vast hall, growing, as it were, out of the ground, and forming a series of shady groves, with paths winding through them. Little booths were dispersed here and there through the groves, some intended for the preparation of delicate articles of Mexican cookery, others for the sale of cool, refreshing drinks. In the cookery booths you could indulge in the luxury of nameless ragouts of pork, seasoned with pimenta. In the puestos[6] glittered immense glasses filled with beverages of all the colors in the rainbow, red, green, blue, and yellow. The mob in the palcos de sol snuffed up greedily the nauseous smell of the fat pork, while others, more lucky, seated in this improvised elysium, under the shade of the trees, discussed patÉs of the wild duck of the lakes.

"Look!" said the Franciscan, pointing with his finger to the throng seated at the tables in the ring; "that's what we call a JamaÏca."

"And that?" said I, showing him a tree five or six yards high, fixed in the ground, with all its leaves, in the middle of the arena, quite covered with handkerchiefs of every hue, which fluttered from the branches.

"That is a Monte Parnaso," said the Franciscan.

"Probably poets are to ascend it?"

"No; but lÉperos, and such like uneducated persons—which will be a great deal more diverting."

The monk had hardly given me this answer, which but half enlightened me, when cries of toro, toro, from the rabble in the palcos de sol became louder and more overpowering; the pastry cooks' booths and the puestos were suddenly deserted; the revelers were suddenly interrupted by the sudden rush of a band of lÉperos from the highest boxes round the inclosure, who, sliding down by means of their cloaks, made a terrific onslaught on the green booths inside. Among the crowd who were yelling and kicking down the booths, and strewing the whole ring with their remains, I recognized my old friend Perico. Indeed, without him the fÊte would have been incomplete. The Monte Parnaso, with its cotton handkerchiefs, stood alone in the midst of the wreck, and soon became the only object to which the looks and aims of the rabble were directed. All tried to be the first to ascend the tree, and get possession of such handkerchiefs as took their fancy; but the struggles of the one impeded the efforts of the other; the tree still remained standing, and not a single claimant had yet succeeded in even touching its trunk. At the same moment the bugle sounded in the box of the alcalde, the door of the toril was thrown open, and a magnificent bull, the best that the neighboring haciendas could furnish, came thundering into the arena. The spectators, who expected a more formidable animal, were somewhat disappointed when they saw an embolado.[7] The aspiring laureates of Monte Parnaso were nevertheless somewhat scared and frightened. The bull, after standing with some hesitation, bounded with a gallop toward the tree, which was still standing. Some of the lÉperos ran away, and the others took refuge, one after another, in the branches of Monte Parnaso. The bull, having come to the foot of the tree, butted at it with repeated blows of his horns; it tottered; and at the very moment Perico was busily engaged in reaping an abundant harvest of pocket-handkerchiefs, it fell, dragging with it the men who were entangled in the branches. Roars of laughter and enthusiastic cheering arose from the ten thousand spectators in the galleries and boxes at sight of the unfortunate wretches, who, bruised and lamed, were seeking to escape from each other's grasp, and from the branches in which they were entangled. To add to the confusion, the bull, seeking no doubt to separate the black mass struggling on the ground, butted several of the unfortunate lÉperos with his horns, and, to my great sorrow, I saw Perico, launched ten feet into the air, fall to the ground in such a state of insensibility as to deprive me of all hope of completing my studies of Mexican life under so skillful a master.

Perico had been scarcely carried out of the arena when cries of "a priest! a priest!" were raised by a hundred voices. Fray Serapio crouched in a corner of his box, but he could not avoid the duty which the people expected from him. He rose, gravely cloaking his disappointment as much as he could from the eyes of the people, and said to me, in a low tone,

"Follow me; you will pass for a surgeon."

"Are you joking?" said I.

"Not at all; if the fellow is not quite dead, he will have a surgeon and a priest of equal merit."

I followed the monk with a gravity at least equal to his own, and while descending the stairs of the amphitheatre, the laughter and loud hurrahs of the populace proved that the people in the shade, as well as the rabble in the sun, viewed the accident as an every-day occurrence. We were conducted into a little dark room on the ground floor of a house, from which issued several lobbies leading to different apartments. In a corner of this room Perico was laid, having been previously deprived of all his handkerchiefs; then, partly through respect for the Church and the faculty, so worthily represented by both of us, partly lest they should lose the spectacle of the fight, the attendants withdrew and left us alone. The lÉpero, his head leaning against the wall, and giving no sign of life, was seated rather than reclining; his motionless arms, and his pale, corpse-like face, showed that, if life had not quite fled, there was but a slender spark remaining. We looked at each other, the Franciscan and I, quite at a loss what to do in the circumstances.

"I think," said I to the monk, "that it would perhaps be best to give him absolution."

"Absolvo te," said Fray Serapio, touching roughly the lÉpero's foot. He appeared sensible to this mark of interest, and muttered, half opening his eyes,

"I believe in God the Father, the Son, and the Holy—Ah! the rascals have taken all my handkerchiefs—SeÑor Padre, I am a dead man.

"Not yet, my son," said the monk; "but perhaps there only remains for you sufficient time to confess your sins; and it would be best for you to profit by it, that I may open to you the folding doors of heaven. I warn you that I am in a hurry."

"Is the bull-fight not over, then?" said poor Perico, naÏvely. "I think," said he, passing his hands over his body, "that I am not so ill as you imagine."

Then, seeing me, Perico shut his eyes, as if he were going to faint, and added, in a very low voice,

"Indeed I am ill, very ill; and if you please to listen to my confession, I will soon finish it."

"Go on, then, my son."

The monk then kneeled down close to the sick man, who, to speak the truth, bore no trace on his body of a single wound. Taking off his large gray hat, Perico brought his lips near the ear of the monk, and I, not to interrupt the lÉpero, stepped aside. He began thus:

"I accuse myself first, father, of the blackest ingratitude to this cavalier, in that I took from him so much money—and would have taken more if I could—and I hope he will bear no ill feeling toward me on that account, for at heart I sincerely loved him."

I bowed in token of forgiveness.

"I accuse myself also, father, of having stolen the gold watch of Sayosa, the judge in the criminal court, the last time I appeared before him."

"How was that, my son?"

"The Lord Sayosa was imprudent enough to put his hand into his pocket for his watch, and to express his regret and surprise that he had left both it and his gold chain at home. I said to myself then, if I am not executed for this, that will be a good stroke of business for me. Ignorant that any thing like this accident would befall me, I gave a hint to a friend of mine who was at that moment set at liberty. I ought to tell you that my lord judge has a weakness for turkeys."

"I don't understand you, my son."

"All in good time, father. My confederate bought a splendid turkey, and hastened to present it to the wife of my Lord Sayosa, saying that her husband had ordered him to give it her; my lord judge entreated her at the same time, added my friend, to deliver to the bearer his gold watch and chain that he had forgotten at home. It was thus the watch—"

"That's serious, my son."

"I did worse than that, father; the day after, I stole from the judge's lady while her husband was at court."

"What, my son?"

"The turkey, father. You see one does not like to lose any thing," muttered Perico, in a doleful tone. The monk could scarcely restrain himself from laughing outright at the confession of the lÉpero.

"And why," said Fray Serapio, in a shaking tone of voice, "were you at the bar before my Lord Judge Sayosa?"

"A trifle, father. A citizen in the town (his name needn't be mentioned) had engaged me to take vengeance on a person who had offended him. The man was pointed out to me whom I was to strike. He was a young, handsome cavalier, easily recognizable by a long narrow scar above his right eyebrow. I placed myself in ambuscade at the door of a house which he was accustomed to enter every night before orisons. I saw him, in fact, enter the house pointed out to me. Night came on. I waited. Two hours passed. There was not a single person in the street, which was silent as the grave. The person I was waiting for had not yet appeared. I was curious to see what kept him so long. The apartment in which I thought he was was on the ground floor. I crept slowly up to it, and looked through the bars of a window that had been left open probably on account of the heat."

Perico, in continuing his confession, either from weakness or some other motive, seemed to do it unwillingly, as if he could not brook the ascendency which Fray Serapio had over him. The lÉpero unveiled his thoughts like one in a state of mesmeric sleep, who is obliged to act according to the will of the manipulator. I asked the monk by a look whether I should stay or retire. His glance urged me to stay.

"Beneath a picture of all the saints," continued Perico, "slept an old woman wrapped up to the eyes in her rebozo. The handsome cavalier, whom I recognized, was seated on a sofa. Kneeling before him, her head on his knees, was a young and beautiful woman, her eyes fixed upon his, beaming with the most ardent devotion. The young man was stripping the leaves off a full-blown rose that he had taken from the tortoise-shell comb in the hair of the fair dame, whose head was on his knees. I saw clearly now why the time had seemed to him so short. Perhaps the feeling of compassion which rose in my bosom will be placed to my credit aloft, for I felt quite sorry at being forced to bring this sweet romance to a rough conclusion."

"Did you kill him, then, you wretch?" cried the monk.

"I sat down in the shade on the pavement, with my face to the door. I pitied the poor fellow, was quite discouraged, and slept at my post. The creaking of a door awoke me from my slumbers; a man came out. I said to myself then that my word of honor had been given, and my feelings of compassion must be crushed. I arose. A second after, I was on the traces of the unknown. The sound of a piano came stealing from the window, which was now closed. 'Poor girl!' said I, 'your lover has seen his last hour, and you are playing!' I struck—the man fell!"

Perico stopped and sighed.

"Had grief dimmed my sight?" said he, after a short silence. "The rays of the moon fell full upon the face of the poor fellow. It was not my man. I had done my duty, however; I had been paid to kill a man. I had killed him. And my conscience quieted on this score, I set about cutting off a lock of hair from the head of the unknown, in order to convince my employer that I had fulfilled my mission. 'All men's hair is of the same color,' said I to myself. I was again deceived; the man I had killed was an Englishman, and had hair red as a ripe pimenta. The handsome cavalier still lived. Chagrined at my disappointment, I blasphemed the holy name of God, and that is what I accuse myself of, holy father."

Perico beat his breast, while the Franciscan showed him the blackness of the latter crime of which he was guilty, passing very slightly over the former, for the life of a man, an English heretic above all, is of very little importance in the eyes of the least enlightened class of the Mexican people, of which the monk and the lÉpero were two very distinct types. Fray Serapio finished his exhortation by administering hastily to Perico an absolution in Latin, worthy of MoliÈre's comedies. He then said, in good Spanish,

"All you have got to do now is to ask pardon of this cavalier for having fleeced him so often, which he will willingly grant, seeing that it is very improbable that you will lay him again under contribution, at least for a long time."

The lÉpero turned to me, and, in as languishing a tone as he could assume,

"I am a double-dyed rascal," said he, "and shall only consider myself completely absolved if you will pardon me for the unworthy tricks that I have played upon you. I am going to die, SeÑor Cavalier, and I have not the wherewithal to bury me. My wife must be told of my situation, and it will be a great comfort to her if she find something in my pocket to pay for my shroud. God will reward you for it, SeÑor Cavalier."

"In truth," said the monk, "you can hardly refuse the poor devil this favor, as they are the last piastres he will cost you."

"God grant it!" said I, not thinking about the cruelty of the wish, and I emptied my purse into Perico's outstretched hand. He shut his eyes, let his head fall upon his breast, and said no more.

"Requiescat in pace!" said Fray Serapio; "the sports must be far advanced by this time. I can be of no farther use here."

We went out. After all, said I to myself in leaving the circus, this recital has been the most curious revelation I have yet got from the Zaragate. Such a confession as this is ample amends for the drafts upon my purse which this singular personage has made. Besides, this would be the last lesson the lÉpero would ever give me; and, with this thought in my mind, I could not help pitying the poor wretch. I was wrong, however, as will be seen in the sequel, in thinking that I would have no more dealings with my master Perico.

CHAPTER II.

The Alameda.[8]—The Paseo of Bucareli.

There are few towns in Mexico which can not boast of having an Alameda; and, as generally happens in the capital city, that of Mexico is decidedly the finest. There is no promenade of this sort in Paris. Hyde Park in London most nearly resembles it. The Alameda of Mexico forms a long square, surrounded by a wall breast high, at the bottom of which runs a deep ditch, whose muddy waters and offensive exhalation mar the appearance of this almost earthly paradise. An iron gate at each of its corners affords admission to carriages, horsemen, and pedestrians. Poplars, ash-trees, and willows bend their branches over the principal drive, and afford a leafy shade to the occupants of the carriages and equestrians for whom this beautifully level road is appropriated. Alleys, converging into large common centres, ornamented with fountains and jets d'eau, interpose their clumps of myrtles, roses, and jasmines between the carriages and the pedestrians, whose eyes can follow, through the openings in those odoriferous bushes, the luxurious equipages and prancing steeds caracoling round the Alameda. The noise of the wheels, muffled by the sand on the drive, scarcely reaches the ear, mingled as it is with the murmur of the water, the sighing of the wind through the evergreen leafage, and the buzzing of bees and humming-birds. The gilded carriage of the country and the plain European chariot are continually passing each other, and the gaudy trappings of the Mexican horses contrast strongly with the unaffected plainness of the English saddle, which wears a shabby appearance in the midst of this Oriental luxury. The ladies of fashion have laid aside for the promenade the saya and mantilla, to wear dresses which are only six months behind the last Parisian mode. Stretched in dreamy languor on their silk cushions, they allow their feet, the pride and admiration of Europeans, to remain in shoes, alas! ill fitted for them. The sorry appearance of their feet is hidden when in the carriages, through the open window of which you can only see their diadems of black hair, decorated with natural flowers, their seductive smile, and their gestures, in which vivacity and listlessness are so pleasingly blended. The fan is kept in a perpetual flutter at the carriage window, and speaking its own mysterious language. Swarms of pedestrians present a spectacle not less piquant; and the sad-colored garments of the Europeans are seen less frequently here than the variegated costumes of America.

After taking a few turns, the carriages quit the Alameda, the horsemen accompany them, and the whole crowd saunters carelessly past a strongly-grated window, which hangs over the path you must traverse before reaching a promenade called the Paseo of Bucareli.[9] One can hardly tell what hideous scenes are daily exhibited there behind this rusty iron grating, not two paces from the most fashionable promenade in Mexico: this is the window of the Mexican Morgue, where the dead bodies are exposed. Justice only displays her anxiety at the moment when the dead bodies of men and women are thrown together in one promiscuous heap on its floor, some half naked, others still bleeding. Every day there is a new succession of victims. As for the Paseo, which is close to this melancholy exhibition, its only attractions are a double row of trees, a few stone seats for the use of pedestrians, and three fountains overloaded with detestable allegorical statues. At this spot you catch a glimpse of a part of the country seen from the towers of the Cathedral; the two snow-covered peaks of the volcanoes with their canopy of clouds; the sierra shaded with its beautiful violet tints: lower down, the whitened fronts of several haciendas; and through the arches of a gigantic aqueduct you descry fields of maize, church domes and convents, almost always half hidden at the promenade hour in the mist which generally ascends at nightfall.

On the evening of the day on which I had witnessed the bull-fight, I found myself in a crowd of idlers who ordinarily cover the space between the Paseo and the Alameda. It was twilight; the lamps were about to be lighted, and pedestrians and carriages were severally wending their way homeward. It was Sunday. Noisily repeated by the numerous bells of the churches and convents, the toll of the Angelus rose high above the murmur of the crowd, of which one portion respectfully paused, while the other made its way like a torrent that nothing could resist. The last gleams of departing day glimmered through the grate of the Morgue, and lighted up feebly the victims who were lying promiscuously on the slabbed pavement, stained here and there with large patches of blood. Women, uttering the most piercing cries of sorrow, returned to the rusty grated window, though again and again pushed back by the soldiers. Their cries attracted the passers-by; some pitied them; others contented themselves with peering curiously in their faces. Kneeling before the grated window, his head uncovered, and the bridle of his richly-caparisoned horse in his hand, stood a man praying devoutly. From his costume you could easily see that he belonged to that opulent class of inhabitants of the Tierra Afuera, who disdain both the fashions and ideas of Europeans. His picturesque costume harmonized well with his manly and noble features. Above the right eyebrow of the stranger extended a long narrow scar. It was doubtless the handsome young cavalier whom Perico had that very morning described to me. Was he thanking God for preserving him from danger, or for loving and being loved? The question remained doubtful; besides, the emotions which gave rise to these conjectures were suddenly interrupted. Startled by the noise of the carriages, a refractory horse struck violently against a ladder, on the top of which a sereno (watchman) was lighting a lamp suspended from the walls of the barrack of La Acordada. The sereno fell from a height of fifteen feet, and lay motionless on the pavement. It would be easy to describe the feelings of the unfortunate horseman when he saw the poor fellow lying unconscious, and perhaps dangerously injured; for the cavalier, I must own, was myself; but I prefer telling what followed.

Every one is well aware of the benevolent feelings of the populace of great towns toward those who have the misfortune to be guilty of such sad accidents. It is impossible, however, to have an exact idea of the spirit of such a populace, in Mexico especially, toward a foreigner, which is there synonymous with a national enemy. Hemmed in, in spite of his mettle, amid a dense crowd of lÉperos, who were deliberating only what sort of punishment to inflict on the unhappy author of such a calamity, my horse was of no use to me. I could not help envying for an instant the fate of the sereno, insensible at least to the rude hustling of the crowd, who mercilessly trod him under foot. Fortunately, chance sent me two auxiliaries, on one of whom, at least, I was far from reckoning. The first was an alcalde, who, escorted by four soldiers, made his way through the crowd, and told me that in his eyes I was guilty of having caused the death of a Mexican citizen. I bowed, and said not a word. In compliance with the magistrate's orders, the still inanimate body of the sereno was placed on a tapestle (a kind of litter), always kept at the barracks for similar accidents; then politely inviting me to dismount, the alcalde ordered me to follow the litter on foot to the palace, which was not more than two paces from the prison. It may be supposed that I took good care not to comply at once with this invitation, and attempted to demonstrate to the alcalde that the exceptional case in which I stood nowise warranted such a procession. Unhappily, the alcalde was, like all his class, gifted with strong obstinacy, and replied to all my arguments only by insisting on the respect due to custom. I then thought of seeking among the spectators some one who might be security for me, and, very naturally, my eyes sought the place where I had seen the cavalier, who had, at first sight, inspired me with such interest; but he had disappeared. Was I then to be compelled to submit to the odious formality required by the alcalde? Chance at this moment sent me the second auxiliary of which I have spoken. This new personage, who interposed between me and the alcalde, was very jauntily dressed in a cloak of olive-colored Queretaro cloth, the skirt of which, thrown back, almost entirely hid his face. Through the numerous rents in his cloak appeared a jacket as dilapidated as his upper garment. Having, with great exertion, got through the crowd as far as the alcalde, this personage passed his hands through one of the holes in his cloak, and was thus able to touch the remains of a hat which covered his head without disarranging the folds of his cape. He courteously uncovered, while a few cigarettes, a lottery ticket, and an image of the miraculous Virgin of Guadaloupe remained sticking in his long black hair. I was not a little surprised in recognizing in this respectable townsman my friend Perico, whom I believed dead, and on the eve of being buried.

"SeÑor Alcalde," said Perico, "this cavalier is right. He committed the murder involuntarily, and he should not be confounded with ordinary malefactors; besides, I am here to become security for him, for I have the honor of his intimate acquaintance."

"And who will be security for you?" asked the alcalde.

"My antecedents," modestly replied the Zaragate, "and this cavalier," added he, pointing to me.

"But if you become security for him?"

"Well, I become security for this cavalier—he is security for me; you have, therefore, two securities for one, and your lordship could not be better suited."

I confess that, placed between the justice of the alcalde and the offensive protection of Perico, I hesitated an instant. On his side, the alcalde seemed scarcely convinced by the syllogism which Perico had enunciated with such barefaced assurance. I thought it best, then, to finish the debate by whispering to the alcalde my address.

"Well," he replied, on retiring, "I accept the security of your friend in the olive cloak, and will go immediately to your house, where I hope to find you."

The alcalde and his soldiers walked away; the mob remained as compact and threatening as before, but a shrill whistle and two or three gambols played by Perico soon caused him to be acknowledged by the people of his caste, who eagerly made way for him. The lÉpero then took my horse by the bridle, and I quitted this scowling rabble very uneasy about the termination of my adventure, and much depressed at the unfortunate event of which I had been the innocent cause.

"How comes it that I find you in such good health?" said I to my guide, when I had recovered a little my presence of mind. "I confess I thought your affairs in this world were forever wound up."

"God wrought a miracle specially for his servant," returned Perico, and he devoutly raised his eyes to heaven; "but it appears, seÑor, that my resurrection displeases you. You can conceive that, in spite of my strong desire to be agreeable to you—"

"Not at all, Perico; by no means; I am delighted to see you alive; but how was this miracle brought about?"

"I don't know," gravely replied the lÉpero; "only I was resuscitated so quickly as not only to resume my place among the spectators of the fight, but even to attempt another ascension. I had just been confessed and received absolution, and it was a capital opportunity for risking my life without endangering my soul. I wished to profit by it, and it brought me good fortune; for this time, although the bull gave me another pitch in the air with his horns, I fell on my feet, to the great delight of the public, who showered reals and half reals upon me. Then finding myself, thanks to you especially, with a tolerably well-lined purse, I thought it my duty to satisfy my love for dress; I went to a baratillo, and purchased this garb, which gives me quite a respectable appearance. You saw with what consideration the alcalde treated me. There is nothing like being well dressed, seÑor."

I saw clearly that the fellow had done me once more, and that his pretended agony, like his confession, had been only simulated for the purpose of getting more money out of me. I must confess, however, that my anger was disarmed at this moment by the comic dignity with which the lÉpero strutted about in his torn cloak all the time he was holding forth in this strange way. I determined to rid myself of company that was becoming troublesome to me, and said to Perico, with a smile,

"If I reckon accurately, your children's illness, your wife's confinement, and your own shroud have cost me little less than a hundred piastres; to release you of the whole debt will, I would fain hope, be a sufficient reward for the service you have rendered me. I will therefore return home immediately; and I again thank you for your kindness."

"Home, seÑor! What are you thinking about?" cried Perico; "why, by this time your house will be in the hands of the soldiers; they are seeking you among all your friends. You do not know the alcalde you have to do with."

"Do you know him, then?"

"I know all the alcaldes, seÑor; and what proves how little I deserve the surname bestowed upon me is, that all the alcaldes do not know me; but of all his fellows, the one in pursuit of you is the most cunning, the most rapacious, and the most diabolical."

Although I felt that this portrait was exaggerated, I was for a moment shaken in my resolution. Perico then represented to me, in very moving terms, the happiness his wife and children would receive by seeing their benefactor indebted to them for a night's lodging. Having a choice between two protectors equally disinterested, I allowed myself to be convinced by the one whose rapacity seemed most easily satisfied; I decided upon once more following the lÉpero.

Meanwhile, night came on; we traversed suspicious lanes, deserted places, streets unknown to me, and shrouded in darkness. The serenos (policemen) became more and more scarce. I felt myself hurried away into the heart of those dreadful suburbs where justice dares not penetrate; I was unarmed, and at the mercy of a man whose frightful confession I had just heard. Hitherto the Zaragate, I must confess, in spite of his crimes so unblushingly avowed, did not seem to me to stand out in glaring relief among a people demoralized by ignorance, want, and civil wars; but at that hour, amid a labyrinth of dark lanes, and in the silence of the night, my imagination gave fantastic and colossal dimensions to his picaresque figure. My position was a difficult one. To leave such a guide suddenly in this cut-throat quarter was dangerous, to follow him not less so.

"Where the devil do you live?" said I. The lÉpero scratched his head in answer. I asked him again.

"To say the truth," replied he at last, "having no fixed abode, I live a little every where."

"And your wife and children, and the night's shelter you offered me?"

"I forgot," replied the Zaragate, imperturbably; "I sent away my wife and children yesterday to—to Queretaro; but as for a lodging—"

"Is that at Queretaro also?" I asked Perico, discovering, when too late, that the wife and children of this honorable personage were as imaginary as his abode.

"As for shelter," added Perico, with the same impassible air, "you shall share that which I can procure for you, and which I find when my means won't admit of paying for a night's lodging, for heaven does not send us every day bull-fights and such like windfalls. Stop," said he, pointing with his finger to a glimmering light at a distance, which was reflected on the granite pavement; "that is perhaps what we are seeking for."

We advanced to the light, and soon perceived that it came from the lantern of a sereno. Wrapped in a yellow cloak almost as ragged as Perico's, the guardian of the night, squatted on the pavement, seemed to follow with his melancholy gaze the large clouds which flitted across the sky. At our approach he still kept his indolent position.

"Halloo! friend," said the Zaragate, "do you know of any velorio (wake) in this neighborhood?"

"Of course, a few cuadras from here, near the bridge of Eguizamo, you will find one; and if I did not fear some round of the SeÑor Regidor's, or found some good fellow to don my cloak and take care of my lantern, I would go with you to the entertainment myself."

"Much obliged," said Perico, politely; "we will profit by the information."

The sereno cast a look of astonishment at my dress, which was singularly out of keeping with Perico's.

"Gentlemen like that cavalier are little in the habit of frequenting such meetings," said the man of the police.

"This is a special case; this seÑor has contracted a debt which obliges him to spend the night elsewhere."

"That makes all the difference in the world," said the sereno. "There are some debts that one likes to be as long in paying as possible." And, hearing a church clock strike at a distance, the night-watch, troubling himself no more about us, cried out in a doleful tone, "Nine o'clock and stormy weather." He then resumed his former attitude, while the distant voices of the serenos answered him in succession through the silence of the night.

I resumed my melancholy march behind Perico, followed by my horse, which I led by the bridle, as, by the police regulations of Mexico, no one is allowed to ride through the streets after Angelus has rung, and I was unwilling to try another fall with the alcaldes. Shall I confess it? My curiosity was roused by the words of my guide, and I decided at this moment not to separate from him. I wanted to know what a velorio was; and this love of novelty, which finds so many opportunities of satisfying itself in Mexico, once more made me forget my troubles.

We had not walked ten minutes, till, as the sereno had told us, we came to a bridge thrown over a narrow canal. Some dilapidated houses bathed their greenish bases in the thick muddy water. A lamp which burned dimly before a picture of the souls in Purgatory threw its livid reflex on the stagnant water. On the terraces the watch-dogs bayed at the moon, which was sometimes hidden, sometimes fringed only by a movable curtain of clouds, for it was the rainy season. Except those doleful sounds, all was silent there as in the other parts of the town that we had traversed. The windows in the first story, brightly lighted up opposite the picture of the souls in Purgatory, were the only things remarkable in this double row of melancholy-looking huts. Perico knocked at the door of the house with the illuminated windows. They were rather long in coming; at last the door half opened, one of the leaves being fastened as usual by an iron chain.

"Who is there?" said a man's voice.

"Friends who come to pray for the dead and rejoice with the living," said Perico, without hesitation.

We entered. Lighted by the porter's lantern, we passed through a porch and entered an inner court. The guide pointed out to Perico an iron ring let into the wall. I tied my horse up by the bridle; we ascended some twenty steps, and I entered, preceded by Perico, a room tolerably well lighted up. I was at last going to learn what a velorio was.

[8] Alameda, a general name for a public walk; literally, a place planted with poplars, alamos.