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MEXICO is the mother of our West. She gave us our earliest 
heroes. The historic shrines of the Mexican West Coast 
are also our historic shrines. 

It is often said that the West began in the rough little 
frontier towns in the valleys of the Mississippi Council 
Bluffs and Kansas City from which the first covered 
wagons started on the long trek across the country of the 
buffalo and the Indians. 

The story of the West really began in a sleepy little sun- 
drenched town on the West Coast of Mexico two hundred 
years before the Indians looked down from their signal 
peaks to see the first covered wagons jolting along in the 
buffalo trails. The West began with a gay young Spanish 
cavalier who was searching for seven fabled cities where 
the houses were built with walls of gold. Young Coronado 
didn't find the Seven Golden Cities of Cibola but he 
discovered the West. 

The eastern part of the United States was pioneered by 
the Pilgrim Fathers who were seeking to escape from per- 
secution in Europe. They were followed by sober-minded 
folk, seeking investments, homes, and opportunities. 
The West was settled by adventurers who were looking 
for the end of the rainbow. They were always led on by 


the will-o'-the-wisp of high adventure. There is nothing 
for which people will dare so much or suffer so horribly as 
the pursuit of a romantic dream. 

One dismal rain-soaked day in March, 1930, 1 set out 
from California with a party of engineers in a cavalcade of 
automobiles. They were to map a highway down the West 
Coast of Mexico. I was on the way to discover the places 
where our West began; to find the forgotten heroes of this 
dramatic chapter of our history. Wild storms were sweep- 
ing over the jagged peaks of the Sierra Madres when we 
arrived at Nogales. We had to put our five little cars 
equipped for camping in a garage and wait for a week 
for the rain to wear itself out. 

Meanwhile I found Nogales interesting. For untold 
centuries it has been the gateway to our great Southwest. 
It has been soaked with blood and decorated with lurid 
adventure. Nestling in a pass of the mysterious desert 
mountains, it has seen strange prehistoric people naked 
ape-like savages shiiffling through on their way to the 
warm lush lands of the South. It has seen the coming of 
Spanish knights and their men-at-arms with their big bell- 
muzzled guns and their seven-ply deerskin armor; pro- 
spectors searching for gold pioneers in covered wagons. 
Its rock-walled cations have echoed to the yells of cruel 
Apaches who swooped down from the hills killing, 
burning, destroying. 

There can be little doubt that Nogales lies along the 
route of the 'first people'... the mother race. They must 
have come this way because there was no other way. So I 
imagine that the first man who walked through this moun- 
tain gateway was Ug. I call him Ug because I am sure that 
he had a name that sounded like a grunt. 


He was a dirty savage who lived in the desolate wastes 
of Siberia. He must have been a daring soul and one 
filled with curiosity. He squatted on his heels on a Siberian 
rock and wondered what was in that dim blue line of 
mountains he could see as he looked across the cold Arctic 
waters to the storm-swept shores of Alaska. He had to 
find out or 'bust!' His curiosity was just eating him up! 

It is possible that there was at that time a causeway of 
rock that he crossed. I think he came in a boat. He made 
a boat out of the trunk of a tree or maybe of the skins of 
wild animals and fought his way across the wild waters 
to the shores of North America. The other wild people sat 
around and wondered what had become of Ug until they 
couldn't stand it any longer. They had to go and find out. 
I doubt if there was any great general trek. No general 
migration. At least at first. I think one or two daring souls 
followed Ug; then a few families slipped across on a calm 
day, and so on. 

America was started. 

They landed in Alaska and found it very cold; so they 
turned south and wandered on and on for thousands of 
years. Ug died, but his children went on. So it may be 
that Ug's great-great-great-great-great-great-grandson's 
great-great-great-great-great-great-grandson was the first 
to see Nogales. At that, I fear I have left out a large collec- 
tion of great-great-grandsons. It was a period of thou- 
sands of years. Nobody knows how many thousands. 
Anyhow, Ug's remote descendants wandered down 
through what is now Oregon and California on until 
they came to Mexico. By the time they had come into the 
sunlit valleys of Mexico and the thick jungles of Central 
America, they had become wise and cultured and did 


not feed so many fleas. They built great empires and 
beautiful temples. 

I have found their footsteps. In Coachella Valley in 
California is a mute record of one of their age-old tragedies. 
Making their way south, they stopped for breathing spells 
that probably lasted for centuries. One of these breathing 
spells was in Coachella Valley -now one of the great 
winter resorts of the world, where the celebrities come to 
boil out at Palm Springs. 

You can see their story written on a great rock headland 
on the border between Riverside and Imperial Counties. 
They were probably living in a fertile valley and were per- 
haps learning to raise crops, when the sea suddenly began 
rushing in upon them... a mighty flood like the flood of 
Noah in the Bible. They saw destruction coming and 
carved into the rock thousands of frantic prayers, begging 
their heathen gods to save them. 

But the heathen gods did not save them. The waters 
came in and probably destroyed them. You can see where 
the wild surf lashed the rock sixty or seventy feet above 
the place where they carved their prayers. The sea stayed 
there for a long time. Scientists estimate that the waters 
buried those pitiful prayers for twenty-five thousand 
years. Then fie sea went out again, leaving their rock 
carvings again on the floor of the desert. It is the earliest 
recorded tragedy of the Wild West. 

At the other end of the valley - not far from the winter 
colony where the movie stars and other famous people 
have their desert homes is another mark of another 
tragedy. The same lashing sea which destroyed one pre- 
historic people when it rushed in, destroyed another pre- 
historic people when it went away. On the side of a desert 


hill near the present town of Indio is a series of fish-traps 
circles of rock with a little gateway to let in the unwary 
fish. There are seven series of these fish-traps sagging 
down the hill, showing how the fishers had to build new 
traps as the waters began to recede. The last trap is almost 
on the floor of the desert. There are of course various 
theories of various scientists as to these rock markings, 
some flatly contradicting this explanation. 

As Ug shuffled along through Nogales, some of his peo- 
ple must have dropped out of the procession and stayed 
behind to become the Apaches. Most of the early tragedies 
of the West both before and after the covered wagons 
came have been Apache tragedies. 

This was always their country. For various reasons, too 
long to explain here, I am convinced that the Apaches and 
their cousins the Navajos were the last people to come 
across from Siberia. To this day the mark of the Mongol is 
plainly written upon them in their speech, their cus- 
toms, and their appearance. 

It is always with a feeling of incensed resentment that I 
hear French criminals from the slums of Paris spoken of as 
'Apaches/ Our Apaches of the Southwest were cruel and 
merciless. They defended their country from white in- 
vaders with the ferocity of wild wolves. But they were 
and are a remarkable people. White men who have 
lived among them admire them for their sense of honor, for 
their courage, and for their brains. The agent who now 
rules them in the name of our Uncle Sam says that not 
even the Sioux or the Cheyenne were as high a type of 
men. Major Frederick Burnham, who is the most famous 
scout of modern times, tells me that the Apache was the 
greatest fighting man the finest natural soldier who 


ever lived in any land or at any period of history. He 
could go days on end without food or water. He could run 
alongside a horse until the horse dropped dead from 
exhaustion. Encumbered with women and children, an 
Apache tribe has been known to travel seventy-five miles 
in a single night. In a country where a white man starved 
for food and sank down, crazed with thirst, his tongue 
hanging, black and swollen from his mouth, the Apache 
lived high. He knew the secrets of the desert. The barrel 
cactus gave him water. He found food in many desert 
plants. Also his liquor. 

The Apache was a past-master of military strategy. 
Our West-Pointers were ignorant children in his hands. 
During our fiercest war against the Apaches we had five 
thousand of our finest regular troops in the field for years. 
The Apaches under Geronimo numbered never more than 
thirty-eight many of whom were young boys. But our 
soldiers never could cope with them until they hired a 
rival band of Apaches to fight them at so much per day's 
work. Even then old Geronimo was never beaten. He 
finally quit because he got tired of fighting. Fine irony 
that the other Apaches always sniffed with scorn at Ger- 
onimo because he was not really a war chief only a 
medicine-man sort of soapbox orator. 

My Apache friends tell me that the white man was al- 
ways easy to beat because he did not understand the laws 
of mind over matter. The explanation they gave me was 
so difficult to understand that I had to hang on by the 
handles not to sink clear under. Suffice it to say that the 
throb-throb of the Apache war drum is there to establish 
a rhythm which produces certain psychic conditions which 
are not taught at West Point. 


I have often asked my Apache friends how it was that 
their old warriors could have been so tiger cruel and yet so 
courageous. They gave me a typical Apache answer. 'We 
used to tie our captives to the stake and start to burn 
them. When the fire began to leap up around them, we 
watched their faces. If they did not show fear, we turned 
them loose and let them go. If their faces showed fear, we 
knew they were just trash, and trash ought to be burned.* 

At the same time, there are many elements in the process 
of being held head down over a fire that singes your hair 
off and parches your face that do not contribute to com- 
plete sang-froid or mental equanimity. There were not 
many who did not show symptoms of nervousness. 

You can see that the Spanish knights and explorers who 
came wandering up from the West Coast of Mexico, look- 
ing for gold cities, had their hands pretty full in the matter 
of fighting. 

The charm of exploring this old gateway to the West is 
that it remains in many essentials as it was in the past. 
Nogales is, in reality, twins. A chicken-wire fence sepa- 
rates a modern up-to-date American border town from 
changeless, mysterious Mexico. On the Mexican side, 
Nogales is colorful and picturesque old men in cotton 
pants walking along sidewalks carrying little tables on 
their heads. The tables are covered with candy dulces 
made of cactus and protected by netting to keep off 
the flies. It is a sort of gluggy paste and tastes something 
like Turkish candy. Mexican women selling tortillas 
and enchiladas cooked on tin stoves in the gutters, light 
streaming into the pungent chile-scented darkness from 
saloon doors; soldiers, lovely slim-legged girls in shabby 
mourning (in Mexico one wears mourning for distant rela- 


lives) ; American cabarets; tourists buying post-cards; the 
soft strum of guitars; meandering burros; the hoot and 
rush of motor cars. The streets used to be lined with beg- 
gars. Of late years, however, the town has been cleaned 
up by progressive Mexican officials. Good for progress, 
but bad for romance. I miss the old women who held out 
their withered brown hands for alms and murmured sadly, 
*God will reward you, senor.' Once in a while in Mexican 
Nogales you see a man of the mountains, strayed in from , 
fastnesses that few men dare to explore. We saw one 
strange-looking fellow. He was in rags and tatters, with 
long unkempt hair and a beard straggling over his face. 
He wore an old-fashioned cloak that might have been 
worn in the Middle Ages by Don Quixote. 

A proof of the strength of the British Empire is that 
Providence allows the English to pronounce Don Quixote 
that musical Don Kee-hoe-tay as though it were 
Quicks-ot and still does not sink the British Islands 
into the sea as punishment. Spanish is the loveliest and 
most murdered of all languages. The sweetest sound I 
know in any language is the name Juan; not Wah-n, but 
Juan breathed hike a little caress. The rhyme of Lord 
Byron's "Don Juan' proves that he called the name 
'Jew-Ann.' Any poet who can write a deathless romance 
about anyone named Jew-Ann must have a high-powered 
imagination or a defective ear-pan or both. Probably 

One of the historic places in Nogales is an old cave. 
It is bored in under a hill that has been pelted and torn 
by bullets and shell-fire. Once the cave was a prison and 
it must have been a very cold one. Now it is a cafe* where 
you eat venison from the hills and marvelous fish foods 


from the Gulf of California. As you eat, street musicians 
come wandering in. One is a wan young man with a 
bullet scar on his cheek. He carries a time-stained violin. 
The 'cello-player is a sad-eyed old man in shabby clothes. 
A fat boy plays a huge guitar upon whose stained wood is 
painted a rose. The fat boy keeps nodding off to sleep, 
but by some miracle never misses a note. 

The barkeeper feels a host's responsibility for our enter- 
tainment. Wiping a glass, he gestures, with both the glass 
and the towel in his eagerness to tell the musicians to 
play the lovely Estrellita for us. He joins in when they 
play Cielito Lindo, and comes around from the bar to 
urge them to play Amapola del Camino for los Americanos. 
He says it is a so-lovely little song about a little flower 
that grows by the roadside. 

We were sorry to leave Nogales as our little caravan 
passed through the gate in the chicken-wire fence. We 
were always sorry to leave every town that we saw. 
Mexico is a land of sweetness and charm as well as 
tragedy and tears. It grips your heart. 

The astonishing thing about Mexico is the cinema-like 
suddenness of the changes. You roll along a town street 
in Nogales the cabaret roadhouse, the placid-looking 
brewery, a battalion of troops drilling by the roadside. 
As though someone had shifted the scenery, you are in the 
heart of a foreign country. Half-ruined long adobes that 
look like abandoned barracks, quaint little ranches, a 
burro standing in philosophical meditation, perhaps a cow 
or a couple of goats, huts made half of stone and half of 
adobe, corrals built sometimes of stone, sometimes of the 
wands of ocotillo cactus growing in a close network. We 
pass one forlorn little ranch that crowds in toward the 


road. At one end of the corral is a tiny tower of stone and 
adobe to keep the grain safe from the wood rats. The 
Mexican Indians had silos centuries before our farmers 
ever heard of them. 

As we roll along the road, the ceaseless life of Mexico 
flows by. Two or three fierce-looking cowboys ride by, 
driving a bunch of half-wild long-horned cattle in from the 
ranges back in the hills. The cowboys are draped with cart- 
ridge belts and guns, but lift their big sombreros courte- 
ously as they pass. 

The Mexican cowboy is a type remote from ours. He 
wears an enormous sombrero and sometimes tight leather 
trousers. His spurs are as big as saucers. It is a fact not 
generally known that the first cowboys in America were 
Spanish soldiers who had served their time in the army 
and had been discharged. They began to herd cattle at 
San Diego, California. They invented the stock saddle 
and the lasso and most of the cowboy paraphernalia 
two hundred years before an American cowboy saw the 
prairies. They evolved the cowboy saddle from the old 
Moorish war-saddles they had seen in Spain. 

The cow-saddle of the Mexican vaquero is quite different 
from the stock saddles of our cowboys. It lies low and 
flat. The pommel is as big as a dish and tilts backward 
toward the rider. In some parts of Mexico the cowboys 
wear the 'chaps' of our Southern cowboys hair pants. 
Farther south, they have a wide leather blanket that falls 
on either side of the horse's shoulders from the saddle 
pommel. In rough country, the rider spreads the ends of 
this blanket back over his legs and knees to protect them 
from the underbrush. It is just as effective as 'chaps 1 and 
not so hot. 


The Mexican cow-ponies are small and tough, with 
tiny hard hoofs. They are descendants of the Arab war- 
horses brought over from Spain by the Spanish knights 
with Cortes. They lack the strength and power of our 
larger cattle-horses. As a consequence, the Mexican cow- 
boy seldom rides as well as the American, but he is a better 
roper. There used to be a saying on the old California 
cattle ranges that a Mexican vaquero could throw a lasso 
better with his feet than a Gringo with his hands. There 
is and was a reason. The Mexican cattle run in 
the thick chaparral and they go like scared deer. There is 
neither time nor room to use the wide loops of our cow- 
hands. The Mexican throws a small loop and it goes like 
a bullet. 

The endless burro trains burros loaded with wood, 
burros almost hidden under huge bundles of hay, one lone 
sad-looking woman driving two burros loaded with pot- 
tery, burros carrying peons whose long legs almost touch 
the ground on either side. We passed one tiny burro sur- 
mounted by a huge cow-saddle which in turn was topped 
by a very fat man with a big sombrero and a machete. 
He had the portentous look of a knight of the Round 
Table out on a search for adventure and achievement. 

We never grew tired of looking at the burros. The burro 
is the pack-horse, the express wagon, and the philosophical 
friend of Mexico. It would be impossible for Mexico to 
live without him. His strength is incredible. We saw 
burros ambling along in uncomplaining placidity with such 
enormous loads that all we could see were four little feet. 
If one of our heavy draft horses could carry a load as big 
in proportion to his weight, he could walk off with a house. 

One day we were waiting at a railroad siding when a 


Mexican came along with a tiny fawn-colored burrito. 
We did not know that the peon spoke English. He was 
very fat. 'Do you suppose,' I said to one of the engineers, 
'that this hippopotamus is going to ride on that mouse?' 
The peon gave no sign that he understood. But when he 
had cinched up the saddle, he said, with dignified gravity 
'Come here, mouse. The hippopotamus is going to rid A 

We were in barefoot land now. We were to see very few 
shoes from this on. The Mexican peon wears loose white 
cotton pants that he rolls up over his knees on occasion! 
a long loose cotton shirt like a Russian blouse, and a huge 
straw sombrero. For shoes he has sandals called guarachas,, 

The Mexicans are a very appealing people. Generous, 
kind. Their courtesy is unfailing. When we met them 
along the road, they would take off their sombreros and 
say, 'Buenos dias, sefior.' Or sometimes they would say 
* Adios ' which means both ' How-do-you-do ' and * Good; 
bye* to the Mexican. Once in a while we would meet one 
extra polite who said, 'Vaya con Dios, sefior* (Go with 
God, sir.) 

For a long time it puzzled us why they should say 
'good-nights' and 'good-days' instead of 'good-night* 
and 'good-day,' until we realized that 'Buenas noches* is 
an abbreviation of a phrase meaning 'God give you good* 
nights'... not to be stingy with the good measure. 


WE had an adventure with quicksand that first day out. 
Having wriggled our way through a narrow, twisty canon 
heavily timbered with cottonwood and sycamore, we came 
down a hill and into a broad valley. The tiny Magdalena 
River swollen by rains was chattering and scolding 
as it hurried over the rocks. We should have known that 
trouble waited ahead when we saw two patient peons with 
their teams on the far side of the river. But our foremost 
car went grunting and snorting into the middle of a bed 
of quicksand. There it stuck, with the river purling over 
the rujming-boards. 

i One of the peons drove his team into the river and 
hitched on to the front of the car. The team consisted 
of two forlorn scrubby little broncos. They struggled 
vainly. But each of the broncos had his own ideas and 
they couldn't get themselves going at the same time or 
in the same direction. Then the other peon hitched on 
his team. He had a sad-looking bronco and a little white 
mule. That mule had a way of smiling to himself over a 
little joke of his own. I am afraid he did not really love his 
.art. His heart was not in the business of dragging that 
rear out of the quicksand. The peons shouted diabolic 
scries; two or three little Mexican boys waded into the 
river and tried to push on the wheels, but the car stuck. 
In the end, the engineers had to rig up a block and tackle 
which they made fast to a tree-stump. With that and the 


help of two or three other cars, the automobile finally 
came out of the quicksand with gluggy, sucking noises. 
The little white mule kept smiling to himself. 

As always in Mexico we found contrasts the oldest 
cheek by jowl with the newest the cruelest with the 
most saintly. Thus we found the historic footprints of 
Mexico's noblest and Mexico's worst adventurer Father 
Eusebio Kino and Pancho Villa. 

The bleak, mysterious mountains of Sonora and the 
deserts have produced some of the most extraordinary 
men of the New World. In the days of the Spanish Con- 
quest, Sonora was the far-distant frontier like our 
Montana or the Dakotas of the frontier days. The strong 
men ruled. So from Sonora came Father Kino, Father 
Garces, Juan Bautista de Aaza, and in latter days Calles, 
Pancho Villa, Colonel Emilio Kosterlitzsky. Divers types 
of divers standards of morals, but men of strength and 
high adventure. 

Kosterlitzsky, born in a Russian Cossack camp, Mexican 
by adoption, had organized a company of sentenced con- 
victs into the famous rurales who policed northern Mexico 
with a rod of iron. In the days of his power he once had a 
horseback duel with Pancho Villa which did not end 
until they had fired their revolvers empty and threw the 
empty guns at each other. Brave old Kosterlitzsky, who 
once put down a mutiny of a battalion of troops by shout- 
ing orders at an imaginary regiment as he rode up to the 
riotous garrison alone. 

Pancho had whirled through this part of Mexico like a 
Hun destroyer of the Middle Ages. We passed old adobe 
barracks wrecked by his gun-fire; ranch after ranch that 
he had looted. Like Captain Kidd he left innumerable 


legends of buried treasure. Every few months someone 
gets up an expedition in Hollywood to find the treasure- 
troves of the murderous Villa. Pancho was a very peculiar 
character ignorant, wise, shrewd, cruel, and sometimes 
strangely just. A leader absolutely uneducated in the art 
of soldiering, yet a great soldier. One minute he was 
found helping the poor and needy; the next executing 
someone who had offended him by a chance remark. 
We passed through one little town that had suffered cruelly 
at his hands. He had demanded money of the business 
men. One insisted that he had no money. Pancho 
promptly shot him. 'But,' protested one of his officers, 
'he really had no money. I know the man well. He 
hasn't two pesos to jingle against each other.' 'Sure,' 
answered Pancho shrewdly. 'That's why I shot him. I 
wanted to show the others that I wasn't fooling. Why 
should I shoot one that really had money hidden who 
could be made to tell?' 

During his most disastrous campaign, Villa's army 
passed across the great Cananea cattle-ranch below Naco. 
Instead of resisting, the manager of the ranch rode through 
the rebel lines and asked Villa frankly how many steers 
he needed for his army knowing that they would be 
taken anyhow. Pancho designated the number and they 
were delivered all neatly butchered by the stock hands 
of the ranch. Pancho pleased promised that no more 
stock should be taken. 

In a savage little battle that went into history as 
'shots were exchanged across the line,' Pancho was badly 
shot up by United States troops at Nogales. Afterward 
the Federal troops of the Mexican army gave him a 
terrible licking. Starving, weak, faint, and exhausted, his 


defeated army went back the way it came. When they 
got back to the Cananea ranch, his troops were dropping 
in their tracks from hunger. Yet true to his word 
he would not allow his starving men to take a single steer. 
His word was good. 

Near the marks of the ruin wrought by this marauder, 
we found the lovely old church from which Father Kino 
started many of his famous explorations. Father Kino 
was one of the most heroic figures of the drama of our 
early West, yet his name has been forgotten. Few east 
of tie Rio Grande have ever heard of him. He discov- 
ered the West. 

Eusebio Kino was born in Austria. He was a scientist 
and a mathematician. When about forty years old, he 
became very ill. Everyone thought he would die. He 
made a pledge to God that if his life were spared, he 
would spend the remainder of his days doing missionary 
work among the Indians of Mexico. After he was well 
again, his friends wanted him to forget it and to accept 
a high position as a professor of mathematics in a great 
university in Europe. But he kept his word. 

Father Kino came to Mexico about the year 1680. If 
he had lived in our day, we should have called him a 
'go-getter.' A man of furious, indomitable energy, stern, 
severe a scientific, cultured, determined man in a day 
of wild adventurers. He built some fifty missions in 
northern Mexico and Arizona; made fifteen journeys of 
exploration. More than a century before Fr&nont the 
Pathfinder crossed the plains, Father Kino had ex- 
plored the Southwest. And exploring was no joke in those 
days. The country was infested by merciless wild Apaches 
who swept down from the hills like ferocious wolves, 


torturing, destroying. The desert was scarcely less dan- 
gerous than the Indians. Long waterless stretches of 
aching heat. Sometimes with an escort, sometimes alone, 
Father Kino mapped and explored the desert. As an 
explorer one of his most remarkable feats was the discovery 
largely a matter of scientific deduction that Cali- 
fornia was fastened to the main land. Most of the early 
sea voyages were made on the theory that California was 
an island; the early voyages were for the purpose of finding 
the Northwest Passage around the end of it. Father 
Kino ended that long-drawn-out dream. 

Many legends have come down of him. It is related that 
one of his exploring trips through Arizona was interrupted 
by a runner who told him that the Spanish officers were 
about to execute one of his faithful Indian converts. 
Father Kino turned back, rode a hundred and fifty miles 
as fast as his saddle mule could travel, and arrived in 
time to place himself in front of the firing squad and defy 
them to shoot. 

One of his loveliest missions is in the old town of 
San Ignacio to which we came presently. It was the first 
of the rural towns we saw. Nogales is a railroad center 
and port of entry. San Ignacio was a little sleepy coun- 
try town with the sun beating down on adobe walls. 
Nobody seemed to be doing anything. A few burros 
wandered around the streets, peons squatting in the door- 
ways. Here and there in the shade of a ramada, a woman 
was patting tortillas. And standing over the town this 
splendid old church. Many historians contend that 
Father Kino is buried under its altars. In the shadows of 
its walls are three'or four old brick tombs in which priests 
lie buried; but the weight of facts seem to indicate that 


Father Kino lies under the altars of Magdalena another 
mission town. 

No one knows the age of the old church at San Ignacio. 
It was probably built about the year 1690. You can see 
the influence of the Moorish conquerors of Spain in the 
domes and the winding caracol stairways. We could not 
understand how the workmen ever got those heavy blocks 
of stone in place without modern hoisting machinery. 

One of the bells in the old belfry is broken a big 
chunk bitten out of the side. It may have been broken by 
some early sexton who got excited over the marriage of 
the beautiful village belle and put too much steam into 
the ringing. I am afraid, however, it was smashed by a 
bullet in some forgotten revolution. Every church in 
Mexico has experienced its tragedies. 

Inside the church a class of little Mexican children were 
saying their lessons to a very pretty and very dignified 
young senorita who had a lovely name Maria Teresa 
Gallegos (pronounced Gah-yay-gos). She showed us the 
old wooden images that were made long, long ago by the 
Indians. One was a figure of Jesus Christ. The Indian 
women had put a dress with a frilled skirt that stood 
out like a ballet-dancer's upon His naked body. The 
figure of the saint that we call John the Baptist, but whom 
the Mexicans call San Juan Bautista, wore a baby's 
dress. No doubt this lovely little garment of fine drawn- 
work linen had been made by some little Indian mother 
whose baby had been saved from death by her prayers. 

One of the relics at San Ignacio was a very old Bible 
whose leaves were yellow with age. Inside the cover were 
these words written in a beautiful penmanship with old- 
fashioned flourishes: 'Ay por Dios rezen un padre por 


eterna descanzo de mi alma.' It means, 'For the love of 
God, pray an Our Father [the name of a prayer] for the 
eternal peace of my soul.' I imagine that it must have 
been written there by someone whose troubles seemed to 
him more than he could bear a soul worn with sorrow. 

Maria Teresa smiled when I told her, and related a 
little story that had been told to her by her nurse. A 
man afflicted like this one of the Bible inscription had a 
cross that seemed too heavy for hi to bear. One night 
he had a dream only he was never convinced that it 
was a dream. In the dream, Jesus Christ came to him 
with deep sympathy. 'Come with me,' He said. 'If your 
cross is heavier than you can carry. ' He led the sorrowing 
man to a pit in which were thrown thousands of crosses 
huge crosses of timbers, little crosses, middle-sized crosses. 
Among the other crosses, the man saw a tiny, tiny cross. 
When Jesus told him that he might choose his own cross 
from the heap, he asked timidly, 'Might I take this little 
tiny bit of a one? Is that asking too much, Lord?' Jesus 
smiled benignly. 'That,' He said, 'is the one you are 
now carrying.' 

We had luncheon that day in a very ancient town called 
Santa Ana. It is a place rich with history. At one time 
it was a center a trading-post for the mines. When 
Mexico belonged to Spain, the King handed out tracts of 
land to his favorites. On some of the lands were ledges 
of gold. But the Spaniards did not claw out the ore with 
the feverish haste that we always do. They didn't hurry 
about anything. They figured that it had been there for 
a long time and wasn't likely to run away. Anyhow, there 
was another reason. When a Spanish grandee found gold 
on his land, he regarded it as selfish and stingy to take 


out all the gold for himself. He regarded his gold mine as a 
bank account for his children and his grandchildren. He 
took out only enough gold to pay his expenses. 

At the tune of the revolution against Spain, the old 
grandees could not believe that the imperial banners were 
being lowered forever. They felt sure that some day the 
rebels would be properly punished and they would come 
back to rule. So they carefully closed their gold mines. 
They cunningly closed the entrances to the old shafts. 
For a hundred years, prospectors have been looking for 
those lost Spanish mines. Sometimes they find the ore 
dumps, but very seldom have they been able to find the 
mines. Whatever else may be said about them, the Spanish 
were clever people great engineers and architects. 

We drove into Santa Ana and found a stuffy little 
house back of a saloon, where we had luncheon. Among 
other things the sefiora brought us a sort of stew made of 
jerked beef. I had often read in old accounts how explorers 
lived on 'jerky.* It is made by cutting beef into strips 
and hanging it up to dry in the sun. It tastes all right, but 
it involves a lot of work. It is like eating a lasso. Glad- 
stone, the great English statesman, said that he always 
chewed everything thirty times. Thirty chews wouldn't 
have given him even a good start had he been eating 
venison jerky. If the Mexican people have been raised 
on jerky, I don't wonder that they never hurry. A 
luncheon on jerky is a job for the afternoon. Luckily, we 
also had tortillas, which are little flat corn cakes beaten 
so thin by the hands of the Mexican women that they are 
almost like tissue paper. Sometimes, in fact, the women 
pin them up on the walls until they are needed. 

Everywhere you go in Mexico you see the women slap- 


ping hunks of corn dough from one hand to the other 
patting the tortillas thin. Once an enterprising American 
thought he would make the meals of the natives more 
sanitary by inventing a machine to pat tortillas. He built 
a big factory. It now stands idle. His customers com- 
plained that the tortillas lacked 'el savor de mano* (the 
flavor of the hand). 

We drove all that night across the empty, desolate 
plains of northern Mexico. At four o'clock in the morn- 
ing, we rolled into the beautiful city of Hermosillo. We 
knew it must be a beautiful place because the name 
means 'little beautiful one.' But nothing looks beautiful 
to anyone at four o'clock in the morning with a 
stomach so empty it feels like a cistern. 

The police force turned out to meet us. Mexican police- 
men are very polite and dignified. They met us and routed 
out the proprietor of a Chinese caf 6 to give us something 
to eat. All Chinese cooks are workers in magic. No 
matter what the hour or what the emergency, they are 
never dismayed. I have seen a party of ten suddenly and 
without warning descend upon a lonely vaquero camp in 
the middle of a wilderness; but the Chinese cook always 
had a five-course dinner ready. The Chinese cafe* pro- 
prietor was unruffled, but the police were panic-stricken 
because they couldn't find a taxi to take us to the restau- 
rant. We insisted to their frozen horror on riding to 
the caf in the police patrol wagon. They were really 
agonized with shame when they shut us up in the wire 
cage. The driver simply tore through the quiet streets. 
He wanted to get the dreadful ordeal over as soon as 
possible. I imagine that the Hermosillo police force still 
gets gooseflesh at the memory of the crazy Gringos who 


insisted on riding to breakfast in the 'Black Maria.' 
Full of beefsteak, ham and eggs, and coffee, we fairly 
staggered into bed, leaving the police sergeant telling the 
hotel clerk in a hoarse whisper the terrible mortification 
that had befallen the city. 


IT seemed as though we had just hit our pillows when an 
excited Mexican hammered on our doors and informed us 
that the Governor of the great State of Sonora had come 
to call on us. At the moment we were tempted to tell 
the Governor of the great State of Sonora to go jump 
in the lake. But we finally crawled sleepily out of bed and 
pulled on our clothes. 

In the end we were glad, for the Governor turned out 
to be a fine fellow. He made us think of Roosevelt. Until 
he got to be Governor, Francisco Elias was a cattleman 
one of the great cattle barons of Mexico. He still owns 
one of the largest cattle-ranches in the world. He is never 
so happy as when he is in the saddle on top of a bronco 
the wilder the better. 

The Governor unlike many other governors I have 
known did not try to be impressive. He took us to 
ride in his own car and drove it himself. And when the 
Governor drives, you had better hang on tight. He may 
have heard the rumor that an automobile can go slower 
than sixty miles an hour, but apparently never found 
out by trying. The Governor's favorite remark was 'O.K. 
Let's go.' And Go meant Go with him. Perhaps the best 
index to the Governor's character is that all the people 
call him Tancho,' which is a pet name for Francisco 
just as we caU the Richard we are fond of, 'Dick.' 

When it got hot, Pancho took off his coat and drove in 


his shirt-sleeves. Once a workman on the road flagged 
him down, as it were, and rode a few miles with us to the 
place where his job called him. Several times the Governor 
stopped the car and got out to show a road foreman how 
to manage a new road machine lately imported from 
the United States. During our long ride through Mexico 
we came into intimate touch with many governors. Almost 
without exception, they were remarkable men men who 
would have been recognized as outstanding figures in any 
country and in any kind of work. It is they who are mak- 
ing the new Mexico. 

Governor Tancho' drove us in his car to many interest- 
ing places, two of which should be seen by every American 
because they mean much to our own history. 

One was an old mill at a place called Los Angeles 
like our California city. This mill was very beautiful 
which most mills are not. Low adobe buildings surround- 
ing a great plaza; a lovely Mexican house where the mana- 
ger of the mil] lived; large cool rooms with windows 
peering like little tunnels through adobe walls four feet 
thick. We had luncheon in a room that opened into a 
patio fragrant with rose blossoms. We had many delight- 
ful dishes I had known before one or two of which I 
had never heard. One was tomatoes stuffed with baby 
shrimps. After you have eaten that, you could well place 
a silver memorial plate on your turn-turn, close it up, and 
stop eating forever more, sure that you will never find 
anything else as good. 

The cotton-mill itself is so old that no one knows its 
age. Centuries before the first white men saw Mexico, 
the present city of Hermosillo was an Indian village. 
The Indians who lived there were called Seris. At that 


time the Aztecs were building a great empire in the south- 
ern part of Mexico. They wished to extend their sway 
and power. So they tried to make friends with other 
native peoples far to the North. They had an idea of 
founding something like our modern league of nations. 
They sent a delegation on a long and terrible journey 
across the mountains and rivers, from the South of Mexico 
where the remains of the Aztec ruins can still be seen, to 
the land of the Sens. They brought with them many 
presents no doubt, rugs and cloaks made of feathers 
woven together into cloth. The important gift they 
brought as it turned out were the seeds of a plant 
of which the Serfs had never heard cotton. They 
showed the Seris how to plant the cotton seeds and how to 
weave the cotton into cloth. 

From that day to this, this old town of Los Angeles has 
been a cotton mill. From time to time the crude looms 
have been changed. The skilled hands of the Indian wo- 
men gave way to water power with a huge wooden water 
wheel that still stands there. Water power served its 
day and gave way to steam which now runs the old mill, 
turning out fifty thousand yards of cotton cloth a day. 
Which would have surprised the old Serfs and Aztecs a 
good deal. 

From Los Angeles we drove to another ancient town 
called San Miguel Horcasitas. Here was the cradle in 
which our modern West was born. It should be such a 
shrine of our history as Plymouth Rock. 

It was from San Miguel Horcasitas that the gallant 
Captain Juan Bautista de Anza started with the first 
band of settlers who ever crossed the plains to California. 
This was the year of our Revolutionary War and about 


sixty years before the first covered wagons of those whom 
we call the pioneers and the pathfinders. De Anza crossed 
the plains and founded the city of San Francisco. Most 
important of all, he brought the first pioneer women, the 
pioneer mothers. And with them, civilization. 

Parenthetically I might remark that civilization never 
sticks until the women come. The conquering flag of 
civilization has always been the baby's diaper hanging on 
the clothesline. What does history say? Long ago, the 
Norsemen came with their wassail bowls and their fierce 
two-handed swords. They breasted the storms of the 
North Sea and found their way to the shores of America. 
Somewhere up in the cold winds of New Brunswick 
archaeologists poke around in crumbling old walls and 
think that maybe perhaps who knows but what they 
might be walls that the Norsemen left. The proud knights 
of Spain came with war horses and their shining armor, 
but they did not succeed in implanting civilization until 
the women came. Daniel Boone forced his way down the 
dark rivers of Tennessee, but the wild tribesmen did not 
give up until the pioneer mothers followed with the 
washing and the churns. Then the Indians knew they 
were licked. The Apaches made short work of the strate- 
gists sent out from West Point, but the women of the 
lonely ranches of Arizona planted the white man's civiliza- 
tion and stuck. 

Of all the heroes of our West, the most picturesque, the 
most gallant, chivalrous, and interesting was Juan Bautista 
de Anza. There was a good deal of bunk about Fremont, 
the famous pathfinder. One of the American pioneers said 
of him that he was 'The pathfinder who never found any 
paths; the conqueror who never won a battle, and the 



millionaire without any money.' But De Anza was real 
and genuine. 

In order to place him in the great drama of the West: 

Francisco Vasquez Coronado, the young knight of 
Spain, discovered the West in 1540. 

Father Kino made his explorations and his maps and 
his scientific deductions about one hundred and forty years 

Ninety-seven years after Father Kino came Juan 
Bautista de Anza. 

Captain de Anza was a young Spanish army officer 
stationed at a little presidio called Tubac. It lies north 
of Nogales on the highway between Nogales and Tucson. 
He was perhaps the first character of our country's history 
who could rightfully be called a Western man. He was 
born on the frontier of northern Mexico. His father had 
been an army officer before him. 

Life must have been poison dull at the little garrison 
at Tubac... between Apache raids. The gay young cap- 
tain's imagination called for action and adventure. There 
were, however, other reasons for his expedition. Important 
political reasons. 

California had been discovered by a Portuguese sea 
captain named Cabrillo in 1542. He claimed the land for 
Spain from which country he was getting his board 
and keep. Nothing was done of importance with the new 
land until two hundred years later. A long chain of 
churches was then established the missions of Cali- 
fornia. On the part of the priests, this was a holy crusade 
to Christianize the heathen Indians. The Spanish Govern- 
ment had also another reason. Both Russia and England 
were nosing around California. If Spain hoped to hold 
the country, it was necessary to get people there. 


After the establishment of the missions and the garrisons 
put there to protect them, great difficulty was experienced 
in providing them with food and other necessaries. It 
meant a long and difficult voyage from Mexico in tiny 
cockleshell ships and the horrors of scurvy for the 
crews. Both the missions and the garrisons were always 
in dread of starvation. 

Captain de Anza suggested to his superior officers that 
he thought he could find a way to cross the plains to 
California and open a land route to Mexico. Then they 
wouldn't have to bother or worry any more about the 
supply ships. He offered to pay the expenses of an ex- 
ploring expedition to find out. After a great deal of red 
tape had been wound and unwound, he finally got per- 
mission and set out from Tubac on the 8th of January, 

We will not spend much time with him on this first 
expedition. It was a brave and terrible journey. Out of 
his garrison of fifty soldiers at Tubac, he selected twenty 
seasoned veterans. As guides he had two brave priests 
who had made part of the journey alone protected 
only by their faith. He carefully selected one hundred and 
forty tough little ponies and mules for the journey. Also 
sixty-five beef cattle to be killed for food en route. Just 
as he was getting ready to start, the Apaches swooped 
down from the hills and ran off his best animals. He had 
to make a detour back into Mexico and pick up what 
animals he could from the Father Kino missions. They 
were a poor lot. 

Scorched by the desert heat, sometimes famished for 
want of water, lost in the dreaded sand hills of the Mojave; 
threatened and attacked by hostile Indians, De Anza 


plodded over the terrible country which is still called 
Camino de Diablo road of the Devil. In a general way, 
bis route was through the modern town of Yuma; then 
down into Mexico below the present town of Mexicali; 
then north and through a pass of the mountains and finally 
into the present city of Riverside. From there he made 
bis way north and arrived in Monterey on the 18th of 
April, 1774. 

Back at Tubac they had probably given him up for 
lost, for there was no mail or news in that day. But just 
as the sun was rising over the wild peaks of the Santa 
Ritas on the morning of May 27, 1774, the sentry on watch 
on the top of the Presidio walls saw long shadows moving 
gaunt and grotesque on the desert floor. He called the 
corporal of the guard. They watched anxiously until the 
far-off tiny figures appeared in the morning light; the 
first rays of the sun caught and glittered on the steel of a 
Spanish sword. It was De Anza's little army coming 

De Anza became famous almost overnight as the news 
of his great adventure went from pueblo to pueblo 
all the way to the City of Mexico, where the great viceroy 
lived in a palace. From captain he was promoted to 
lieutenant-colonel. When he offered to make the trip to 
California again, taking with him a company of settlers, 
his offer was eagerly accepted. His offer was in fact a 
life-saver for the Spanish Government. What with the 
aggressions of Russia and England, the Spanish King 
realized that it was of vital importance to plant a city on 
the great harbor that we know now as San Francisco. 
And he knew that no time was to be lost on the job. 

There were no settlers at Tubac. Only a garrison of 


soldiers. So De Anza sent word from one pueblo to another 
telling the people that he intended to organize an expedi- 
tion to cross the plains to the new land of California. He 
told everyone who felt like going with him to come to the 
little town of San Miguel Horcasitas. He selected that 
place because at that time the governor of Sonora had 
his capital there. x)e Anza stipulated that he would accept 
no soldiers for the expedition except married men who 
would bring their families along. 

They came trooping in on horseback on burros and 
on foot brave, adventurous men with dark-eyed wives 
and children. Those must have been days of bustle and 
confusion in that sleepy little adobe town herds of 
cattle bawling and rushing through the streets, vaqueros 
yelling at them and flourishing their lassos, herds of pack- 
horses driven in from the pasture lands, women and 
children wandering around with their bundles, trying to 
find a place to light, soldiers preparing their supplies, 
muleteers rigging new straps on their pack-saddles, De 
Anza himself giving orders from the porch of the Govern- 
or's home. 

At half-past four on the afternoon of September 9, 
1775, the expedition finally trailed out from the town. 
At the head of the column rode four mounted scouts, 
watching every peak and canon for signs of the dreaded 
Apaches. They were all frontiersmen and veterans. Then 
came De Anza with a few mounted soldiers. They carried 
lances, swords, and guns. They wore a&jaor made of 
seven thicknesses of deerskin. Behind them came four or 
five priests, heading a mingled company of men, women, 
and children, riding on horses and mules, many of the 
women with little children in their arms. Soldiers marched 


on both sides of the column to guard the women and chil- 
dren. Some of these soldiers were volunteers selected by 
De Anza. From his garrison at Tubac he took eight 
soldiers, an officer, and a sergeant. With all the settlers 
and soldiers and priests and muleteers and herders there 
were two hundred and forty souls, of whom one hundred 
and sixty were women and children. 

Behind the settlers came the herds of loose horses, 
mules, and horned cattle, stirring up clouds of dust, 
bawling and lowing. There were one hundred and twenty 
horses and twenty-five mules for the soldiers and their 
equipment; one hundred and twenty-five horses to carry 
the settlers and their baggage, three hundred and twenty 
head of beef cattle. For all these De Anza had to find food 
and water. 

It was one of the most remarkable expeditions in human 
history. In latter days, engineers have builded roads 
along part of the route over which De Anza traveled, 
leading all these people. Digging for the roads, they often 
find mementoes of prehistoric tragedies, showing how 
terrible was the journey. They find broken water-bottles 
and bones, showing where some primitive traveler of a 
forgotten race had accidentally broken his olla and died 
of thirst a slow terrible death in the sand hills. The . 
young Spanish officer must have had a stout heart to 
lead this expedition. 

De Anza did everything for the people he led. He rode 
with the scouts with every nerve strained as he watched 
for signs of the Indians. When evening came, he made 
the rounds to inquire after Mrs. Gomez's headache and 
asked Mrs. Lopez how her new baby's first tooth was 
getting on. Eight babies were born while the expedition 


was on the way. So tenderly did De Anza care for his 
charges during that frightful march that not one life was 
lost. One woman died just as they started, leaving her 
husband to march on alone with five little children. All 
the rest of the brave women endured heat and cold and 
thirst and dreadful dangers. They all arrived safely at 
Monterey at half-past ten on the morning of April 13, 1776. 

Be Anza saw them established in the new city of San 
Francisco which he founded. Then he started back to 
Mexico with a few soldiers. History tells how the settlers 
particularly the women followed him back along 
the road for a mile or more, their eyes streaming with 
tears, then* broken voices asking God to bless and protect 

In alter years, these simple settlers who plodded 
through the desert wastes with De Anza became the 
proudest names in California. Many a lovely belle, with 
eyes sparkling from under her black lace mantilla and the 
little red heels of her satin shoes clicking through the 
fandango, remembered a grandmother who had carried 
a baby in her young arms as her mule plunged into the 
wild waters of the Colorado. And in many a proud Cali- 
fornia home on an hacienda where the cattle fed on a 
thousand hills hung a tattered coat of deerskin armor 
which Grandpa wore when he rode with De Anza. 

We found the old town of San Miguel Horcasitas very 
much as it must have been in De Anza's day. The old 
stone church where he went to say his prayers on that 
last day is there just as he saw it, with its crude beams 
chipped by the axes of the Indian workmen; the old bells 
that rang a farewell to De Anza still ring to call the faith- 
ful to worship. 


The day we were there, it was a Mexican holiday. The 
old adobe houses were gay with bunting. The lilt of 
Mexican music echoed through the sleepy old streets, 
just as though they were expecting De Anza to come riding 
into town. 


Two truckloads of armed soldiers rolled out of a side street 
in Guaymas and joined our expedition when we started 
through the Yaqui Indian country. I haven't as yet been 
able to figure out whether we should have swelled with the 
consciousness of having an escort of honor, or whether we 
should have broken out in gooseflesh pimples with pre- 
monitions of danger. Possibly both. 

For you never can tell about a Yaqui. After four 
centuries of endless warfare, the Yaqui remains uncon- 
quered. Queen Elizabeth was on the throne of England 
when the proudest knights of Spain sallied out to conquer 
the Yaquis. The last army that went into the Yaqui 
country bent on conquest dropped bombs out of airplanes. 
But the throb-throb-throb of the Yaqui war-drums has 
never been stilled except when the Yaqui got tired of 
thumping them. 

It was two days since we had left Hermosillo. We had 
motored south to Guaymas. This is an old harbor town 
on the Gulf of California. Oddly enough it was once a way 
station on the trip between California and Arizona. 
Traveling over the old De Anza trail was an ordeal so 
frightful that the pioneers took a long way around. 
Freight and passengers for Arizona were embarked at 
San Francisco or San Pedro; shipped around Cape San 
Lucas into the Gulf of California to Guaymas; there they 
were transferred to a stern-wheel paddle steamer and run 


up the Colorado River to Yuma. In this way they escaped 
the desert sand hills, but usually spent a large part of 
their time on the river sand bars. The river steamers 
waded about as often as they swam. 

Guaymas is a lovely old town: one of the loveliest in 
Mexico. The mirror-like blue waters of the harbor reflect 
the jagged peaks that surround the town. The first time 
I saw Guaymas, the time was half an hour before day- 
break. Strange unearthly figures slipped out of the fog 
before us. It was as though the ghosts of the past were 
scurrying back to their uneasy graves a burro train 
slipping along through the mist, old women with heavy 
baskets on the way to the market, a squad of soldiers 
passing on the way to relieve the guard, the sharp quick 
orders of the sergeant coming to us out of the fog before 
we could see the soldiers. 

Guaymas should have plenty of ghosts to wander about 
in the fog. There has been history. Great stately galleons 
with painted sails used sometimes to take refuge there from 
pirates. In the center of the town is a beautiful monument 
erected to the memory of a battle in which the Mexican 
women peon women in black rebosos, aristocratic wo- 
men in lace and fine linen fought with guns by the side 
of their husbands to repel the French who were trying to 
capture the town. 

It is one of the most famous fishing ports in the world. 
Beautiful white ladylike yachts often lie in the harbor 
while the millionaire sportsmen from the 'States' angle 
for game fish. The warm waters of the Gulf are alive. 
Enormous turtles float on the tropic waters. 

We stopped at a charming old hotel with balconies 
fully fifty feet wide looking down into a patio serene with 


palms and flowers. A Mexican ship of war was anchored 
in the moonlit harbor and the sound of the ship's bell 
floated across the shimmering water to us as the hours 
were tolled. From this peaceful old place we went into 
the country of the Yaquis: we and our two truckloads 
of little bronzed soldiers. An ironic touch was added by, 
a truckload of unarmed Yaquis sandwiched in between 
ourselves and our escorts. We could read this any way 
we liked. The Yaquis were doing us the high honor to 
escort us through their own country. But neither they nor 
we could avoid observing that if the other Yaquis were 
seized with an inspiration to start something, their own 
people would be a conspicuous part of the target. 

Not that this would have worried the Yaquis very much. 
The Yaqui is one of the fiercest fighting men in the world. 
He is a little fellow with tiny hands and feet. He is usually 
as bashful as a little boy, but he has the heart of a fighting 
wildcat. "When Yaqui mothers sing their babies to sleep, 
they have a lullaby, the refrain of which is: 'El Yaqui que 
sabe morir.' (The Yaqui who knows how to die.) 

There have been three great fighting nations among the 
North American Indians. The Sioux with their allies the 
Cheyennes, the Apaches, and the Yaquis. 

The Sioux made a great theatrical show of warfare. They 
galloped into battle wearing gorgeous war-bonnets of 
feathers; their ponies decorated on the shoulders with 
scarlet and blue patches of paint; pony tails wrapped with 
scarlet cloth. The warriors 'made up' for war with paint 
like chorus girls. Their battles were distinguished by dash 
and speed. They went into action with their ponies hitting 
the turf as fast as their little hoofs could pound. These 
battles were not so much a matter of killing the enemy as 


of doing stunts. To win honors in battle, the warrior tried 
to touch a foe with his hand or to whip him in the face with 
his heavy quirt without killing him at least before he 
killed him. If a warrior could do this or could take away a 
weapon from a living foe, he was awarded what was called 
a 'coup stick,' which was a badge of high honor and gave 
him the right to wear certain feathers in his hair. It was a 
good deal like a college athlete getting a 'letter* for his 
sweater. The white man's method of making war by whole- 
sale slaughter rather horrified them. With them it was a 
matter of glory and honor and daring not of slaughter. 

The Apache was, on the whole, a better fighter than the 
Sioux, although the Sioux showed the highest type of mili- 
tary ability. The Apache, on the other hand, was a killer, 
pure and simple. The Apaches taught their boys that a 
warrior should be like a coyote: a sudden shot and a naked 
figure slipping out of sight behind the rocks. It was mat- 
ter of great shame to an Apache if one of the foe ever saw 
him during a battle. His shots came out of nowhere. 

During our twenty years war against the Apaches, our 
soldiers seldom saw one, but there was not a minute that 
the Apaches did not see the soldiers. A signal smoke curling 
up in black spirals against the sky, a spit of flame, and a 
soldier falls dying to the desert. Nothing to be seen but the 
heat waves rising from the silent rocks. That was Apache 
warfare. They didn't dress up like the Sioux. If the Apache 
had human vanity, it did not take the form of feathers and 
make-up. Like Kipling's Gunga Din, a bit of twisty rag 
was all the field equipment he could find. A rag tied around 
his head and a breech-clout with a pair of moccasins was 
the Apache's war uniform. 

The Yaqui had still a different method of making war. 


Unlike the Sioux, he has usually been a foot soldier. He 
marches into battle to the beat of a Yaqui tom-tom: a 
little drum with a rawhide head. The pom-pom, pom-pom, 
pom-pom of this little drum freezes your blood: it seems so 
deadly and relentless. I have heard the Yaquis marching 
to the attack to the beat of this drum; and I don't want to 
hear it again. 

As nearly as I can read the Yaqui's heart, he likes to 
fight in the same way that an American likes baseball. 
They seem to enjoy being shot at. In one of the recent 
Mexican revolutions, a large company of Yaquis were 
mobilized. They started on one side, and flopped over to 
the other side when the general changed his mind. It was 
all right with them. They didn't care on which side they 

One day I saw my little friend Pablo, the Yaqui, in the 
trenches at Naco. He was by this time on the Federal side, 
but he opened his coat and showed me that he was carrying 
the red badge of the rebels. 

'Hey, Pablo,' I remonstrated, 'you are on the other side 

Pablo smiled a funny little smile and shrugged his 
shoulders. 'Well, one never knows,' he said. 

When the revolution came unexpectedly to an end, Pablo 
and his Yaqui friends were outraged. They refused to go 
home. They said they had been invited to a fight and they 
wanted to fight somebody. They felt as though they had 
been invited to a party and sent home before the refresh- 
ments came. 

In many ways the Yaqui isn't a bad sort of fellow. When 
he takes a job at some of the ranches, he is always a fine 
worker. His promises are solid gold. The worst you can 


say of him is there is considerable of the naughty boy in his 
make-up. He likes to swoop down on Mexican military 
posts just as a small boy likes to throw mud pies at passing 

I knew a young American sugar planter who, with his 
bride, was taken captive by a band of Yaqui raiders. They 
held him a prisoner for two or three weeks and he said he 
had a wonderful time. They let hi go on the war trail 
with them; even let him beat the tom-tom. He said, when 
they started out on the war-trail, the Yaqui women and 
girls shouted and cheered exactly as the co-eds cheer for 
the players at a football game. He said that most of the 
expeditions he saw were forays against Mexican travelers. 
The Yaquis thought it a great joke to take all their clothes 
and let them go. There was nothing vicious or cruel about 
their little games of war-making. Sometimes, it must be 
confessed, that his enthusiasm has led the Yaqui into hor- 
rible atrocities. 

You can also say this for the Yaqui. His wars were 
forced upon him. Away back in the early days of Mexico 
three or four hundred years ago the Spaniards took 
all the loot they could find in the great Aztec empire to the 
south. Then they wanted more. They had an idea that the 
Aztecs had wonderful mines on the West Coast and sent 
armies up to drive out the Indians. The driving was pretty 
good until they got to the Yaquis. You must remember 
that these Spanish troops were the finest soldiers in 
Europe, trained under great captains and war-hardened by 
terrific campaigns against the Aztecs. The Yaquis gave 
them a terrible licking and beat every army sent against 
them for the next four centuries. Since Mexico became a 
republic its armies have been almost continuously at war 
with the Yaquis. 


It hasn't been all beer and skittles for the Yaqui. Time 
after time the Yaquis have been all but annihilated. I have 
read of campaigns in which they were so ragged and 
frozen that at night they buried themselves in the earth up 
to the neck, to crawl out and fight again the next day. 
Badly beaten in one war, a shipload of Yaquis were loaded 
for exile. They threw their women and children overboard 
and leaped into the sea themselves, preferring death to 
separation from their wild mountains. 

At last a very shrewd President of Mexico made a treaty 
with them whereby every Yaqui warrior received thirty 
dollars a month just to be good. Since then the Yaquis 
have behaved pretty well. But when the harvest moon 
comes up over the mysterious mountains, the little Yaqui 
begins to get queer feelings. His heart grows uneasy and 
he tiiinlra how sweet a song the bullet sings as it whines 
past his ears, or cracks from the muzzle of his own rifle. 
Then he is likely to slip away from his neat little towns by 
the side of the railroad where the Mexican Government 
tells him to live. They miss his face at roll-call and little 
fires twinkle in the dim silent canons of his mysterious 
mountains and nobody has any desire to go in and try to 
bring him out. 

la the end he will be conquered; but by schoolbooks 
rather than bullets. The Mexican Government has opened 
schoolhouses in the Yaqui country. And the Yaqui chil- 
dren, who are as smart as little fox terriers, are forgetting 
the song about the Yaqui who knows how to die. 

Nevertheless, one can never be too sure about a Yaqui. 
We didn't feel too sure as we rode along highways bordered 
by thick chaparral. It did not cheer us a great deal to see 
the Mexican road-builders working with picks and shovels 


in their hands, loaded rifles on their backs, and revolvers 
dangling from their hips. 

I imagine that in the days of the Roman Empire, when 
the legions of the great Julius Caesar were guarding the 
river Rhine against the barbarians who came out of the 
dark forests, their forts must have looked just like the 
Yaqui country. For about a hundred miles we traveled 
through a desert lined with forts. These forts are of mud 
with a little tower on top of each one. Under an awning or 
thatched brush, to shield Mm from the blazing sun, a sentry 
stands all day, his rifle in his hands and his eyes always 
anxiously scanning the horizon; his ears always listening 
for the tom-tom, tom-tom the Yaqui drums. 

On one side of the railroad track are five or six neat clean 
little towns, villages for the Yaquis built by the Mexican 
Government. On the other side of the tracks are the forts 
and the Mexican soldiers. To prevent the Yaquis stealing 
up for a secret attack, the brush has been cleared off for a 
long distance around each adobe fort. In some places the 
Yaqui boys have used the cleared places for basket-ball 
courts. Which is what I should call sarcasm. 

We didn't hear the beat of the Yaqui war drums. In 
fact, the Yaquis seemed to think the sight of us under 
heavy guard was rather funny. They hung their heads 
and made little snickering remarks to each other as they 
stood around in groups in the Mexican garrison towns. 
They looked as though they wanted to say: 'A lot of good 
all those soldiers would do you if we took a notion.' 

We drove a long way through the Yaqui country until, 
at last, we came to the famous Yaqui River. 

There is a saying in Mexico: 'Once you have drunk the 
waters of the Yaqui River, you will always return/ And I 


am not sure that this is not true. This mysterious river is a 
sullen, muddy stream that winds and turns through a flat 
country, willow trees clinging to the banks. The Yaquis 
just to show their friendly feelings and also to earn a few 
pesos helped our motor cars to cross the river on then- 
ferry. No one knows how many years they have been 
running it. Their ferryboat is a flat scow called a pango. 
It is managed by half a dozen Yaquis with long oars. The 
current is very swift, so they row upstream as far as they 
can and let the pango drift down to the opposite bank. 
Sometimes when the pango does not behave very well, two 
or three Yaquis jump overboard into the rushing stream 
and haul the boat by main strength to the bank. One of our 
cars broke through the deck of the pango and it took a 
whole company of Mexican soldiers to lif t it out. 

Climbing the opposite bank of the river Yaqui, we found 
ourselves in a different kind of country. It was as though 
we had suddenly come through a curtain into a new world. 


His name, he said, was Nicolas Pinto, but he asked me as a 
special favor to call him El Nortefio (The Northerner). 
It made him feel more adventurous; although it seemed to 
me that he was having plenty of adventures without the 
assistance of a new name. We couldn't find any such word 
as 'Nortefio' in the Spanish dictionary, so I imagine that 
Nicolas must have made it up. However, most of the 
adventurers of the world have made their own names, so 
we will have to ignore the Spanish purists and let his stand 
as he made it. 

Nicolas was a little Mexican boy we picked up on a 
lonely road in the Mayo Indian country. He wasn't so 
little at that, being tall for his age and as straight as a ram- 
rod. He was sixteen years old. When we first saw him, he 
was wearing everything he owned in the world which 
consisted of a pair of ragged white cotton trousers, a 
'hickory' shirt, and an enormous sombrero. His bare feet 
were thrust into a pair of rawhide guarachas just two 
pieces of cowhide with straps to hold them on. 

El Nortefio was trying to walk from the south of Mexico 
to the United States. He lived in a lonely little town in the 
mountains back of the city of Guadalajara. For a year he 
had worked at odd jobs to save money enough to come to 
California of which he had heard so much. He went with- 
out candy and stayed home from the circus and hoarded 
every centavo. 


Guadalajara was the first big city he had ever seen. He 
fell in there with a man who said he was going to the 
United States. El Nortefio was delighted with the man's 
suggestion that they should travel together. He thought it 
was a fine idea when the man offered to take care of all of 
his saved-up money so it would not get lost. One day they 
started down to the railroad to begin the grand journey. 
At the last moment the man sent El Nortefio on an errand 
around the corner. When the boy hurried back, his friend 
was gone. Also El NortefiVs money. He never saw either 

El Nortefio dried his tears and started to walk two 
thousand miles to the promised land. 

The Mexican peon is very kind and generous. If he has 
only one tortilla, he will insist that you take the bigger half 
of it. These simple-hearted country people felt sorry for 
the boy and helped him on his way from one pueblo to the 
next. Nevertheless, El Nortefio was a very tared and very 
hungry boy when we picked him up on the road. He was so 
delighted at being adopted by los americanos that he forgot 
all about going to the United States. He turned back south 
with us. All the rest of the way through Mexico, El 
Nortefio was one of our party. We all grew so fond of him 
that we made up our minds to bring him back to the 
United States. You shall see before this book is finished 
whether we did or not. 

I have met many men in many lands, but it has never 
been my lot to know a finer, truer gentleman than this little 
Mexican peasant boy. He was very poor, but the blood of 
an ancient chivalry must have run in El Nortefio's veins. 
He had the pride of an aristocrat. 

One day he had done something so brave and so unselfish 


that we all wanted to do something for him. One of the 
engineers collected a purse of nine dollars which changed 
into Mexican pesos filled a sack. This he put into El 
Norteno's kp as he lay asleep in one of the automobiles. 
At daylight the nextmorning, there came a tap at the door 
of the leader of the party. ItwasElNorteno. In silence he 
handed back the money and walked away, leaving us very 
much ashamed at having done something so raw and tact- 
less. He was a little cool toward us all that day. 

When I got up in the morning, I always found El Nor- 
tefio in the lobby of the hotel. In Spanish he would ask if I 
had slept well. If I said that I had, he always replied with 
grave dignity, * I thank God that he has bestowed upon you 
the blessing of sleep." The only English he knew were two 
words, 'Fine' and 'pencil* which he called *pin-ceel.' 
Sometimes when it was very hot and the dust was choking 
me and I felt in a mood for a murder, El Norteflo would 
come to the door of the automobile and say: 'Fine?' He 
really said 'Fi-en. J And I would just have to answer 'Fine.' 
No grouch could resist that grin. 

At night he slept in one of the automobiles or on the 
ground wrapped up in an old ragged blanket. No matter 
how cold the night or how blistering the day, El Nortefio 
never uttered a word of complaint. He was game to the 
backbone. The boy became an ever-present help. No one 
could pick up anything or carry anything. All the rest of 
the trip through Mexico, Nortefio's shapely brown hands 
were always carrying our bundles and picking up what 
we had dropped. He helped in more ways than politeness. 
We should never have understood Mexico so well without 

As we climbed up the south bank of the Bio Yaqui, we 


found the band from a cavalry regiment waiting to wel- 
come us into a country different from anything else we had 
seen in Mexico. It fascinated El Nortefio, although it was 
old stuff to us. Big gasoline tractors, irrigating ditches and 
cotton gins fields of wheat and rice. It was like a big 
American farm dropped into the middle of Mexico. The 
northern part of Mexico, along the border, is much like 
Arizona great stretches of vacant land unused for 
want of water cattle-ranges, high, rugged mountains, 
gashed with mining tunnels. 

The Bio Yaqui, which for so many centuries was a deadly 
barrier beyond which civilization might not go, has finally 
been the means of bringing progress to Mexico. Some years 
ago, American engineers imprisoned the wild waters of the 
Yaqui and turned them into irrigation ditches to water 
great tracts of farmland. These lands are in the hands of 
progressive American business men and progressive 
Mexicans. Foremost among these Mexicans was former 
President Obregon. 

The entire lay-out of farms, irrigation ditches, and so on 
is called the 'Yaqui Project/ More than a hundred and 
twenty-five thousand acres have been planted in wheat, 
rice, henequen, and early vegetables tomatoes, lettuce, 
and so on. More than eight hundred miles of irrigation 
ditches criss-cross the place, bringing in water enough to 
flood the million acres they expect to plant. 

When we looked at this vast modern farm project, we 
realized what Mexico will be like some day. The peaceful 
picturesque old adobes will give place to hideous ware- 
houses of concrete and galvanized iron. The patient oxen 
that we saw plowing with crooked sticks will be driven 
away by the snort and grunt of the gasoline tractor. It will 


not be long until the peon gives up his white cotton pants 
and guarachas and blossoms out in copper-riveted overalls 
and shoes. Mexico will not be the beautiful, peaceful land 
of mafiana very long. 

El Norteno did not share our melancholy regret that 
Mexico must emerge some day from its sleepy picturesque- 
ness and become a noisy, slam-bang, hurry-up, step-on-it- 
kid land like all the rest of the world. El Nortefio held out 
a welcoming hand to progress. We almost had to throw 
him down and sit on him to keep him from trying to run 
the biggest tractor in the 'Yaqui Project/ Its snort and 
grunt made sweet music in his ears. 

Long ago, when Montezuma, the great Aztec king, ruled 
Mexico, he liked fish for breakfast. There being no fish in 
the lakes near the City of Mexico that pleased him, his 
breakfast had to be brought to him by runners. 

At sunset every night a solemn official handed a fresh 
fish to a naked runner at the seaport of Vera Cruz. The 
runner grabbed the fish and lit out like a scared jack- 
rabbit. He ran as fast as he could to another Indian runner 
and handed him the fish. This runner ran to a third naked 
man, standing all poised for a fast start. Hundreds of run- 
ners kept up a relay race all night at top speed two 
hundred and sixty-five miles over mountains and through 
deep cafions. At breakfast, the fish was always there for 
the king. 

I thought of that old relay race when I saw the fast 
freights standing on the sidings at Ciudad Obregon, with 
steam up, ready to start, with a scream of whistles, on the 
long trip over mountains and rivers and plains to Chicago 
and New York, rushing lettuce and tomatoes and other 
fresh vegetables so that the people at the big hotels could 


have what they wanted for breakfast when their own farms 
lay deep under the snow. The mighty dramas of the 
world the wars, the explorations, the march of progress 
have mostly been connected with the job of getting food 
from one place to another. I shall have to confess that this 
is an entirely unworthy thought for so big a subject; but I 
never think of those silent Indian runners panting through 
the night that I do not think how awful it would have been 
if after all that relay race the king's cook had burned 
the fish! 

There are two important towns in the Yaqui Project. 
One was formerly called Cajeme after a famous Yaqui 
chief. When President Obregon was murdered, just as he 
retired from office, the name was changed to Ciudad 
Obregon (See-oo-dad Obregon), which means City of 
Obregon. The other town is called Navojoa (Navo-hoh-a) . 

Night had fallen when we left Ciudad Obregon to go to 
Navojoa, where we were to sleep. We ran the cars, one at a 
time, on the pango ferryboats which carried us across the 
Rio Mayo the Mayo River. It was dark night and the 
headlights of the cars threw weird grotesque shadows on the 
half-naked figures of the Mayo Indians up to their necks 
in the swift-flowing river, struggling to tug the pangos 
against the current. This river divides the ancient land of 
the Mayos from the country of the Yaquis. 

The Mayos are a people as mysterious as the Yaquis. 
They are the only blue-eyed Indians I have ever seen. 
Many scientists believe they are descendants of the ancient 
Aztecs over whom the fish-eating emperor Montezuma 
ruled and who were conquered by the Spanish knights in 
the savage battles of the Conquest. They themselves say 
that they are related to the Yaquis sort of cousins; but 


scientists do not agree as to this. Many think that the 
Yaquis are related to the Apaches and to the Navajos, a 
fierce* independent tribe of northern Arizona who make 
the blankets and the silver jewelry we all know so well. 
Other scientists think that the Yaquis are related to the 
Pima Indians of southern Arizona and that the Mayos are 
no relation. 

I once asked one of my Apache friends about this. He 
gave a very haughty reply. 'Well/ he said, 'the Yaqui is 
kind of mixed. He is partly Apache, partly Spanish, and 
partly of the blood of the Negro slaves who were brought 
over by the Spanish from Africa/ He puffed at his cigar- 
ette and added: 'The Apache part is good/ 

The Mayo isn't as full of fight as the Yaqui; at least he 
doesn't regard fighting as his favorite form of outdoor 
sport. But he can fight bravely and terribly. In the last 
Mexican revolution, I saw a band of Mayos charging a 
trench walking into a storm of bullets witib gay in- 
difference as though it were a lovely party. One of the 
Mayos was shot (a great many were shot, but I remember 
this one especially). As the order came for them to re- 
treat, the friend and buddy of this wounded Mayo would 
not leave him. Under heavy fire he dragged his wounded 
friend into a little cemetery where the tombstones were 
pink and blue with funny little angels carved in stone. All 
day long he lay behind a pink tombstone, with his body 
sheltering the body of his friend. They poured bullets from 
fourteen machine guns down upon him. The air fairly 
buzzed and whined with bullets, but he seemed to bear a 
charmed life. Every time a hand or a head showed above 
the top of the trench, one of his bullets spat out death. 
When night came and darkness fell, he picked up his friend, 


flung him to his shoulder like a sack of grain, and staggered 
out into the night. As a final farewell, his voice came out of 
the dark with the worst insult you can possibly offer a 
Mexican, 'Adios, you old goats!' he yelled to the soldiers 
who had been shooting at him. 

The Mayos are famous for making blankets. They are 
very beautiful, being artistic mixtures of blue and green 
and brown. They are not as stiff and unwieldy as the 
Navajo blankets. The Navajos weave theirs of sheep's 
wool; the Mayos use goat's hair. Many of the Mayos work 
on the great farms of the Yaqui Project and are good, 
faithful workers. At certain times of the year, however, 
they leave the tractors and slip out into secret places in the 
mountains, where they have strange heathen ceremonies 
ceremonies which have come down to them from a 
mysterious and distant past. 

They have a strange legend about their river. They still 
believe the story about the Seven Golden Cities of Cibola 
for which Coronado the explorer was searching. They be- 
lieve it is somewhere up in the mountains at the headwaters 
of the Rio Mayo. They think it has been there for untold 
ages and that the inhabitants are a very wise, almost god- 
like people. When the spring rains come and the waters of 
the Rio Mayo tear down in wild floods, they find floating 
boards carved with outlandish inscriptions. The Mayos 
believe that these markings on the boards are in the 
language of a forgotten and mysterious people who are 
trying to send them messages on the flood waters of the 

The Mayos have great ideas of loyalty. In the last 
Mexican revolution a band of Indians both Yaquis and 
Mayos joined the rebel side. Their commander was a 


big handsome Mayo Indian whose name was General 
Yucopicio. When the revolution ended and the other 
soldiers went home to their farms, General Yucopicio did 
not take his Indians home. They vanished one night and 
were next heard of in the wild fastnesses of the mountains. 
One day, months afterward, they came trailing out of the 
mountains into Navojoa. The Mexicans asked General 
Yucopicio why he had done this thing. He refused to tell 
them. 'I report only to my chief,' he said with dignity. 
Whereupon he went all alone to the grave of President 
Obregon, who had been his friend and commander, and 
told hi the secret of the Indian soldiers who would not go 

We stopped at a very quaint old Mexican hotel in 
Navojoa. The bellboys and porters were all Mayo 
Indians. At night they slept out on the stone steps of the 
hotel. They didn't really lie down, but simply propped 
themselves up against the door and snoozed off wrapped 
in their lovely Mayo blankets. This made it difficult to get 
through the door. You had to step on them or step over 
them. Having seen the Mayos fighting, I thought it best 
not to step on them. Who knows but that one of them 
might have been the little fellow who fought all that day 
against the fire of fourteen machine guns in the cemetery at 


THE rich agricultural country between the Rio Yaqui and 
the old Aztec city of Culiacan has begun to sprout Yankees. 
All through this country you find the Mexican burro step- 
ping aside to let an American tractor pass. And then he 
ambles along at his own pace, refusing to be stampeded 
from the seventeenth century into the twentieth. 

In the lovely valley of the Rio Fuerte just across the 
state line between Sinaloa and Sonora is an old town 
called Los Mochis which has 'gone American/ It is in the 
heart of the sugar-cane country. All the land, the sugar- 
mills, the hotel, and most of the business firms are owned by 
Americans. The plantations are operated with modern 
American efficiency. The planters live a lif e that reminds 
one of Rudyard Kipling's stories of the life of the English 
in India. They have their tennis clubs, polo fields, golf 
links, dances, bridge parties. It is as though they lived on 
a gay island in a sad and changeless ocean called Mexico. 
And, as usual in such communities, what they know about 
each other's private affairs is plenty. It is interesting to 
see how these outlanders have fitted themselves into Mex- 
ico. The grand mansion of Los Mochis is half English, half 
rural Spanish set in a lovely English garden. 

Some of the most charming homes I have ever seen have 
been made by American girls in Mexico. They have spread 
a lovely veneer of Yankee over old houses, mostly in the 
way of plumbing and comfortable chairs. 


Mexican houses lack comfort. The old ones have heavy 
elegance and no conveniences. The new ones are long on 
loggias, potted palms, and stiff furniture. 

The worst are the newly rich Mexicans who have 'gone 

Bight in the middle of the American town is a part of Los 
Mochis where the Mexican laborers live with their families 
just as their people have lived for centuries same old 
sandals, white cotton drawers, sombreros, and tortillas. 
The one feature of American civilization for which the 
Mexicans seem to have reached with eagerness is American 
jazz dance music. I have never seen a Mexican town so 
small that it did not have an orchestra. I never found an 
orchestra that did not play 'Show Me the Way to Go 
Home' - just then the popular favorite. Perhaps, how- 
ever, this doesn't mean so much after all. Jazz music is so 
primitive that it still smells of the African jungles. 

In this spatter-work country half American and half 
seventeenth-century Mexico it was interesting to see 
how the two races get along. On principle the Mexican 
peon feels that he ought to hate the Gringo invader; but he 
never can find any particular one that he doesn't like. 
Nearly every Mexican likes to work for an American boss. 
The majority of Americans who go down into this district 
are clever, sympathetic, likable college boys. 

A very curious fact seems to be that four fifths of the 
Mexican women of the better class yearn to move to Holly- 
wood; but the American women like to live in Mexico. An 
American girl who goes to Mexico to establish a home finds 
herself a grand lady of the Middle Ages with swarms of 
gentle, amiable servants. This is an old story to the 
Mexican girl, who has been brought up that way. She 


wants to move to Hollywood; dine in cafes at 'the next 
table to Mary Pickford. 

Account for this as you will, but my observation is that 
the average Mexican man is sinking deeper into Mexico all 
the time burrowing in with a fierce and mysterious de- 
votion. The peons of Indian blood are breeding back to the 
mother race. Among the intellectual classes the men are 
reaching down into Mexico's heritage of spiritual mystery 
and strength a heritage left by old races and forgotten 
civilizations. On the other hand, the Mexican woman as 
though fearful of lifting the lid of that ancient Pandora's 
box is usually found with her face turned toward Holly- 
wood. This may be because Los Angeles is essentially a 
woman's town in every characteristic. It is the capital 
city of the She World. 

It follows that any account of this section of Mexico 
must be a spatter-work a good deal like the country it- 
self random notes of a traveler. 


* Gun-packing' is as common in rural Mexico as in the 
old days of our border. But not for the same reason. A 
gunfight is almost unheard of I think it is a left-over 
from the days of chivalry. They wear guns in the same 
way that the Spanish knights wore swords. I asked one 
charming young engineer on the staff of the Governor of 
Sinaloa why he went about draped with artillery. He 
laughed and answered, 'Es mi joya.' (It is my jewel.) 

To a Mexican, it is incomprehensible that in our big 
cities we allow ourselves tamely to be held up by thugs in 
the street. One of the two would come home dead in 
Mexico. Mexican ladies tell me that, during the early days 
before the bandits were cleaned up, they always expected 


to see a revolver laid on the seat of the limousine when they 
went out in the evening. 

I embarrassed the distinguished mayor of the little town 
of Elota very much by feeling the outlines of the six-gun 
under his coat. He came back to me, with three different 
interpreters in relays, to make it clear that he wasn't a bad 
man; that the revolver was his insignia of office; and that, 
anyhow, he was only carrying it in order that he might 
have the privilege of laying down his life in my defense. 

It is said jocosely that you can detect a Mexican's social 
rank by his revolver holster. Possibly there are so many 
beautiful holsters because Mexico has so many generals. 
Whatever the explanation may be, it remains a fact that 
some of the finest examples of native arts and crafts are to 
be found on pistol scabbards. The leather is beautifully 
carved and sometimes handsomely embroidered in gold 
and silver thread. Usually they are worn dangling from 
belts filled with cartridges that have been polished until 
they gleam. I have even known Mexican dandies who had 
their cartridges made of solid silver. They couldn't be 
fired, of course, silver being too soft a metal; but they 
provided grand ornamentation. 


Near the busiest part of this section of Mexico is a 'ghost 
town/ An old port on the Gulf which once was famous for 
turtles. It has an Indian name Agiabampo. When the 
Americans built a railroad down the West Coast, some 
years ago, they laid the tracks many miles east of Agia- 
bampo. They left it marooned. Now it is slumbering in its 
memories falling into decay leaning walls and falling 
timbers. The smothering growth of the banyan trees is 
creeping up upon it. The old well-sweep seemed to whisper 


little echoes of the laughter of the peon women... crum- 
bling walls of adobe houses... 

If the glory has gone, the turtles have not. Thousands of 
them float in the warm tropic waters enormous fellows 
weighing two or three hundred pounds. These Mexican 
Gulf waters are the greatest turtle hunting-grounds in the 
world. There are times when the sea seems paved with 

Sea turtles are clumsy old fellows with heads that look 
fierce but are not. Their necks look like the necks of old, 
old men that have been washed and shrunken in the pro- 
cess. They have no teeth merely a hard jaw made for 
snapping off seaweed, upon which they feed. It is this diet 
that sometimes gives their flesh a tinge of green. Native 
turtle fishers say they have caught giants weighing a 
thousand pounds, but I have never seen one that weighed 
more than three hundred to five hundred. No one knows to 
what age they live : probably one hundred to three hundred 

There are two common ways of catching the turtles. The 
natives dive from boats and grab them by the flippers, 
dragging them in over the gunwales of the boats. The 
simplest way is to wait until the females come ashore to lay 
their eggs, then turn them over on their backs. They have 
no fight in their souls. They peer out with a sort of pained 
contemplation and walk with a heavy deliberation of man- 
ner that suggests an undertaker walking on a hot plate and 
trying not to lose his professional manner. They don't in- 
dulge in much conversation in their three hundred years. 
At egg-laying time, the females have a sort of tame hiss like 
that of an indolent snake. The males have a species of weak 
bellow at the mating season which the young lady turtles 


of a mere fifty or sixty years no doubt find alluring and 

The books contend that the turtles cannot live very long 
on land because the bottom of their shell houses is soft and 
cannot properly hold up their gizzards without the support 
of the sea water. However, I knew a family at Eiverside, 
Calif ornia, who kept one as a pet for fifteen years and he 
died amidst the mourning of an afflicted family with 
gizzard still intact. He was an affectionate old chap and 
would follow the family all over the garden. 

In the days before fishing boats had mechanical refrigera- 
tion, the crews often used to take whole deckloads of turtles 
on board they turned them over on their backs and used 
them as needed for food. The turtles never seemed to suffer 
from these protracted periods of meditation with their feet 
in the air. 

We visited many great estates kingdoms of the soil; 
but at Agiabampo, we had luncheon at a little country farm 
the Mexican version of one of our Iowa farms. The 
farmhouse was a one-story adobe, built flush to the road 
iron-barred windows and a great door leading through the 
house to the patio. On the porch that fronted this patio, 
the lif e of the family was lived. Wooden pegs were at one 
end of the porch. Upon them straddled the saddles of the 
men of the family. Nearly every saddle carried a sword 
the Mexican machete, lie patio was not a flower garden 
as in the more elegant Mexican houses. This was a farm- 
yard, with turtle meat drying in strips and shreds, the 
skins of wild animals, coyotes and foxes, drying on a raw- 
hide clothesline. 

At this old ranch we had a chance to see a real farm 


kitchen. It was in a little square adobe house in the court- 
yard, away from the house. The stove was made of stone 
and adobe bricks. Under each separate stove-hole was a 
separate fire. If cooking three things, you have three fires. 
Usually these fires are made by charcoal, of which Mexico 
produces enormous quantities. As a usual thing, when an 
American girl goes to Mexico to live, she gives one scornful 
look at the Mexican stove and sends to the 'States' for a 
shiny cook-stove. In the end the shiny cook-stove makes a 
grand table upon which to pile the dishes. The American 
girl invariably goes back to the Mexican stove. 

The little town of Guasave was so sleepy that it looked as 
though it had not stirred for three hundred years. But it 
was stirred this time. The village band in white cotton 
drawers and sandals was tooting its head off in our honor. 
Peons in big sombreros milled and surged around our cars, 
very anxious to see los americanos. A gentleman, with 
heavy silver embroidery on his sombrero and an enormous 
revolver hanging from his belt, scattered them and led us, 
as he explained with great dignity, to the 'Municipal 

The 'Municipal Palace' turned out to be a little adobe 
house with a big front room. This room was adorned with 
crayon portraits of the heroes of Mexico. With handsome 
impartiality, the mayor had hung the portraits of the 
presidents and the chiefs who had risen in revolution 
against the presidents; and the revolutionists who had 
risen against the revolutionists. 

We all made speeches. Every time any of us rose to 
speak, the village band played a thrilling little flourish 
which is called 'The Diana.' I was overcome with self- 


importance until I found out that they always play 'The 
Diana' at bull-fights to celebrate the moment when the 
bull comes in. Alter that I wasn't so sure that I ought to 
feel complimented. 

After the speeches, we went out onto the long porch that 
looked out into the patio. At one end of this porch was a 
dark adobe room with a barred door. It was the town jail. 
It had one occupant. He was the most forlorn-looking indi- 
vidual I ever remember to have seen. His cotton pants 
were torn; his sombrero was banged in on one side, and he 
had lost one of his guarachas. To the obvious displeasure 
of the Mexican grandees, we passed cigars and cigarettes 
and money to him through the bars. One of us, with a 
grand inspiration, passed him a stick of tutti-frutti chew- 
ing-gum. El Nortefio, to whom gum was a new and pride- 
ful accomplishment, showed him how to chew it. He 
chewed it without any enthusiasm. Mournful and uncon- 
vinced, he cast a dejected eye upon El Nortefio as that 
young caballero showed him how to bubble. This is one of 
the more delicate and intricate advances in the art of gum- 
chewing. But he refused even to try to bubble. He sank 
down to the floor on his heels and sadly began chewing his 
cud as though gum-chewing were one more ill and sorrow 
that a cruel fate had thrust upon him. 

Afterward we went out to a grove of enormous banyan 
trees, where they were getting ready a turtle barbecue in 
our honor. One elderly peon was the barbecue champion 
of the place. He dug a pit in the ground and built a fire 
while two or three assistants, with bowie knives which they 
unlimbered from their belts, shred the turtle meat into 
flaky fragments. They finally had a great pottery bowl 


brimming over. When it was finally cooked, they put it on 
a long table which fairly sagged with the weight of tortillas, 
chicken, and enchiladas. I wasn't so crazy about the turtle 
meat. It seemed rather flat and tasteless. 

One lone American had lived in the town for more than 
twenty years. He was a doctor who had graduated from a 
famous university. A great sorrow had come into his life. 
He had come to Mexico to get away from the scenes of his 
grief. For all these years he had lived in a strange land, 
caring for the sick and poor. He seemed very poor himself, 
for his clothes were shabby and threadbare. But he was 
gentle and kind. He said he had found happiness among 
these simple and kindly people who so greatly needed his 

If we made a stir in the life of Guasave, we fairly stood 
Guamuchil on its head with excitement. There is one little 
country inn at Guamuchil. I suppose that, on its big 
nights, it had two guests. You can imagine then the excite- 
ment of the innkeeper when he saw our party with our 
cavalcade of cars coming in one direction and the Governor 
of the great State of Sinaloa coming in the other direction 
with his whole staff snappy West-Point-looking young 
men in natty uniforms. He came as near dashing around as 
a Mexican has ever been known to dash. All the regular 
parlor boarders were sent flying out in all directions to find 
beds wherever they could. 

A long table was spread down the middle of the patio. A 
Mexican Paul Eevere was sent galloping from ranch to 
ranch to pick up the members of the village orchestra. 
They left their plows and hoes and came hurrying in with 
their instruments. Dressed in shirt-sleeves and white 


cotton pants, they played most of the night for us. Out of 
special compliment, they tried to play American jazz 
music until we sent a message asking them for Mexican 
tunes. These Mexican folk-songs are charming. No one 
knows who composed most of them. They were made up 
by the herders, riding around the cattle at night; by little 
peons as they followed the burro trains down lonely trails. 
One song very popular in Mexico is Cuatro Milpas. It is 
a very sad song. It tells of a farmer who came back 
from fighting in a revolution to find his little farm in 
ruins his four fields a wreck. The name of the song 
means 'Four Fields/ 

These folk-songs well up from the soil. They are the 
nearest that America has ever come to a native music. 
Jazz is more Jewish than Negro. Negro spirituals echo 
from Africa. What we call Spanish music like La 
Paloma is of the music halls composed songs. The 
real songs of Mexico just happened. The Mexicans are a 
very lovable and warm-hearted people. They are happy 
when they can make you happy. The peon musicians, in 
from the fields with then* time-stained guitars and their 
shabby fiddles, were happy when we applauded and de- 
manded 'Mas! Mas!' which means 'More! more!' 

I had a room with a bed that had been made by native 
workmen. Instead of springs it had rawhide thongs criss- 
crossed underneath. The room looked out through an 
iron-barred window onto the sidewalk. It had no curtains. 
When I went to bed that night, I had an interested audi- 
ence. It seemed as though about half the town crowded 
around the window dark, silent faces under big som- 
breros. They watched me pull off my heavy field boots and 
crawl in under the gay Mayo blanket. 


The Governor looked a little tired and worn the next 
morning. Finding there weren't enough to go around, he 
had insisted that the Gringos have all the beds. He had 
slept on a billiard table. Which I call the final height oi 


NICOLAS snickered when he heard some of our party talk- 
ing about haciendas. This is one word that, with great 
gusto, has been ushered into the English language. 

Hacienda! Realtors announce haciendas with tiled 
bathrooms and breakfast nooks. Which El Nortefio 
thought was very funny. 

An hacienda is not a house. It is an estate, more espe- 
cially a great farm which is in active operation. It must be 
working to be an hacienda. El Nortefio even protested 
when we called cattle-ranges haciendas. The meaning of 
the word implies activity doing working ... A rancho 
has come to mean a farm of two thousand acres or under. 
More land than that becomes an hacienda. 

Until you have seen the Mexican haciendas you have not 
seen Mexico. We came into the hacienda country as we 
crossed the line from Sonora into Sinaloa, just south of the 
old turtle town, Agiabampo. It was like slipping back into 
the Middle Ages. The hacendados as the owners of ha- 
ciendas are called rule like ancient barons hi their 
castles. In fact, the titles of these great estates run back, 
in many instances, to the Spanish Conquest. Life flows on 
much as it did four hundred years ago. 

I am going to tell you about two or three haciendas that 
we visited. I select these because they are typical and 

One was called Los Pericos, which El Nortefio told us 


was because of the flocks of little green parrakeets that 
squawked and screamed in the trees of its patios. The 
hacendado was a charming and courteous old gentleman, 
unhurried and unworried. He was embarrassed when I 
asked him how many acres were in the estate. He really 
didn't know. He thought there must be about a million. 
The property line ran somewhere around the dim blue line 
of mountains on the horizon. The peons well, he 
couldn't say how many worked on the place. A whole lot 
They had been there so long. 

On many of the great haciendas the same peons have 
lived there for long generations. It is not uncommon to find 
a vaquero spurring his bronco with rowels of embossed 
silver which his father and his grandfather and his grand- 
father's father wore as vaqueros before him. All the peons 
and their families lived together in a little village on the 
estate. I think that this little farm town, with its sleepy 
streets and adobe houses, made El Norteno a little home- 
sick, for he had lived in just such a place in the mountains. 
He was inclined to sniff a little scornfully at the town where 
the peons lived at Pericos. He told me of an hacienda 
which employs more than five thousand peons; so the vil- 
lages are not always little. 

At Pericos there is a large plaza. On one side of the open 
square is a long adobe building with barred windows, the 
office of the ranch and the storehouses. Many products are 
raised on the estate; but mostly hemp from which our rope 
and string are made. This is taken from a plant called 
maguey (century plant) . The thick fat leaves have a heavy 
fiber. The leaves are crushed in a mill and the heavy fiber 
hung on lines to dry. Hanging on the lines, it looks exactly 
as though an Indian tribe had scalped a whole Hollywood 


studio full of blonde young ladies and had hung their hair 
out to dry on a clothesline. On another side of the plaza 
are two one-story adobe houses for the sons of the owners 
beautiful houses with patios fragrant with flowers. 

The fourth side is the great casa of the Patron the 
master. This house gave us a good idea of the life of the 
Mexican aristocrat. It was built around a patio... with a 
walled courtyard like a fortress behind it. There were 
seven bedrooms furnished in old black walnut. ElNortefio 
and I measured them. They were forty feet long and 
twenty feet wide. The ceilings were eleven feet high. You 
could have put a whole Hollywood bungalow into one. The 
walls were four feet thick with little windows peeking 
through the walls. 

The kitchen opened on the back part of the patio. With 
the homing-pigeon instinct of a hungry boy, El Nortefio 
found his way into the kitchen and hurried back to beckon 
me in. The kitchen had three different stoves. All were 
made of stone and adobe bricks. The ceiling of the kitchen 
was twenty- one feet high and the tall walls were black with 
the smoke of a hundred years. There were about a dozen 
cooks. Some were young girls and others were women with 
children clinging to their skirts as they cooked and patted 
tortillas and mixed stuffing for the enchiladas. 

Mexican people eat very little beefsteak. Most of their 
meat dishes are chicken or turkey or young goat. They 
have one dish that is almost universal. It is called Mole de 
guajolote (pronounced gwah-ho-lo-tay). It is also often 
called by a Spanish name which means 'Stains-on-the- 
tablecloth.' It is made of small shreds of turkey meat, 
soggy wet and floating in a kind of sauce. Always at 
Mexican dinners they serve sauces of chile peppers. Some 


are delicious, but some are so hot that you feel like calling 
out the fire department with every bite. After witnessing 
with some awe the stuff that Norteno could swallow, I 
decided he must be lined inside with asbestos. 

Norteno opened an iron door in the kitchen wall and we 
found that it opened into a Mexican oven that stood in the 
back courtyard. It was made of adobe brick and looked 
like an old-fashioned beehive. The Mexican housewife puts 
wood into the oven; burns it until the bricks are almost 
red-hot; then she rakes it out and puts in the bread or 
whatever she wishes to cook. American women who have 
used them tell me that these ovens are better than modern 

The courtyard in which the oven stood was really a fort. 
It was built for military defense. The gates were of heavy, 
studded timbers. In time of danger they drove the stock 
and the families inside and shut the gates against attack. 
All around the edges of the courtyard were small rooms of 
adobe. Some were used as quarters for the servants; others 
were 'workshops where the peons made leather harness, 
bridles for the horses, reatas, and so on. 

At dinner I told the senora that I wished I could live in 
such a lovely old place where everything was so peaceful 
and quiet. 'Well,' she said, 'if you had to manage all these 
servants for a while, you wouldn't like it so well.' She told 
me she would like to live in Hollywood. She became quite 
excited when she told me about a Hollywood bungalow she 
had seen where you just touch a button and it gets 
light; another, and it gets dark; another button, and the 
room gets warm; another, and it gets cold. 

El Norteno was politely skeptical. He didn't believe in 



We had luncheon in a long dining-room at the end of a 
porch; it was furnished with ancient black walnut furniture, 
huge highboys and a marvelous old carved table. One of 
the guests at the luncheon was a dentist who travels from 
hacienda to hacienda with his dental chair packed in a 
specially made automobile. He was an American. If you 
have a toothache on a Mexican hacienda, there is nothing 
to do but grin and bear it until the 'tooth doctor* comes 
motoring along. 

This dentist, who was a charming fellow, told me a good 
deal about the tusks of Mexico. He said that the Mexican 
peasant looks as though he had perfect teeth, but this is 
not always true. The reason the teeth appear so white and 
so perfect is the background of his dark skin. The peasants 
suffer a great deal from indigestion and this disease reflects 
itself in their teeth. The fiery chile that they eat chews up 
the linings of their stomachs and the mescal and tequila 
that they drink stops the action of their gastric juices. The 
dentist formerly had an office in one of the Mexican cities, 
but left it to become a tramp dentist because he likes to 
wander around among the country peons. They are a 
charming and appealing people. To my not inconsiderable 
surprise, he told me that, even as a town dentist, he found 
the peons were always good pay. A Mexican family will go 
without eating to pay the dentist or the doctor. 

The infant mortality among the peons is dreadful. The 
children of the poor fade away like little flowers. It is per- 
haps a reflection upon the sorrow and hardships of the cruel 
Hie of the peon that the death of a child is always made the 
occasion of at least pretended rejoicing the little soul 
that is admitted to heaven without having to endure the 
sufferings of life. 


A week later, I visited another hacienda, La Puga, so 
regal in its proportions and its manner of life that it made 
Los Pericos seem a little country farm. La Puga has be- 
longed to the Aguirre family since the days of the Conquest. 
It has a Spanish coat-of-arms set into the patio wall which 
shows the fortification was built in 1683. There is so much 
land in this estate that it baffles the imagination more 
than five million acres. Mountain ranges, river valleys, 
lush meadow-lands. 

The long cool balcony of the ranch-house looks out upon 
the burned-out craters of Sanguanguey and the blue peaks 
of the Santiagos. Stone steps go down from this balcony 
onto the cobble-stoned road leading to the corrals. Always 
onto this road the master of the hacienda looks down upon 
a restless stream of activity the life of the rancho: long 
six-span ox-teams plodding into the compounds dragging 
huge two-wheel carts loaded mountain-high with sugar- 
cane or hemp fiber; vaqueros driving herds of cow-ponies, 
steers that break into sudden panics and try to escape down 
side roads while the vaqueros flourish their reatas and yell; 
long pack-trains of burros loaded with cane and hay the 
daily life of a working farm. 

From the inner balcony of the house one looks down into 
the patio where the intimate family life of the household 
goes on; quiet servant-women in rebosos pattering along 
on errands of the house; women patting tortillas at the 
enormous ovens; laundry-women patting the linen at the 
stone tubs which are really like overgrown horse-troughs. 

It seems as though you had slipped back into the Middle 
Ages when you go down to the first floor under the balcony 
and see the men-at-arms on guard. Since the days of its 
founding, La Puga has maintained a garrison of soldiers. 


The first soldiers who loitered around that porch were 
Spanish soldiers in deerskin armor with bell-muzzled 
arquebuses. The soldiers who loaf around there now have 
modern Mauser rifles leaning against the walls. Just back 
of the barracks-room is a dining-room for the soldiers. How 
many rollicking songs have been sung there; how many 
bowls of wassail drunk! 

Just as the fiefs used to cluster in the protection of the 
medieval castle walls, so the great house is surrounded by 
the thatched houses of the peons huts of palm with the 
firelight of the stone ovens sparkling against the shadows 
of the dim interiors. An old, old church where the peons of 
the ranch have worshiped for generations. It has an in- 
definable air of serene age rich with the memories of a 
lif e that has been lived, of generations who have been born 
on the ranch and have died generation following genera- 
tion even as the sugar-cane is cut down and grows again. 

In the valleys below La Puga are haciendas even more 
touched with medieval memories. Some are like Middle- 
Ages castles -^ stone lookout towers slit for rifle-fire; great 
studded gates opening into barricaded courtyards; beacon 
lights where watch-fires flared against the blackness of the 
dangers of the night. Mexico is a land of tragedy and tears, 
as well as gayety and song. Around every old Mexican 
building hangs the suggestion of dark memories of 
battle and of death. 

Built into the rear of the patio walls at La Puga are the 
shops of the ranch. There are peons who do nothing but 
braid rawhide into reatas; wistful-eyed, piratical-looking 
men with their feet in sandals, cutting innumerable steer 
hides into strips for thongs. There are others who make 
saddles and bridles and hobbles for the cow-ponies. In 


front of the shops is a large stone fountain where the raw- 
hide is soaked as it is worked. 

Much of the activity of this part of the establishment 
has to do with making ox-yokes. This is an ox country. 
Farther north, the oxen are nervous little creatures who 
weave see-saw and struggle at the yoke. The oxen at La 
Puga are serene, big cream-colored fellows. 

My people have lived for nearly three hundred years on 
an old farm in New England. They still use oxen, so I know 
something about them. Mexican oxen are handled in an 
entirely different way. In place of the heavy yoke that goes 
over the necks of our Rhode Island oxen, the Mexicans fix 
their yokes in what seems a cruel way. The pole of the 
wagon is fastened to a straight bar of wood to which the 
horns of the two oxen are tightly lashed with thongs of 
rawhide. The result is that neither ox can move his head. 
The whole weight of the load comes on his forehead. 
American engineers who have tested it say that an ox can- 
not pull as much this way as with a yoke around his neck. 
The Mexicans cling to the old way through tradition. 

The oxen themselves are a part of tradition. Their use 
undoubtedly began with the military invasions of the West 
Coast by the Conquistadores. An ox is or was an 
ideal beast of burden for a marching army. When his 
burden is used up, the soldiers can eat the ox. In present 
conditions in Mexico, the oxen are probably more useful 
than horses. They will patiently struggle to get a cart over 
a muddy, thick road where a team of horses would kill 
themselves plunging into the collars. The Mexicans say 
they are much better than any other sort of pulling animals 
on steep mountain roads. 

In the old days of our frontier, there was developed a 


mule-driver whose pride was that he could urge on his team 
by picturesque and colorful language. The theory, at 
least, was that mules were especially sensitive to the in- 
spiration that came from swear words. The Mexican uses 
another method to urge his ox-team on to violent and su- 
preme effort. He twists their tails. We came across one 
ox-driver who induced his beasts to impossible feats of 
strength by biting their tails with his teeth. To an ox there 
seems to be something especially inspiring about being 
bitten on the tail. 


ONE of the two scouts reined his horse and swung his 
great musket into position. A corporal spurred up his 
horse to find out the cause of the disturbance. Together 
the two soldiers watched two strange figures making their 
way along the edge of the river. They were in tattered 
rags, almost naked. They were plainly starved and fam- 
ished. They were dragging themselves along in the last 
stages of exhaustion. Neither to the surprise of the 
Spanish soldiers was an Indian. One was a white man 
with a long unkempt beard. The other was a coal-black 

The corporal took them at once to the officer in com- 
mand. To this officer they told one of the most amazing 
stories that was ever told to anyone in the world. 

It was the year 1538: the place was just north of the 
present city of Culiacan, and the men were Cabeza de 
Vaca and a Negro slave named Estebanico. Culiacan has 
been the scene of many strange dramas, but the meeting 
of the Spanish officer and the ragged wreck of a man who 
held to the cavalry horse for support as he walked was the 

Cabeza de Vaca is one of the greatest figures in the 
history of North America. He might justly and truly be 
called one of the Pilgrim Fathers of the United States. He 
explained to the Spanish officer that he had been one of an 
exploring expedition that had left Spain in a great ship and 


had landed in Florida about where the present city of 
Tampa stands. There were six hundred men in the ex- 
pedition. Their purpose was to explore and claim the new 
land of America for the Spanish King. They ran into hard 
luck: attacked by hostile Indians; starved; perished in 
floods, and died of exposure. 

In the end only four were left Cabeza de Vaca and 
the Negro slave who had been captured in his home in 
Africa and sold to a Spanish soldier, and two others. For 
nine terrible years they wandered through the country. 
They kept on always walking toward the west. They knew 
it was impossible to turn back. Somewhere toward the 
setting sun, they knew there was a place called Mexico 
and in Mexico they could find their own people. 

Sometimes they lived with the Indians, whom they 
succeeded in making their friends. Cabeza de Vaca was a 
gentleman of good education. He knew enough about 
medicine to help the sick Indians. At least he knew more 
than their medicine-men with their magic incantations. 
But the Indians could not help them much in return. They 
were on the verge of starvation most of the time. At times 
the four went together. Sometimes they made their ways 
separately. Most of the time Cabeza de Vaca and the 
slave Estebanico traveled together. Their suffering was 
horrible ghastly. Only men with lion hearts could have 
staggered on year after year nine years. 

Cabeza de Vaca was the first white man ever to cross the 
American continent; the first white man ever to see a 
buffalo with which the prairies at that time were covered. 
No doubt you will wonder as I did how such a man came 
to bear a name that in Spanish means 'head of a 
cow/ Oddly enough, this queer name was a mark of 


honor. Many years before one of his ancestors had guided 
a Spanish army through a hidden canon in Spain. In so 
doing he had enabled the army to escape annihilation at 
the hands of the Moors. In this canon a conspicuous ob- 
ject had been the bleaching skull of a cow. So they named 
the place 'E Cation de Cabeza de Vaca.' When the TCing 
gave a title to the guide as reward, he remembered that 
canon. That is why a brave grandee of Spain came to be 
named Cabeza de Vaca head of a cow. 

Cabeza de Vaca told many strange and wonderful 
stories to the Spanish officer while he was recovering his 
health and strength in the garrison town of Culiacan. He 
told them of a legend he had heard among the Indians. 
It was the legend of the Seven Golden Cities of Cibola. 

Had it not been for this legend, we might never have 
had the West. This story inspired most of the early ex- 
plorers. It was to search for these fabled cities that Coro- 
nado started on the journey that resulted in the discovery 
of New Mexico, Arizona, the Grand Canon, and all the 
lands as far east as Xansas. 

Cabeza de Vaca returned to Spain, but the Negro slave 
Estebanico went back to the wild country. In company 
with a brave and adventurous priest, he tried to find the 
cities of Cibola. They wandered all over New Mexico and 
Estebanico was clubbed to death by the Indians in the 
pueblo of Zufii which is still there. You can see the 
rock from which the priest watched the death of the black 
slave. The priest escaped and came back to Mexico to tell 
the officers that he thought Zufii was one of the cities of 
Cibola. The other two companions of Cabeza de Vaca 
finally returned safely to Mexico. 

This is but one of the dramas that have made Culiacan 


Historic. It is a beautiful place. We arrived there at the 
end of a long day's ride through the pathway of old revolu- 
tions. Ruined haciendas, broken walls, wrecked patios, 
banyan trees growing in loneliness out of adobe walls 
adobe walls that once looked down upon gay fandangos 
the hit of Mexican music, laughter and happiness. Some 
of these old haciendas have been fought over dozens of 
times during the years of battle. The cattle have gone to 
fill the stomachs of marching revolutionary armies. 

Sunset the blue spires of Culiacan against the tropic 
sky. Culiacan is old. Incredibly and unbelievably old. It 
was nearly a thousand years old when Columbus discov- 
ered America. It has been a governed city since 522. 
When Culiacan was founded, our British ancestors were 
trying to repel the invading Viking war parties with 
then* steer-horn helmets and their terrible two-handed 

Other old cities have been found in the jungles of Yuca- 
tan; but they are ruins memories. Culiacan has been a 
city almost without interruption for fourteen hun- 
dred years. If the people of Culiacan followed our pleasing 
custom and hung the portraits of all the mayors in the City 
Hall, Ciiliacan's first one would be shown as a half-naked 
savage who gnawed his dinner off a bone. 

Culiacan was started by a wandering tribe of Toltecs 
coming down the coast from Alaska. They stayed about 
two hundred years and wandered along to the south to 
found what is now the City of Mexico. After them the 
Aztecs came to Culiacan. They were more savage and 
fiercer than the Toltecs. Primitive people coming from a 
bitter cold climate like Alaska to a warm country nearly 
always develop culture and civilization. The vitality that 


has been used to keep their feet warm goes to their brain 
cells. After a while the Aztecs followed the Toltecs to the 
south, where they founded the great empire of Montezuma 
with superb temples, its processions of priests, and its 
human sacrifices. 

Then the Spanish knights came from the other direction 
from the south. The Spanish Conquistadores came to 
Mexico looking for gold. They conquered the empire of 
Montezuma, but they were a little disappointed in the loot. 
They had an idea that Montezuma's gold came from the 
mines on the West Coast. With almost incredible courage 
and energy then 1 little armies of knights and soldiers 
pushed in over cruel mountain ranges; through jungles 
and across wild, turbulent rivers. They established 
frontier posts as our army did against the Indians in 
Dakota and Montana in the early border days. They 
fought for more than a hundred years for possession of the 
valleys around Culiacan. It was worth fighting for. They 
realized it was the garden spot of the world. 

Sinaloa the State of which Culiacan is the capital 
is an enormous shelf of land running from a rampart of 
high mountains to the sea. Eleven large rivers flow across 
it. These mountain streams come tearing down in the 
spring flood, carrying great quantities of sflt As a result 
Sinaloa is covered with a thick carpet of soft, rich soil. 
The headwaters of these rivers drop over mountain cliffs 
in swift, sparkling cascades. Some day these waters will 
be put to work making electricity to drive the machinery 
of a new industrial Mexico. 

Modern Culiacan is one of the gayest, liveliest, merriest 
cities in all Mexico. Two broad rivers come together just 
above the town. Around these rivers much of the social 


life of the peons transpires. The peon women do their 
washing on the banks of the stream. Washday which 
is nearly every day is quite a gala affair. The women 
build a little rough shelter of leafy boughs called a 
ramada at the edge of the stream. This protects them 
from the sun as they do the family laundry. They have no 
Dashboards. They clean the clothes by slapping them with 
little wooden paddles on the wet rocks. In the morning 
you will see scores of these laundry ramadas lining the 
river-banks. The women have a grand time gossiping and 
laughing and talking. At their work, they wear long, loose 
gowns like our Mother Hubbards. After they have finished 
the washing and hung the clothes out to dry on the ra- 
madas or on bushes, they nearly always go in swimming in 
their Mother Hubbards. You see them afterward drying 
their long black hair as they wait for the clothes to dry 
which isn't very long in that hot dry air. 

They carry the clean clothes home on their heads. Mexi- 
can women always carry burdens on their heads. I have 
seen little girls struggling to lift a five-gallon oil-can full of 
water. And if you have ever tried to pick up a five-gallon 
can filled with water, you know that it is no light load. 
But with the cans balanced on the top of their heads, they 
walk off quite easily. These head burdens give them a 
very straight carriage. When I saw peon women walking 
along, with beautiful pottery ollas balanced on their heads, 
I always expected to see the ollas drop. But I have yet to 
see one fall. They make no special effort to maintain the 
balance. They just walk along easily, not even holding the 
ollas in place with a hand. Sometimes, when the burden is 
especially heavy, they wear little felt head-pads. 

Culiacan is famous all over Mexico for its pretty girls. 


Those of the aristocratic class live rather secluded lives, 
never even walking down the street without a chaperon. 
The girls of the peon class have more freedom. They 
come to the river every day to swim. It is very curious to 
see them afterward getting dressed in full sight of the 
world, putting on the latest Hollywood clothes and shaking 
out their fashionable boyish bobs, indifferent as to whether 
or not the public is looking on. 

We stayed in an old hotel which was very charming. 
The dining-room was an immense room open on one side to 
the patio, fragrant with flowers and green with banana and 
other tropic trees. Our bedrooms were twice the size of an 
ordinary bungalow living-room, with big windows. The 
floors were made of separate pieces of wood, like a mosaic. 
Long ago these floors were very fashionable. It was 
rather funny, because the floors squeaked as you walked. 

I never got tired of sitting on the little balcony in front 
of my room watching the traffic flowing by. One minute 
it would be a company of Mexican soldiers marching 
stiffly along like West-Pointers to the music of drums and 
bugles. Mexican bugle-calls are much more beautiful than 
ours. Their mess-call is a wild wail that suggests a dying 
swan. Considering it often calls them to a meal of tortillas 
that they have made themselves, it seems too beautiful for 
the purpose. 

In the trail of the soldiers will be a band of burros loaded 
with sugar-cane or perhaps with earthen jars and pots 
and dishes. Sometimes a train of burros comes in from 
the ranches loaded with live chickens. The chickens are 
packed on burros in little wicker cages, something like 
bird-cages:) although I 'have seen a burro draped all over 
with live turkeys or even a pig or two. 



There are a few automobile taxicabs; but the tans I 
liked best were funny two-wheeled carts with canopies on 
top. There are two seats one for you and one for the 
driver. They are called aranas (ah-rahn-yahs), which, in 
Spanish, means spider. 

The people in Culiacan seem to dance all the time. Per- 
haps this is because the girls are so very lovely. There are 
little dancehalls down by the river. At the slightest ex- 
cuse they give a fandango. Hollywood jazz dance music is, 
alas, more popular than their own Mexican music. 

At the edge of town are little suburban settlements 
what we should call crossroads. The houses have a differ- 
ent character from those in the northern part of Mexico. 
In the north, the peon houses are all of stone and adobe. 
As you come farther down in the hot country, many are 
made of what is called wattle. They make a wall by 
thrusting straight, hard arrowweed stalks into the ground; 
then another wall a few inches from it. Between the two 
barriers of arrowweed they pour stones and adobe. It 
makes an excellent house. The roofs are thatched from 
arrowweed and sometimes palm fronds. 

The peasant houses around Culiacan are charming, as 
peasant houses usually are in all countries. About half the 
house is made of outdoors. There is one room or maybe 
two completely walled in. But standing out from this 
like a porch is a big ramada without walls, but with a roof 
of thatch. In this ramada the life of the family is carried 
on. Here they cook and eat and sometimes sleep. 

Many Americans have come to live in Culiacan. They 
have haciendas back in the country. Young American 
boys come down as engineers and marry Mexican girls of. 
the better .class and enter into a life that is half Latin and 


half Anglo-Saxon and altogether charming. We at- 
tended one of these weddings, which was performed with 
great elegance and gayety. But when it was over and the 
handsome young college boy had been married to the most 
beautiful sefiorita you ever could imagine, I heard one of 
the girls say with perhaps some secret envy 'Poor 
Guadalupe; she is only a Gringa now.' 



un gran caballero. He is forty-five years old and exactly 
three feet, five inches tall. We did ourselves the honor to 
make his acquaintance in the town of Santiago the day we 
left Culiacan. He sat with a grand air on his tiny fawn- 
colored burro and informed us with a flourish, 'Esta es su 
ciudad/ (This is your city,) We didn't feel like packing 
off the city, however, although we might reasonably have 
done so, there being only two adobe houses. We realized 
that El Sefior was only extending the usual charming 
Mexican courtesy. Whenever you go into a Mexican 
house, the host always says, 'Esta es su casa/ (This is 
your house.) 

We discovered that we had been tactless in selecting 
this day to meet Don Albeno. It was the most unfortunate 
day of his life. Although he had fought in several revolu- 
tions and had been married three times, his heart was still 
gay for fandangos. The night before he had attended a 
gorgeous fandango in a neighboring town. In the course of 
the festivities a rival caballero had given offense. Drawing 
himself to his full yard and five inches, Don Albeno had 
challenged the contemptible interloper to fight then and 
there to the death. But his little squeaky voice had been 
lost in the music of the dance. In fact, the rival caballero 
not knowing that he was being defied to come outside 
and be slain had been so careless as to step on the per- 


son of El Gran Caballero, El Seftor Don Albeno Maria 
Guadalupe Rodriguez. As though that were not mortifica- 
tion enough, on the way home late that night, Don Albeno 
had the misfortune to fall off his fawn-colored burro. Al- 
though the burrito was not much taller than a big dog, Don 
Albeno was too little to climb back on again. To the great 
disaster of his pride, he was obliged to walk all the way 
home leading the burro. 

In his more serious moments of earning a living, Don 
Albeno engaged in a most heroic and sensational occu- 
pation. He caught wild horses and wild steers. This he 
accomplished by guile and strategy. Don Albeno found 
out where the wild horses came to the water-holes to drink. 
In these animal trails he would cunningly place the loop of 
a hidden lasso. The other end he tied to a tree. When the 
wild horse or steer came along, its legs would be caught 
and it would struggle until it fell all in a tangle. When it 
had tied itself up into a quite hopeless knot, Don Albeno 
would swagger out of his hiding-place, place one tiny foot 
on the head of the quivering monster, and laugh a laugh of 
contemptuous triumph. 

It was dark night when we came into the mountain town 
of Elota. It was dirty, forlorn, and forsaken utterly 
dreary. A few shabby houses on dirty streets against the 
dark shape of the mountains. There was no hotel. We 
were to be quartered in the casa of the apothecary. He had 
the best house in town. He had his drugstore in one of the 
front rooms. In this was an array of patent medicines and 
jars of rouge and boxes of violent-looking lipsticks for the 

When we arrived, all the elite of the town were as- 
sembled in the druggist's patio and were seated in state 


sefloritas with demure, curious eyes bunched in between 
fat sefioras. Everyone in town who had not been invited 
to the party crowded around the doors and windows, ten 
or twelve deep, their tall sombreros dim shapes in the 
night. The village band was just getting ready to play. 
The leader was giving a magnificent gesture with his 
cornet preliminary to the crash of harmony that was to 
follow. When a most unexpected event happened. 

Up dashed two automobile trucks one filled with 
pretty sefloritas and the other carrying a rival band. 
With dismay the Mayor of Elota realized the full signifi- 
cance which we, at the time, did not. It meant that the 
rival town of San Ignacio had executed a brilliant flank 
movement. It seems that San Ignacio had every expecta- 
tion that the Gringos would come there to spend the night 
instead of at Elota. Preparations had been made for a 
grand fandango. When no Gringos appeared, suspicion 
entered the heart of the Mayor of San Ignacio. He sent 
out a courier, who came galloping back on a spent and 
weary horse to announce that the Gringos were in the 
hands of the treacherous rival, Elota. 

Dismay never enters the heart of a Napoleon. The 
Mayor of San Ignacio gathered up all the seftoritas who 
had come to the fandango and hustled them into a motor 
truck for the first time in their lives without chaperons. 
Into another truck he crowded the musicians of the village 
band: the two trucks tore out through the darkness for 

Before he could recover his senses, the Elota bandmaster 
found himself outgeneraled. Before he could get his 
musicians launched into Rancho Grande, the invading 
band from San Ignacio was almost tooting its brains out, 


playing Negra Consentida. All night long, the band of 
Elota waited for a chance to show its art and talent. But 
every time the bandmaster of Elota lifted his cornet as a 
signal, the band from San Ignacio crashed into a blare of 
music and drowned it out. 

When I went to bed that night, the fandango was still 
going on. But, as the night dragged on, I could hear the 
valiant band from San Ignacio growing weaker and weaker 
... until at last just before the first light of dawn came 
over the mountains, the San Ignacio band gave one last 
despairing exhausted toot and expired. 

Then, like a jungle roar, came a blast of triumph. The 
Elota band, which had been waiting in concealment, gave 
a preliminary 'Umpa, Umpa, Umpa,' and sent the echoes 
ringing with Marcha Zacatecas. The San Ignacio band 
could only glare in futile rage. It was down and counted 
out. The last sound that assailed the infuriated ears of the 
San Ignacio band as it sped away in the automobile truck 
was the Elota band playing in a most insulting manner the 
American jazz tune, 'Show Me the Way to Go Home.' 

At Elota we had our first experience with a Mexican 
boarding-house. The room where I slept was also the 
telephone exchange. My dreams were disturbed by a 
sefiorita flying wildly in and stumbling over the furniture 
to plug in at the switchboard. 

The bed upon which I slept was of rawhide. There were 
no sheets or blankets only a thin spread and the wind 
came off the mountains snows bitterly cold. In the middle 
of the night I had to get up and fish out a camp sleeping- 
bag from one of the caravan trucks. I discovered that it is 
the custom in all these rural inns for the parlor boarders to 
bring along their own serapes by way of bedclothes. I be- 


gan to understand why El Nortefio never parted from his. 
I gave him money and he came back with a scrape for me. 
It was of such a bright redness that it looked like a sunset 
in the act of bleeding to death. I looked like a ripe tomato 
with it folded about me. 

A Mexican without a serape is like a chicken without 
feathers. The serape is a closely woven blanket six to 
eight feet long. In the middle is a long slit through which 
you can poke your head, letting the garment drape over 
you, front and rear. The serape is at once the saddle- 
blanket, bed-covering, and overcoat. In latter days the 
cheaper serapes are made by machinery and are of cheap 
red cotton; the peons usually wear such. The old hand- 
wovens, like El Nortefio's, have been handed down from 
generation to generation. Hie very finest ones come from 
Saltillo capital of Coahuila. The designs are conven- 
tionalized sunsets and sometimes Aztec gods. The best for 
everyday use are made in Pueblo and Oaxaca horn the 
wool of native sheep usually gray and black some- 
times with the winged lion. Weavers of serapes usually 
die of tuberculosis on account of the dust. 

With daylight came hard realities. This is a cruel coun- 
try..-, high, barren mountains... forlorn, heartrending 
little towns. The struggle for life is pitiful and terrible. I 
don't see how they live. Or on what. 

One hears a great deal in the United States about 'lazy 
Mexicans.' The fact is, that almost any other people 
faced with their problems would have sunk in bitterness 
and despair. I have seen whole families patiently plodding 
from one end of Mexico to the other the babies packed 
on the burro looking for work. In Guaymas I saw 
scores of peons hungry and exhausted who had 


walked for days pursuing a rumor that laborers were 
needed in California. Turned back, they were sleeping 
with their families in tents made of old bags on the cold 
stones on the water-front patient, uncomplaining, sad- 
eyed, but accepting their fate. 

The Mexican is a strong character. In his veins is the 
blood of the Spanish Conquistadores and the blood of 
dark, enduring Indian races. It will be interesting to see 
what new vistas of progress are opened to Mexico when the 
peon woman is released from her life of endless, grinding 
toil. It seems to me that I cannot remember to have seen 
an idle Mexican woman. 

It is in these mountain hamlets like Elota that the lives 
of the women are hardest. Their work is endless. All the 
water used in the households has to be carried in earthen 
jars from the river a quarter of a mile or more. Every 
river crossing is the scene of endless processions of Re- 
beccas going to the well. Tourists find it picturesque, but 
the Mexican would prefer the picturesqueness of a kitchen 

The pitiful little crops of corn that they raise in patches 
in the river bottoms must be ground by the women on their 
metates. The metate is a flat slab of volcanic rock. Upon 
this they lay the corn and grind it to a flour with a sort of 
stone rolling-pin. Corn has a hard, tough kernel. To 
crush it is hard, back-breaking work. The life of a Mexican 
peasant woman, from the time she is a young girl until she 
is old and broken with toil, is spent over a metate. Mex- 
ico's real national anthem is the pat-pat-pat of women 
making tortillas. 

Every day is washday in Mexico. And doing the family 
laundry, squatting on one's knees on the wet rocks of a 


river, is not my idea of a joyous outdoor sport. No one 
knows what the future will hold for Mexico when this 
bitter, endless toil has been replaced by modern sanitation 
the kitchen sink and the hot-water heater. Being a 
workhorse hasn't taken the charm from the Mexican peon 
women, however. They have a shy, quiet dignity that 
whispers of their Indian blood. 

In a little town named Quila (Key-la), we swooped down 
on a quiet little home and asked for lunch. In our party 
was the Governor of Sinaloa and his staff and all these 
strange Gringo engineers more celebrities than the peon 
woman had ever seen before in her life. There was not 
half enough in the house to eat. There are not many races 
who could have produced a woman capable of meeting the 
situation with such poise and composure. She was court- 
eous, deferential, but unflustered. In the end, some of the 
young engineers got canned food out of the cars and in- 
vaded her kitchen. They fried bacon and eggs; made 
coffee, and even tried their hands at tortillas. I think we 
must admit that the average American woman would have 
been reduced to the verge of hysterics with all these 
strange Gringos messing around the kitchen while the 
Governor waited for his luncheon. She was as serene as an 
April morning. 



HE WAS quite the most elegant fellow I had seen in Mexico. 
His army officer puttees were polished until they gleamed 
in the sun. His coat was a gay-colored mackinaw and his 
felt sombrero decorated with silver embroidery was 
cocked at an alluring angle over his handsome young face. 

As he passed along the 'Street of the High Waves' 
(Calle de las olas alias), he gave me a glance of some dis- 
satisfaction as though to demand a reason why a little fat 
Gringo should stand between him and the panorama of a 
glorious April morning. But he shook off the annoyance 
with a shrug of his shoulders; lit a cigarette; drew in a 
long, happy breath of fresh salt air, and continued his 
blithe and careless stride.. 

Two little soldiers, who walked with him, fell behind a 
step or two humbly abashed by his swaggering pic- 
turesqueness. He had the appearance of a gentleman on 
his way to a rendezvous. As, indeed, he was. He had a 
rendezvous with Death. He was on his way to be shot in 
front of an adobe wall in the old Spanish fort on the hill. 

We waited, and the bright air of the morning seemed to 
strangle us as we waited tense and nerve-strained. At 
last the ocean breeze brought in the faint crash of a volley 
of musketry, and we knew it was the end of the gay young 
officer with the silver-embroidered sombrero. He had in a 
moment of sudden passion shot a soldier with his silver- 
mounted revolver. 

The Cathedral in the background 


Anything can happen in Mazatlan. And almost every- 
thing does. It is the most beautiful place I have seen in 
any country; but it seems, somehow, like a movie set. 
You always have the feeling that presently the studio 
'prop' man will come along, pack it away on shelves, and 
get a receipt on a printed form for the pieces. 

Mazatlan is a seaport an old "hang-out* of pirates 
and smugglers on the Gulf of California. It has religiously 
followed the policy of 'Try everything once.' It has tried 
everything several times. It has been fought over with 
shot and shell so many times that it has lost all count. But 
no tragedy has been able to take away its gayety and 
charm. Once you have seen Mazatlan, it will live in 
your heart forever. 

There are really two Mazatlans. One flows along a sun- 
lit street where the surf splashes over the sea-wall at high 
tide, drenching the pavements with rainbow spray. This 
street is like a Mexican Riviera, with sidewalk cafes, 
where you sip your afternoon coffee and let your dreams 
drift out to the little high-peaked islands that stand in an 
azure sea; old Spanish inns; great casas whose tropic 
palms peep over the balconies and garden walls. 

You turn down a side street and step back four hundred 
years old churches, soft-colored with the tender touch 
of age; ancient cemeteries whispering with memories; end- 
less burro trains loaded with wood and pottery and fodder 
from the mysterious mountains; islands of coconut palms; 
long, sleepy lagoons where the wrecks of forgotten ships 
lie half-buried in the sand; flocks of screaming parrakeets 
and everywhere the soft serenity of the tropic sun. 

The hotel where we stopped was built in recent years, 
but seemed very old, for it is a replica of a Spanish inn. In 


the patio they kept until lately a huge snake, a 
python, to catch rats. He lay all day coiled under the 
palm trees, his beady little eyes contemplating the passing 
world without compromise. A year or so ago, he passed to 
Snake Paradise. 

la the American Consulate on the 'Street of the High 
Waves,' I found a quaint old book which told of past days 
past comedies and tragedies. It was a file copy of all 
the letters written about a hundred years ago. In those 
days, having no typewriters and no carbon paper, they 
had to copy all their letters 'by hand' in a record-book. 
These letters were written by the American Consul at 
Mazatlan to Daniel Webster, who was at that time 
Secretary of State. The Consul was finding the job so 
filled with difficulty and high drama that he was always 
threatening to resign. 

One day, he wrote a hurried letter which sizzled with 
excitement. A British man-of-war had anchored in the 
harbor and a Mexican clerk from the office of the port 
captain had not watched his manners. He had offended 
the dignity of His Britannic Majesty's Royal Navy by 
being as we say 'sassy.' Whereupon the British 
captain had returned to his ship and had notified the 
Mexican Government that he would proceed to bombard 
the town; just blow it into flinders and toothpicks if 
that clerk didn't come right out and apologize. 

Our agitated Consul was writing to inform Daniel 
Webster that the sassy clerk said he would be gosh- 
dinged if he would apologize. The guns were loaded; the 
captain was walking the quarter-deck in high indignation, 
and goodness knows what was going to happen. 

Another letter that almost seemed to sigh with re- 


lief out of the yellowed old pages announces that the 
sassy clerk decided to apologize; so nobody was blown into 
toothpicks or flinders and the crimson banners of the 
British Empire still floated with pride at the masthead. 

Another letter tells the Secretary of State about a deed 
of great heroism which earned the gratitude of the United 
States. There had been a hurricane one of the storms 
which sometimes tear in from the Gulf in wild fury. The 
harbor of Mazatlan has a rock bottom with very little 
mud; so the anchors do not hold very well. In this hurri- 
cane every ship in the harbor had been lost. With almost 
incredible courage and strength a Mexican fisherman had 
rowed his little boat in the teeth of the storm and had 
rescued five American sailors. The Consul suggested to 
Daniel Webster that the honor and dignity of the United 
States Government demanded that the man be suitably 
rewarded. For his valor in risking his life to save the sailors, 
he ought to be given three pesos (about a dollar and a 
quarter). But inasmuch as he lost an oar, the Consul 
thought that a grateful Republic ought to give him another 
two pesos for the oar making a magnificent total of 
about three dollars. Presumably the money was paid, as 
nothing more was said about the matter. I hope that this 
sudden avalanche of wealth did not ruin the man's charac- 

At the edge of the old part of town is an ancient ceme- 
tery, hidden by a high brick wall adorned with much 
fancy decoration and ironwork. In this cemetery the 
bodies of the dead are lowered into rented graves. They 
are rented for a period of five years. If the rent is not forth- 
coming at the end of that time, the bones are thrown out 
and there is a vacant grave for rent. This seemed horn- 


lying to us, but the Mexicans do not look at Death as we 
do. They face it with a shrug of indifference like the 
young officer on the * Street of the High Waves/ Death 
comes to all now or later. 

One day we saw a little girl's funeral in Mazatlan. It 
was a gala affair. Out from the top of the little white 
hearse stretched long white ribbons, the ends of which were 
held by little girls in white lawn dresses. They walked by 
the side of the hearse. As they held out the white ribbons 
it was exactly like a Maypole dance. 

The hearse was followed by an automobile carrying the 
priest and the mourners the little girl's father and 
mother. On the back of this automobile was a big sign 
which said: 




They didn't mean to be heartless. It was only that death 
is an everyday affair in Mexico. 

It is a common sight at Mazatlan as in nearly all 
Mexican cities to see a sad-eyed peon walking along 
with his broken-hearted little wife, carrying a tiny coffin 
on his head. Sometimes these baby coffins are covered 
with silver or gold paper. Often the coffin is just a pitiful 
little black box. The people are very poor and cannot 
afford to hire a hearse. But it was pitiful to see how wist- 
fully one little mother watched as she followed a little 
black coffin on her husband's head the white hearse 
going by with the Maypole white ribbons and the flowers. 

But Mazatlan is not all death and war. It is, in fact, a 


very gay, lively, little town. About twice a week a steamer 
stops in the harbor on its way from California or New York 
or Cuba. For four or five hours Mazatlan is filled with 
tourists intent on buying souvenirs. They buy Mexican 
sandals, perfumes, and baskets. Very few young lady 
tourists leave Mazatlan without a pair of iguana shoes. 
An iguana is a horribly ugly lizard which infests all this part 
of Mexico. Sometimes it grows five or six feet long and 
looks like a spirit of evil. It is harmless; is found in all 
tropical America, eaten, and tastes like tender chicken. 
When skinned, its hide makes the most beautiful shoe 
leather. A great many so-called snakeskin shoes and purses 
and girls' 'aviator hats' are made of the soft, pliable hides 
of the giant lizards of Mexico. 

Mazatlan is also a division point on the railroad. Nearly 
all the engineers and brakemen and dispatchers and por- 
ters are Mexicans. The trains stop for nearly an hour 
there, so the station platforms are Hke public markets 
Mexican women selling tamales and fruit and baskets and 
souvenirs. They stay until late at night and the old- 
fashioned flaming kerosene torches with which they light 
their booths give a charming flavor of picturesqueness to 
the scene. 

But just as everywhere in Mexico the new jostles elbows 
with the very old, so the country beyond the railroad 
station circles through the hills into the country of the 
bandits the wild mountains. 

I had the honor of an invitation to spend two weeks as 
the guest of one of the most famous bandits in Mexico; 
I regret that I sent my 'regrets.' The bandit was a gay 
humorous rascal named Marcos Diaz. He was a sort of 
Mexican Robin Hood. 


Don Marcos had a friend who was a friend of mine." 
He was an American this friend and owned a gold 
mine back in the hills. The fact that Don Marcos liked 
and admired the American very much did not interfere 
with his business life. Every so often he would appear at 
the mine with his gang of armed men and loot the place. 
Sometimes he carried away money. Sometimes all he 
wanted was horses or burros, or even pack-saddles. Once 
he arrived with a demand for chicken-wire fence. 

Finally, the Mexican commander of Mazatlan decided 
that Don Marcos was as we say 'getting too fresh. 
In some way the bandit had offended the dignity of the 
Mexican army. The comandante sent word to El Sefior 
Bandido that he was commanded to come into town and 
be shot in front of an adobe wall. 

'Ho, ho/ replied Marcos. 'Come out and catch me if 
you can.' 

He should have known better. The next day the coman- 
dante sent another courier into the mountains with this 
message: *I have captured your grandmother, your 
mother, and your four little children. I am going to shoot 
one of them each day until you come in and surrender. 
I shall begin with your grandmother/ 

Don Marcos rode in that night and surrendered to the 
commander, to be shot. He said something in Spanish 
that might be roughly translated: 'Well, I guess the laugh 

is on me.' 

They made grand preparations for shooting Marcos. 
They arranged to have a barbecue and sent out engraved 
invitations to the party. Don Marcos took the liveliest 
interest in the proceedings. He was, so to speak, all 
swelled up over his own importance. At the last minute 


owing to political complications they decided not 
to shoot him, after all. I shall always t.Tiinlr that Don 
Marcos was a little bit disappointed. 

After being set free, he mounted his bronco and rode 
back to his American friend at the mine. He was very 

'Now look at what you have done to me/ he said. 
4 YouVe gone and busted up my business. All my bandits 
have scattered/ 

"Well, that's just too bad/ said the American sarcasti- 
cally. 'It looks as though you will have to go to work or 

The countenance of Don Marcos brightened at once. 
This was a new idea. Work would be quite a delightful 

'Oh, yes of a certainty/ he said. 'That will be fine. 
You shall give me a job here at the mine/ 

'What kind of job shall I give you? 5 

Don Marcos relapsed into deep thought as he studied the 
problem. At last his eyes lighted up. 'After all/ he said, 
'my main experience has been carrying money. You shall 
give me a job carrying your money from the bank in 
town to your mine. This will assure that no wicked bandit 
gets it/ 

At last accounts his friend was still thinking it over. 
He told me he felt inclined to give Don Marcos the job. 



WE HAD stopped for a basket luncheon near a little road- 
side cross. It was worn afid weather-beaten. At the foot 
of the cross was a pile of small stones. I noticed that El 
Nortefio picked up a little stone and placed it carefully 
with the other stones. He made the sign of the cross on 
his forehead and breast, and I could see that he was saying 
a prayer. 

* What's the idea? 5 1 asked him. 

'I was saying a little prayer for the repose of his soul.* 

'But why did you put a stone at the foot of the cross? 5 

'To show that I had said a prayer for the repose of his 

'Who was he? 5 

'Quien sabe. 5 (Who knows?) 

Then El Nortefio told me that" all these crosses marked 
the spots where someone had died by violence. Every 
wayfarer stops to say a prayer for the repose of the soul 
hurled thus suddenly and with no priests to hear his 
last confession into Eternity. 

I remembered that all day we had been passing these 
little crosses by the roadside. Some were very old and 
almost covered by piled-up stones. 

'Did you say that each one of these crosses marks the 
place where someone died? 5 I asked Nortefio. 

4 Si, sefior todas. 5 (Yes, sir all.) 

'How is it that so many died violent deaths? 5 


'Bandits, some of them. Some were killed in the revolu- 
tions. People die where they die.* 

I tried to take the scared strain out of my voice as I 
asked, as gayly as possible: 'And these bandits? They 
are, of course, all gone now?' 

El Nortefio turned with a look of surprise. 'Did you 
not hear me talking to those soldiers we passed? Yester- 
day the bandits captured an American mining-man. He 
had talked too much about his money. It is not well to 
talk too much about money, senor. He said he wanted to 
buy some mining claims. He hired a guide to take him 
back into the heart of the lonely and desolate mountains. 
The guide led him into the clutches of a gang of bandits. 
They rode out of the underbrush four of them and 
leveled guns at him. They made him ride away with 
them. 9 

'Where is he now?' I asked, with a laugh that I am 
afraid sounded a little nervous. 

'Quien sabe?' said El Nortefio indifferently. 'Some- 
where up there in the mysterious mountains.' 

'Will they kill him?' 

'Quien sabe?' said El Nortefio, who was beginning to 
lose interest in the subject. 

We were to hear much of this case during the days 
that followed but not as much as was heard in the 
United States. As a matter of cold fact, there are^more 
bandits in a city like Los Angeles in one night than in the 
entire Republic of Mexico in a year. But being more 
picturesque, every bandit in Mexico becomes an alluring 
drama to the Yankee newspapers. 

South of Mazatlan we had entered the real tropics. 
The imaginary line called the Tropic of Cancer that divides 


the tropical zone from the north temperate zone runs 
about thirty-five miles north of Mazatlan. It is the palm 
country. You see great forests of palm trees. The huts 
of the peons are all made of thatched palm leaves. Parrots 
and strange tropical birds fly through the trees. One bird 
has a very long tail that streams out like a pennant as 
he flies. In a high wind these birds are blown around as 
though these long tails were sails. Alligators sun them- 
selves on the banks of slow, muddy streams. Life is crude 
and primitive. In the lush lands of the river bottoms you 
see peons plowing with oxen and crooked sticks for plows. 
From time to time we passed little towns on the banks of 
the rivers. The banks were always lined with the ramadas 
of the peon women doing their daily laundry. And nearly 
always we saw water-carts a barrel with two wagon- 
wheels and drawn by a mule. These carts were driven 
into little towns back in the hills and the water sold at so 
much a bucket. One curious thing we noticed about all 
the houses: all of them had platforms upon which they 
placed all their grain and hay this because of the rats 
and myriad insects of the tropics. The burros and oxen 
and mules stood under the platforms and ate the hay as 
it edged down between the slats of the platform. 

The traffic along the country roads was quaint and 
picturesque. Sometimes we passed big two-wheeled carts 
with enormously high wheels, drawn by six or seven oxen. 
Sometimes we saw what in our own border days of the 
West were called * spike teams', four burros harnessed 
in a line at the wheel; two or three burros harnessed in 
front of them. The effect was of a wedge-shaped or 
spike-shaped team. Sometimes the wagon-wheels were 
so high and the burros were so little, it looked as though 


the wagon would run right over them. They were like a 
lot of little chickens with the high wagon for an old hen. 

The chief crops raised in this part of Mexico are sugar- 
cane and bananas. 

We stopped that day for a while at an old town, Rosario. 
The whole town is built over a mine. The Tajo Mine is 
probably the oldest producing mine on the American con- 
tinent. It has been in active operation for more than three 
hundred years. The tradition is that, way back in the days 
of the Spanish Conquistadores, a party of soldiers were 
marching north along the West Coast. As was usual, they 
had a band of live cattle with them for food. To take 
care of these cattle they had a vaquero. They made camp 
at the present site of Rosario. The vaquero built a little 
fire and cooked his dinner by himself. In the morning he 
noticed that on the ground where the hot embers had been 
were little hunks of melted gold and silver. 

A town grew up around the mine; then a very beautiful 
church. With the exception of one or two I have seen 
farther south in Mexico, it is the loveliest Spanish church 
I know. It is built in the Spanish Colonial style, with a 
golden altar, two belfrys, one above the other. From the 
ground beside the great door a caracol stairway runs all 
the way up to the bells and the choir loft. 

The entrance to the mine is right in the middle of the 
town. Through the years they burrowed out tunnels 
until the tunnels completely undermine the streets and 
the houses. The weight of the old church is so great that 
it has begun to settle into the underground workings. 
One of the walls leans over perilously, and huge cracks 
have riven the nave. The American engineers in charge 
of the mine told me, however, that they have been able 


to ree*nf orce the structure so that the devastation will go 

no farther. 

These young American college boys in charge of the 
work told me that, in tunneling, they come across old 
engineering works made by Spanish engineers of the days 
of the Conquest. Considering the crude tools they had, 
they were wonderful engineers. There is nothing that 
modern engineers could tell them about taking out ore 
or treating it. The only thing they didn't know, that mod- 
dern engineers know, is about the new metals that have 
been discovered. 

Puffing around the town were two little engines drawing 
trains of ore cars from the mine to the smelters. There 
seemed something strangely familiar about them. I 
learned that they used to be in the Chutes Amusement 
Park in San Francisco giving rides to excited, shrieking 

Just before darkness fell that night, we drove through 
a giant palm forest so dense that the light filtered through 
only in wan patches. Even at noonday it was dark; late 
in the afternoon it was like a tomb. Its blackness was 
creepy and mysterious. Right in the middle of the forest 
we found a clearing where a few Indians lived in a town 
where the houses were all made of palm leaves. They 
were, in reality, little more than thatched roofs with one 
wall or no walls. It is always summer there and so hot 
that they do not need houses except to keep off the 
rain. These Indians made their living by gathering nuts. 
We made a call of ceremony and state at the house of the 
head man who kept his pig under his bed. 

Finally just at dusk we came out of the forest 
into a valley where the road skirted the dark jungle. The 


soldiers had left us a long way back. With us, however, 
was an automobile filled with officers of the State Police. 
They were picturesque, handsome fellows, with velvet 
waistcoats and revolvers, whose holsters eclipsed all the 
other decorated holsters we had seen in point of elegance. 

They signaled for the caravan to stop and came back to 
our cars. 

'See that your revolvers are fully loaded/ they said. 
'Each man who sits next to the driver must carry a rifle 
and see that it is loaded and ready for action. We are 
getting into the bandit country.' 

When it grew really dark with the thick, heavy darkness 
of the tropics, we turned on the headlights of the cars. 
The caravan was stopped again. The officers came back 
to tell us that, on no account, must we show any lights. 
They said that we should be a target for bandit shots if 
we showed lights in the midst of the night. It was grand 
melodrama, but we got tired of banging along on a dark 
road so we turned on the lights. Personally I believe 
we were safer than we should have been in any large 
American city. 

'Now,' they said, 'all the cars must keep right together. 
Be sure not to lose sight of our car.' Whereupon they 
stepped on the gas; sped away with a rush and roar 
so fast that we did not see them again. 

El Nortefio here really began to live. He stationed him- 
self on the running-board of our car and never left it 
during the long night ride, clinging there like a monkey. 
He was armed like a deep-sea pirate: two bandoleers of 
belted cartridges over his shoulders; an enormous Ameri- 
can cavalry revolver and a Winchester rifle. He was all 
in favor of battle. 


Afterward we discovered that we had packed all of our 
own ammunition somewhere back in the baggage-car with 
the canned tomatoes. Had we met any real bandits, our 
cartridges would probably have been of as much value 
among the canned goods as in our guns. 

I have been asked very often as to the truth about 
Mexican bandits. Well, then, the truth is this: 

Nayarit is a wild country of mysterious mountain 
fastnesses. A few years ago these mountains contained 
bands of roving freebooters who maintained a sort of 
Robin Hood kingdom. There was one fellow who lived 
the lif e of a bandit king. He had a large hacienda back in 
the hills from which he sent out his forays to collect ran- 

During my first visits to Mexico, the trains from Mazat- 
lan to Guadalajara always had armored cars and soldiers. 
There are no armored cars on the trains now Mexico 
is safer than any modern American city. 

After Obregon and Calles came into power, a savage 
war of extermination was started against the Al Capones 
of Mexico. The bandits were hunted down with cavalry 
war-worn experienced troopers and it was a war with- 
out quarter, with only little piles of stones by the roadside. 

The most effective work in this blood-thirsty man-hunt 
was done not by soldiers but by spies. In bandit- 
chasing, the Mexican police devised a means of fighting 
them with spies. 

One spy became very famous and effective. His plan 
was to turn bandit and join one of the famous gangs. 
Among his accomplishments was that he was a remarkably 
skillful knife-fighter. 

It should be explained that knife-fighting is an intricate 


and subtle art. El Nortefio always laughed when he saw a 
knife-fight in a movie, with the actors holding on to each 
other's wrists and pumping their arms about like wind- 
mills. What especially drew giggles from El Nortefio 
was that the movie actors always held their knives up- 
side down. A real knife-fighter holds his Bowie as a foil- 
fencer holds his sword with the forefinger extended 
along the handle. On his left arm by way of a guard he 
wraps his serape. If he has no serape he holds his sombrero. 
With this he knocks away the other fellow's knife when he 
tries to thrust. An old trick of knife-fighters is suddenly 
to slap the other fellow in the face with his hat. So skillful 
do the Mexican knife-fighters become that it is almost 
impossible to hurt them. I know of a case where two 
Mexicans fought with knives in the old Plaza in Los 
Angeles. They fought until the serapes wrapped around 
their arms were cut to shreds of yarn. They fought until 
they were so tired that they both fell down and could 
not get up. The fight lasted four hours, yet neither was 

Well, this spy was the best knife-fighter hi all Mexico. 
He would ride around with these bandits on their raids 
for weeks at a time, pretending to be one of them. Then 
one day he would manage to pick a quarrel with the leader. 
They would fight, and the spy always killed the bandit. 

One time the spy, after gaining the complete confidence 
of a bandit gang, arranged a big fandango to celebrate 
his own or somebody's birthday. When the bandits came 
to the party suspecting nothing the spy gave a 
signal and concealed soldiers shot them to death. 

In the large cities of Mexico, the criminal element was 
wiped out by methods that offer a suggestion to Chicago. 


A handsome young fellow of good f amily Roberto Cruz 
by name became chief of police. He introduced the 
grim 'Law of Flight/ where every known gangster was 
assumed on being arrested to have attempted to 
escape. One morning a grim news item appeared in a 
Mexican paper to the effect 'Last night the inmates 
of a known den of crime unfortunately got into a quarrel 
and they all killed each other/ In two months the thugs 
of Mexico City were dead or on the way to the United 
States, where they could have the protection of slush 
funds, shyster lawyers, and complacent courts. 

It was late at night when we crawled into a little country 
inn at the old, old town of Acaponeta. We took a walk 
around the town the Plaza with its dilapidated grand- 
stand, long rows of adobe houses, and a big stone cathe- 
dral. We heard a tragic and terrible story about this old 

Owing to a dispute with the Mexican Government, the 
priests were all compelled to leave Mexico. For a year or 
so the people worshiped in the churches alone as best they 
could usually under the guidance of some old woman. 
During this period the bandits broke loose around Aca- 
poneta. They came riding boldly into the town, of which 
they took full possession. The frightened people fled 
into the jungles or concealed themselves in their houses. 
About three hundred women took refuge in the church, 
where they knelt in prayer while the bandits rode around 
the town yelling and shooting. 

Suddenly the front door was wrenched open and a 
villainous-looking bandit rode into the church on horse- 
back. At one end of the church was a magnificent altar, 
built hundreds of years ago. High up on the altar was a 


figure of the Virgin Mary, mother of Jesus Christ. Grate- 
ful women had, during the years, hung precious ornaments 
on this figure. They would pray, and when their prayers 
were answered, they would show their gratitude by sacri- 
ficing their most precious jewels, necklaces and so on. 
The figure was blazing with jewels. 

It caught the eye of the bandit. Riding his horse inside 
the altar rail, he took out his lasso and whirled it around 
his head. The women saw what he intended to do. He 
was going to lasso and drag down the jeweled figure of the 
Virgin from the altar. One of the women gave a terrible 
shriek; leaped to her feet; rushed at the bandit; climbed 
up the side of the horse, and clutched his throat. In- 
stantly he was attacked from all sides. The three hundred 
women dragged h from the saddle three hundred 
strong infuriated women, their work-worn hands given 
ten times their strength by hysterical fury. His horse 
bolted in terror down the long aisle. Tangled in the coils 
of his reata, the bandit was literally torn to pieces. 

This, at least, is the story that is told. If it isn't all 
true it ought to be. It's a good one. 


*THB Bells of San Bias' was the last poem written by 
Henry W. Longfellow. As a matter of fact, the poet never 
saw the place. His poetic fervor was fanned into verse 
by a friend who had stopped in to see the old pirate port 
while on a sea trip up the West Coast. Had it been vouch- 
safed Longfellow to have spent a few days in those quaint 
old streets, his poem would have been a glowing epic. For 
the bells of San Bias whisper of blood and tragedy, battle 
and treasure. Ghosts of stately galleons float on the 
sand-clogged lagoons; wraiths of long trains of pack-mules, 
weighted with gold and silks and precious spices, climb 
the forgotten treasure-trail built by the Conquistadores 
across the mountains. Memories of padres outfitting ships 
and expeditions for the relief of the half-starved missions 
and garrisons of California, memories of pirate battles 
that stained the quiet waters. 

San Bias is a feeble old grandmother now muttering 
to herself in the sun but she has lived. She flourished 
in the days of the Filipino galleons. These treasure-ships 
were the most magnificent vessels that ever sailed the 
sea. Standing high out of water with great poop-decks 
rising like castled towers from the sea, they were regal 
and imperial in their grandeur. Their great sails were 
painted; their tall sides rose from the blue water in a 
gleam of gold leaf from which shone the muzzles of brass 
cannon. The sun sparkled on the polished armor of the 
soldier guard walking his post on the high quarter-deck. 


The captain was always a grandee of Spain who dined 
in solitary grandeur and dignity in his palatial salon from 
plates of solid gold like an emperor. Smaller craft 
scuttled out of the way of these galleons in awe and terror 
like a little dog slinking from the path of a St. Bernard. 

By arrangement of the Spanish Government, a galleon 
set sail from Manila once a year bound for Mexico. She 
breasted the sea, hull-down with a cargo of treasure, of 
a value that staggers the imagination: silks from China, 
spices from India, gold bullion, silver plate, argots of ore 
packed into the great holds like ballast. They were bound 
for Mexico, mostly for Acapulco, but sometimes for San 
Bias. The fact that the Spanish built a paved treasure- 
road from San Bias across the mountains to Vera Cruz 
indicates that the commerce of this port must have been 

The pirates who left bloodstains on the rocks of San 
Bias were almost as de luxe as the ships they attacked. 
They were quite elegant fellows. I am sure they would 
have been shocked to the distinguished marrow of their 
bones to have heard coarse ditties about Yo-ho and a 
bottle of rum: not to mention their probable horror at 
frivolous musical mention of a dead man's chest. 

The pirate of romance and tradition was a rough per- 
son, with his cutlass between his teeth, half-boots made 
thick for wading around on blood-soaked decks, a scarlet 
kerchief around his snaky locks, and a heart hungry for 
murder. Of such was the pirate of the Caribbean. He was 
a murderer and a drunken marauder. His crew was culled 
from the riff-raff of the gutter thieves, criminals, 
murderers, human scum. His rule was that of ferocity 
and terror. The strongest bully ruled. With the skull 


and crossbones floating from the masthead the pirates 
descended upon the helpless town slew and pillaged 
and tortured. Afterward there was always a mad drunken 
brawl, with bloody fights over the division of the loot; 
greedy hands that reached for gold lying clinched in pools 
of blood. 

The story of the Filipino galleons must almost be told 
with the story of Sir Francis Drake. He was the perfect 
type of the gentleman pirate as the galleons were the 
perfect type of the treasure-ship of romance. Drake was 
an English sea captain, a quiet, self-controlled gentleman 
who ruled his crew with decorum and etiquette. He was 
probably the finest sailor and navigator of his time 
one of the truly great sailors of all time. He was a pious 
Churchman who always had prayers said on deck before 
sending his pirate crew swarming into the rigging of the 
great Spanish treasure-ship. Although nearly always 
carrying off his lootings with a 'This-hurts-me-more- 
than-it-does-you, Sir/ he was unable to restrain his pro- 
per indignation with the captain of one galleon because 
of his lack of etiquette in firing a broadside at the Golden 
Hind before the English crew had finished its battle- 
prayers. That seems to have been the only time he is 
known to have sunk a galleon in any but the most charm- 
ing manner. Even his prisoners have left diaries in which 
they agree that his manners were faultless. No one 
before or since has ever known how to slit a throat or 
sink a ship with more suavity or punctilio. 

The best manuals and correspondence courses inform 
us as to the practical value of good manners in business. 
Witness the case of Sir Francis Drake. Being an eminently 
practical person, he did not bother about the filthy little 


loot and the pieces of eight and the golden doubloons 
over which the blood-thirsty thugs of the Caribbean 
murdered each other. Where these drunken scum got 
pennies, Sir Francis got pounds and golden treasure. His 
well-disciplined crews fought like trained bull terriers 
not like gutter curs. His victories over the great Spanish 
galleons with their fighting men in armor form one of the 
astounding chapters of history. When the tiny Golden 
Hind sailed up to challenge a Filipino galleon, it must 
have looked like a fox terrier barking at an elephant. But 
so skillfully and bravely did his men fight as they swarmed 
up the golden sides and into the rigging that they seldom 
lost their prey. Once the proud banner of scarlet-and- 
gold was cut down from the masthead, the English pirate 
became a kindly, tactful, and considerate victor. 

Drake sailed home at last with more loot than the old- 
fashioned pirates of the Spanish Main ever dreamed was 
in the world. It is related that from the wreck of one 
galleon, Drake took what would have amounted in 
modern money to about $15,000,000. He looted ships 
and Spanish colonial towns until the Golden Hind wal- 
lowed hull-down in the sea from her load of treasure. 
On one occasion he had to order the crew to dump over- 
board great deck-loads of precious cargo to make way for 
richer loot. Instead of the wild drunken battles over the 
division of the loot as in the bloody dramas of the 
Caribbean Drake distributed the shares to his men with 
the solemn decorum and impartiality of the directors of 
the First National Bank declaring a semi-annual dividend. 
For years, he waylaid and. fought the galleons of Spain. 
Some of them he sent to the bottom, where the fish no 
doubt give Sunday afternoon excursions to peer in at the 


beautifully carved windows to the gold-leafed magnificence 
of their cabins. Other galleons, gutted like a canned fish, 
lived to limp into some near-by harbor, shattered and 
broken in their pride. 

San Bias became a port of refuge into which they scut- 
tled like badly frightened old cows seeking succor from 
wolves. For this reason and for other reasons San 
Bias was at one time one of the most important cities of 
the new world. It lies at the mouth of the Santiago River, 
not far from the historic towns of Tepic and Compostella. 
At one time it had a population of more than thirty 
thousand. It had a great foundry for the manufacture 
of church bells; wharves, custom-houses, warehouses, 
churches, soldier barracks, and a fort that overlooked the 
entrance of the bay. Nothing remains now but a handful 
of old houses surrounding a shabby public square. And 
dreams dreams. I have seen no other town in Mexico 
so redolent of the past, of houses that seemed so to whisper 

There is a very lovely old church fronting the plaza, 
small but perfect. From its belfry the bells of San Bias 
still send out their silver chimes just as Longfellow 
imagined them. The church stands on a sleepy, empty 
street fronted by the crumbling wrecks of old palaces with 
balconies and barred windows. One of these must have 
been a place of consequence, possibly the palace of the 
comandante. It has still an air of ancient hauteur. What 
remains of an old street-car line wanders crazily on rusted* 
crooked rails to the water-front over ties cut from solid 

Half a dozen peons, with white cotton pants almost as 
wide as a woman's skirt, sit around the little corner store. 


Once San Bias was a great fishing port, but the day we 
were there, the proprietor of the corner store could provide 
only canned salmon from Oregon. He was finally per- 
suaded to have his wife pat some tortillas, but he was not 
in a lather of emotion about it. He drew some sad-looking 
pop-bottles out of his refrigerator which was a block 
of lava rock, contributed by a prehistoric volcano in the 
vicinity. Holes had been bored into this rock and the 
bottles nested in the holes. 

After luncheon, we walked down the old railroad track 
to the ancient port of the galleons. There isn't much left 
to the harbor now. For two or three hundred years, the 
river has been pouring silt into the lagoon until the chan- 
nel is choked. Only small fishing-boats can drift through 
the sandbars up the river to the alligator jungles above. 
Across the stream you can see the remains of the old fort 
on the hill under whose frowning bronze cannon the 
galleons once took refuge. Only a few crumbling walls 
now mark the place. Only the old custom-house remains: 
it still does business. It looks like a block-house of our own 
frontier days, wide balconies encircling its upper story. 
I imagine it has been patched and rebuilt many times since 
its uniformed officials hurried out to board the last galleon. 
In the street behind it, at its four corners, are four very 
old brass cannon planted contemptuously muzzle-dowz 
in the ground to serve meekly as posts. Local tradition 
says that they were taken from a pirate ship which 
perished from over-ambition under the bellowing guns of 
the fortress. 

The main street of San Bias was the beginning of one 
of the most famous highways in the whole world. It was 
the Spanish treasure-road, paved with tiny cobblestones, 


fitted together like a mosaic. It ran for countless miles 
over hot tropic plains and through the high mountains 
flanked with stone fences piled by the patient toil of 
Indian slaves. This was the old Spanish treasure-road. 
One end was at San Bias: the other on the East Coast of 
Mexico, across the mountains at Vera Cruz. When the 
galleons landed at San Bias, the treasure cargoes were 
packed on mules and, under heavy military guard, started 
on the long, perilous journey across Mexico. At Vera 
Cruz, the mules delivered their pack-loads to other ships 
which sailed for Spain. For days we bumped along over 
what remains of this old Spanish treasure-road in our 
motor cars. 

What remains of San Bias nestles up against a range of 
hills, covered with thick jungle growth. Hidden in the 
lonely silence of this jungle is the grave of another chapter 
of history. And this chapter belongs in greater degree 
to California than to Mexico. 

You wind up a steep hillside trail: then plunge down 
into the jungle. It is so dense that the sun niters through 
in a wan, pale filigree of light. Fighting your way along a 
dim burro path, you come at last to a majestic ruin. It 
is the ruin of an old monastery. It looks English rather 
than Spanish. Out of the ruined stillness, you expect to 
hear the ghost of Richard Cceur-de-Lion bellowing a 
ballad. Yet the knights that it housed were knights of 
the Cross rather than knights in armor. It was the home 
of the priest, Fray Junipero Serra, during the period he 
was outfitting the expedition that was to establish the 
long chain of mission churches down the length of the 
Caxnino Real in California. 

The roof of lie old monastery has fallen in. The nave 


is a mass of fallen timbers and masonry overgrown with 
jungle plants. At the top of one wall, which probably 
supported a bell-tower, a banyan tree has found life. Its 
long blanched roots stream hungrily down the great stone 
wall to the ground. I think, at that, there must have been 
a still earlier church, for scratching off the green mould of 
the jungle, we found a date, which was carved about 
seventy years after Father Serra landed in California, 
on his mission to carry the Cross to the heathen. 

Plowing our way back through the jungle, we came to a 
fork of the trail. We came to a headland where the re- 
mains of a pretentious stone building still stand. Accord- 
ing to tradition, this building was once the headquarters 
of Portola, who commanded the military end of Serra's 
expedition. Had it not been for these mouldering build- 
ings, now strangled by the jungle, there would have been 
no California. At any rate, not a California claimed by 
Spain and held by Spain until Uncle Sam was ready to 
take it over. During the middle years of Father Serra's 
work among the California Indians, the Mexican Govern- 
ment proposed to close the port of San Bias. Father 
Serra made the long, agonizing trip to the City of Mexico 
(he suffered for years from an open sore on his leg which 
made riding a torture). He told the Viceroy that, if he 
closed the Port of San Bias, it would be necessary to 
abandon all the missions of California and yield the land 
to Russia or England. All the supply ships which at that 
period carried food and other necessaries to the missions 
outfitted at San Bias. Nearly all the mission bells which 
tolled the Indian neophytes to service and to their labors 
were moulded in a long-ago-forgotten foundry in the town 
of San Bias. 


San Bias has written many other chapters into the 
history of California and the West. In 1818, the pirate- 
insurgent, Captain Hippolyte Bouchard, ravaged the coast 
of California, attacking the ranches and looting the towns, 
even plundering the old mission at San Juan Capistrano 
on the modern San Diego to Los Angeles highway. In 
response to a frantic appeal to the Motherland, an army 
of one hundred infantrymen was recruited at San Bias 
and one hundred cavalry from Mazatlan. They came to 
the rescue in troop-ships. But, before they arrived, Bou- 
chard had sailed away. Having been recruited from the 
scum of a seaport town, the San Bias infantrymen became 
such a collective nuisance that California wailed to be 
delivered from the deliverers. 

Later, one Manuel Micheltoreno, having been appointed 
Governor of California in the face of one of the current 
revolutions, recruited an army in San Bias that is still 
known to history as the 'cholo army.' It consisted of 
half -starved vagabonds who according to tradition 
disembarked at San Diego without the usual adornment 
of pants! 

As late as 1840, San Bias figured in California history. 
Governor Juan Bautista Alvarado, having decided that 
the Gringo population were a pest, herded them to the 
number of sixty into a ship and packed them off to San Bias. 
The story is too long to tell, but it is a colorful chapter.j 

Very few tourists have visited San Bias. I don't know 
why. It can be reached without difficulty by sea from 
yachts. It is not a specially difficult trip by motor car 
from the old town of Tepic. For mystery, charm, mem- 
ories, I know of no place in Mexico more appealing. 



THE sad-eyed little peon and his wife were packed like 
two burros. He had a long board balanced on his head 
and the board was loaded from one end to the other with 
pottery. It looked as though he were walking along with 
a curio store on his head. His pretty little wife came pat- 
tering along the country road behind him with an enormous 
load of sugar-cane stalks on her back. 

A bright idea struck one of the engineers. We all 
wanted to buy pottery. Why not buy this fellow's whole 
load off the plank on his head? There was a railroad 
station near by. We could take the stuff over there; 
ship it by express. Then we should not have to worry 
any more about our shopping. This was applauded as a 
grand inspiration. 

El Nortefto was detailed to strike the bargain. We saw 
him talk for a few moments to the pottery carrier. Then 
to our surprise the peon emphatically shook his head, 
hoisted his load, and dog-trotted off down the dusty road 
as though he were intent on escaping. 

'He doesn't want to sell it all,' explained El Nortefio. 

'What's he got it for, then? Is this just the way he 
takes his daily dozen? Trotting up and down the road 
with a pottery store on his head?' 

'He wanted to sell some of it,' said El Nortefio, patiently 
ignoring the sarcasm. 'He is very poor and he needs the 
money; but he doesn't want to sell all of it.' 

'What's the idea?' 


'Because, if lie sold all of it, there would be no reason 
for him to go to the market.' 

This was a few miles out of Tepic. After we saw the 
public market there, we rather sympathized with the 
peon. We didn't wonder then that he liked to go. Going 
to market with things to sell is about all the pleasure 
he gets out of life. 

Of all the towns in Mexico, I like Tepic the best. It 
is very old. It sits there, sweet and complacent and con- 
tented, while the rest of the world tears around in such a 
hurry that it is like a chicken with its head cut off. Tepic 
stands on a great plateau high in the mountains so 
the weather is always cool in the hottest part of summer. 
In the days when Forfirio Diaz was President of Mexico, 
it was a favorite summer resort for the aristocracy, who 
came up from their haciendas in the moist hot lands of 
the valleys. 

Back of the town toward the Church of the Cross 
is what remains of the paseo where fashionable folk used 
to go. The paseo was and is a round plaza. At the 
hour of sunset and on into the evening the Mexican 
belles would come out there in then: open carriages with 
prancing horses and silver-mounted harness. Sitting de- 
mure and in an elegance of white lawn dresses, with high 
jeweled combs in their jet-black hair, they rode around 
and around the plaza. As they rode, a procession of 
fashionable young bachelors walked around and around 
the plaza in the other direction; so they were always 
passing and repassing. The young men in their silver- 
embroidered sombreros and their tight-fitting jackets 
were quite open hi their admiration. But it was etiquette 
for the lovely sefioritas to pretend not to notice that they 


were being looked at. Nevertheless, they continued to 
ride around and around. 

The paseo is grass-grown and deserted now. The 
procession of fashion stopped when the Revolution swept 
over Mexico twenty years ago and the rich families be- 
came poor and fled to California to live. Many a happy 
family in Los Angeles dates back to a sidelong glance at a 
handsome boy from a girl in a gleaming carriage at the 
paseo in Tepic. The paseo will never have that procession 
again. Automobiles and a leisurely procession around and 
around a little plaza do not "jell/ so to speak. 

Everything in Mexico is a little bit mysterious, and one 
of the most charming mysteries at Tepic is sheltered be- 
hind a crumbling old wall, in front of the Church of the 
Cross, near the paseo. Inside this wall is a huge cross 
growing in the soil. It is made of green plant life that grows 
in the form of a perfect cross in the midst of a big patch 
of lighter-colored grass. No one knows when it first grew 
there or how. All that they know is that it has been 
there as long as the oldest man can remember. The grass 
grows there, year after year, and the plant grows; but it 
never loses its shape or form. The Mexican people con- 
tend that it was never planted by the hand of man and 
that it has various miraculous powers. 

The center of the town of Tepic is a public plaza four 
or five blocks long, fronting a fine old church with very 
tall belfry towers. For blocks along the streets that line 
this plaza and slipping into narrow side streets are the 
public markets. Every Saturday the peasants come in 
from the country to sell their wares sugar-cane, pot- 
tery, guarachas, toys, sombreros, candy, ribbons, tamales, 
queer tropic fruits, baskets, horsehair bridles, reatas... 


What impressed us was the quietude. Had that been 
an Italian or a French market, you could have heard the 
chatter for a mile. These Mexican-Indian women sit there 
on the ground silent and watchful. They make no at- 
tempt to 'ballyhoo' their wares. There is no bargaining 
and no heckling composed, inscrutable, and patient. 

They may look dumb, but they are not. Those inscruta- 
ble masks cover a shyness that is Indian and a sense of 
ridicule that is devastating also Indian. 

The Indian women who sit like lumps on the station 
platforms at Albuquerque and Yuma go back to their 
homes to mimic the passengers they have seen and to 
cry for hours over the smart cracks of the hosiery drum- 

In their own homes these silent Mexican peon women 
are gay, sarcastic, voluble. A quarrel between two of 
them mis the air .with language. 

Mexican women of the upper classes talk in streams in 
the home circle nobody listening to anyone else. 

As a rule, it is a man who sells the sugar-cane. The 
stalks stand in bundles behind him. When a customer 
comes, he cuts off a joint of the cane with a sharp knife. 
Mexicans are very fond of sugar-cane. Little boys and 
girls and even grown people sit along on the street curb- 
ings sucking and chewing it. All along the gutters are 
little tin stoves some of them made of Mr. Rockefeller's 
oil-cans on which the women cook tortillas and en- 
chiladas for sale. 

The baskets are incredibly cheap. I saw one so big 
that it looked as though it might have been one of the 
baskets in which Ali Baba hid the forty thieves. I asked 
the price, and the woman looked at me doubtfully as 



though she feared she were going to stun me with the 
figure. 'Dos pesos, Sefior,' she said. One dollar! It must 
have cost some peasant woman in the mountains days 
and days of hard work to make that basket. 

The quick, artistic eyes and the patient hands of these 
peasants have rescued many things from the rubbish- 
heaps. They use pieces of old automobile tires to make 
soles for their sandals. They make better guarachas than 
cowhide. Old burned-out electric-light globes are used in 
a quaint way. I have one in which a doll-like figure of the 
Virgin Mary is inside the globe, almost filling up the 
space. I can't imagine how the artist ever got the figure 
inside the globe. The figure is elaborate and beautiful. 
The Virgin wears a white dress with a yellow cloak thrown 
around her shoulders. On the front of the white dress is a 
large scarlet cross. At the foot of the figure is a cluster 
of palm sprays, and between the sprays, rising from the 
feet of the figure, are two tall poppies one scarlet and 
one golden all in wax. It is a delicate and charming lit- 
tle work of art which required artistry and endless intricate 
toil. Yet the woman asked only twenty-five cents of our 
money. The struggle for lif e and food is pitiful in Mexico. 

Until I saw these markets at Tepic, I had supposed 
that Mexican sombreros were all alike. But I learned that 
almost every section of Mexico has its own pattern in 
hats. Those in Nayarit (of which Tepic is the capital) 
have little squashed-in tops, instead of the high peaks 
we see on all sombreros in pictures. Also the straw in 
these Tepic sombreros is so hard that the hats are all 
like iron. You could knock a man flat by hitting him 
with one. I don't see now they stand wearing them. 
They weigh like a cartload of bricks. 


Everything in the costume of the peon has a reason. 
His sombrero has a brim that curls up at the edge because 
he has no pockets in his clothes and carries his treasures 
on his hat. His charro pants are of leather and very tight 
because he has to ride through brush. Now the charro 
costume continues as an expression of rural elegance. 
The jacket of the charro costume is short to give the hand 
a chance to travel quickly to the sash, and the sash is a 
memory of the Spanish sword-belt. High heels of the 
vaquero boots are not an affectation, but were made that 
way to keep the feet from slipping too far into the stir- 

On special days, other peons come to the markets with 
ancient curios that they offer for sale, spread out on the 
sidewalks old swords, ancient rusted daggers, spurs. 
Some have been dug out of the ground and plainly date 
back to the knights of the Conquest. Some of these swords 
were once proud weapons made in Toledo; have been 
stained with blood, and now end their story on a sidewalk 
next to a tamale peddler. The peons usually stay Satur- 
day and Sunday. Then they start back to the hills again. 

Everything in Tepic has the charm of great age. We 
went to see the manager of a cotton-mill and found his 
office had been an old Spanish inn with a cobblestone 
courtyard great wide balconies and worn old stair- 
ways queer dark passageways. 

The hotel where we stopped had a grand name Bola 
de Oro, the 'Ball of Gold.' It has no room telephones. 
When you want something, you walk out to the rail of the 
balcony and clap your hands. Some miracle seems to tell 
the world whether you want the little seflora who does your 
room and your laundry, or the shine-boy who puts a 


gleam on your field boots, or the mozo who carries your 
trunk on his back, or the bathroom mozo. They all give 
you the impression that you are the lord of the manor and 
that they live only to make you happy. 

Taking a bath at the hotel is no light and frivolous mat- 
ter. You clap your hands for the mozo and he disappears 
into a distant part of the house and starts a wood fire 
under a tank. In due time, you start on a journey for a 
couple of miles through the house. It seems all right to 
wander around dressed about as Lady Godiva: Mexican* 
are not fussy. The bathtub is tin and the bathtowels are 
about the size of a lady's pocket handkerchief; but any- 
how, it's a bath. 

The people of Tepic are charming and friendly. One 
night, El Norteno and I were walking along a dark, narrow 
street and I was attracted by the sound of music coming 
from a little hotel. We walked in to see what was going on. 
As usual, in Mexican hotels, the dining-room was a sort of 
porch fronting on the patio. At a long table, a party of 
gay, jolly young fellows were giving a bachelor dinner to 
one who was about to be married. They were employees 
of a cigarette factory. Seeing us standing at the edge of 
the patio, looking on, one of the young fellows came over 
to ask if the Senor Gringo would not honor them by joining 
the party. 

I spent all the rest of the evening with them. They were 
lovable, merry-hearted boys, and I had a grand time. 
They asked me what I would like to have the orchestra 
(two guitars and a violin) play. I asked first for Rancho 
Grande. They all stood up and roared its rollicking meas- 
ures at the tops of their voices. Then I asked for Cuatro 
Milpas. I noticed that they all seemed pleased, but I 


didn't know why. Then the toastmaster stood up and 
thanked me for a charming compliment. I didn't under- 
stand how I had given them a charming compliment until 
El Nortefio whispered to me that those two tunes were 
written on the heart of Tepic. Both were composed by 
young men of Tepic and they were almost like national 

The bridegroom was an official of the cigarette factory 
and most of the guests worked there with him. We 
toasted the bride with sentiment, romance, and poetic 
license, for naturally she did not appear. With our limited 
Spanish and their no-English-at-all, we did not under- 
stand their speeches and they did not understand ours 
which were frequent. I found this to be a distinct improve- 
ment on listening to after-dinner speeches that you do 

Coming home to the hotel, we encountered three very 
dignified gentlemen who were walking down the middle 
of the street arm in arm. Ahead of them was an orchestra 
which they had hired to let the world know how they felt. 
Occasionally they let out a defiant yell in concert: then 
relapsed into majestic dignity again. In Mexico es- 
pecially here on the West Coast I have seen often one 
solitary Mexican walking all over town in grandeur in the 
wake of an orchestra sounding the paeans of his triumph. 
This is a magnificent crescendo of our American mood 
of 'Drunk and glad of it/ Incidentally, there is very 
little drunkenness in Mexico. The gentlemen who throw 
eggs at the paintings in the bar-rooms are of another and 
neighboring race. 

When we got back to the hotel, we found a tense, ex- 
cited conference going on. The center of the conference 


was an elderly German banker, owner of vast Mexican 
properties. He was of such honor and integrity that he 
was trusted even by the bandits. This conference had to 
do with the bandits who had kidnapped the American 
mining-man. A rough-looking horseman had ridden in 
from the hills with a message written on a dirty piece of 
paper. The German banker handed it to me without 
comment. This is what it said: 

'A menos que este mensajero vuelva mafiana por la 
manana, trayendo consigo treinta mil pesos, el Sefior 
Bristow sera pasado por las annas al mediodia en punto.' 
(Unless this messenger returns to us safely tomorrow 
morning, bringing with him thirty thousand pesos, Mr. 
Bristow will be shot at the hour of noon.) 

The German banker had wed to the relatives of Mr. 
Bristow; they were waiting in anxiety at Mazatlan. The 
messenger sat on his horse outside the hotel, waiting to 
gallop for the hills. Two cavalry officers were arguing with 
the German banker. They were urging him to ignore the 
message and let them start with the troops in pursuit. 
They were furious at the idea of temporizing with a bandit. 

'But they would see you coming,' interposed El Nortefio, 
butting into the conversation. 'And the Gringo gentleman 
would be killed.' 

The cavalry officers flushed with anger at the interrup- 
tion from a peon boy; but the old German banker looked 
at him reflectively and nodded gravely. 

4 We shall wait for a little while,' he said. 



THE beautiful Eamona was not impressed by the memo- 
ries of Coronado. She lives in the old city of Compostela, 
from which Coronado started one January day in 1540 
on his quest for the Seven Golden Cities of Cibola. The 
only thing that seemed to interest Ramona very much 
was to show me that she could play Yo-Yo (the game that 
we call Diablo) better than I. Between twirling the f oolish 
spools on a string, I asked her if she did not often dream 
of Coronado. 

'Coronado/ she said, trying to remember somebody 
named Coronado. * Coronado Coronado Coronadcj 

'El Seflor Francisco Vasquez Coronado.' 

Ramona called back into the kitchen where her mother 
was making some enchiladas for our lunch. 'Mamacita, 
conoces un tal Francisco Vasquez Coronado?' (Little 
Mama, do you know a man named Francisco Vasquez 

Mamacita said she did not know any such person, so 
Ramona turned back to Yo-Yo. 

Ramona is about seventeen, with eyes that light up 
like hidden fires. Her mother runs a little store where she 
sells the worst enchiladas I ever tasted, pottery from 
Guadalajara, mule harness, and bottled beer. Ramona 
loves to dance, but there is no one with whom she can 
dance. She loves life, but the pigs in the street, the sleepy 


burro trains, and Mass at the old cathedral are all the ex- 
citement she can find. 

Compostela drowses in its memories. It is perhaps the 
deadest town on the West Coast. All day long, old peons 
wrapped in scarlet scrapes sit around in the little deserted 
plaza with dreams of other days in their black eyes. A 
young poet of my acquaintance Donald Carr wrote 
some charming verses about these old men in the park at 

Ay, hombrecito de los viejos, 
Que suefio tiene en los negros ojos? 
Ay, pudieramos tambien quedar 
Sofiando suenos por un avatar! 


Oh, little old man, 

What dreams are in your blade eyes? 
Oh, would that we could hold our dreams 
Throughout our lives! 

I went to pay a visit to the old cathedral. It is a 
magnificent church and one of the historic shrines of our 
country, although we have forgotten it. The church was 
built in 1586, almost a hundred years before our Pilgrim 
Fathers landed at Plymouth Bock. After Coronado sallied 
out from Compostela in his long search for Cibola and its 
golden cities, Compostela became the capital from which 
all of the discovered lands were governed. So it is only 
truth to say that Compostela was the first capital of the 
land that was to be the United States. From this sleepy 
old town there went forth edicts and orders carried by 
couriers and messengers up through the lonely jungles, on 
through the mountain passes, through the country of the 


At one time there was a government palace a palacio 
and a fortress for the soldiers. But it has been so com- 
pletely ruined and effaced by Time that we could not be 
sure even of its location. The grandeur of Compostela 
did not last long. The bishop who founded the church, as 
the then farthest outpost of the Cross, never saw the 
church. He died before it was finished. The bishop who 
took his place died shortly after taking up his residence 
in Compostela. The third bishop was bored to tears by 
life in the sleepy, crude little garrison town and moved 
the seat of his authority to Guadalajara. 

I have seen the old cathedral many times, but I never 
see it as it stands. To me it is always peopled by ghosts. 
I always see a cavalcade of Spanish soldiers in the street, 
their rough barb war-horses pawing and champing at the 
big bits; men-at-arms in their leather armor made of 
seven thicknesses of deerskin, with their huge bell-muzzled 
muskets, their lances and their great swords; the pack- 
horses and mules, with the muleteers endlessly tightening 
the cinch straps and rearranging the packs; the half- 
naked TftcHg-fl allies looking on in wonderment; the chargers 
of the knights in armor held by the servants. And always 
from the dim recesses of the cathedral the solemn chants 
of the last Mass. And presently, in my mind's eye, I see 
the great studded front door swing open and the knights 
come stumping out in their armor to their horses. One 
horse is more splendid than the others, a long, sweeping 
saddle-cloth of gold and scarlet falling almost to his ner- 
vous, stamping hoofs Coronado's war-horse. 

At the head of the company of knights strides a hand- 
some young man in armor Coronado. History tells us 
that he was a gay young society blade of a powerful and 


influential family. When he started on this romantic 
quest, most of the knights who went with hi were care- 
less young aristocrats, out for a lark. Malicious gossip, 
perhaps, but tradition says that they threw away most of 
their armor the first day out because it got too heavy. 
In the first fight at Zufii, two of the horsemen are said to 
have been so panic-stricken they put their saddles on 
hindside to. But in then* breasts beat brave fighting 
hearts. Many a time when Coronado wanted to turn 
back, they insisted on keeping on in the face of danger, 
hunger, suffering, and fatigue. Coronado's instructions 
from the Viceroy were specific. When he found the Seven 
Golden Cities of Cibola, he was to load up two wagons 
with gold. The Viceroy decided to be modest; just two 
wagonloads of gold would be enough. 

The old church hasn't changed much in all these years. 
Someone who wanted to show his gratitude and piety has 
put up a hideous clock-tower of bright blue on lie front; 
otherwise it is as Coronado saw it. 

The first time I saw the cathedral was during the 
period when the priests were in exile from Mexico and the 
Mexicans were holding services of their own. It was some 
kind of day of celebration. An old woman was leading the 
chants and litanies in a high, strident voice and the others 
joined in. All the women were on their knees on the cold 
stones. Some of them had come in from miles out in the 
country on their knees every step of the way. As they 
came into the church, they prayed; then crawled a few 
inches nearer on their knees toward the altar. Near the 
altar was a group of young girls with crowns of thorns 
pressed down upon their foreheads. At one side was a 
large glass coffin in which there was a wax figure of 


Jesus Christ, His body bloody and torn as it came from the 

At the rear of the church was a middle-aged peon in 
white cotton drawers and shirt who was showing his little 
son how to tell the beads of his rosary as he prayed. At 
the end of the lesson, the child bowed respectfully and 
kissed his father's hand. For a moment it puzzled me; 
then I understood. It was a custom reaching back to 
days of chivalry. He was kissing the sword-hilt of the 
ruler of his House. 

When I returned to California, I asked Mr. Ramon 
Novarro, the Mexican movie actor, about it. He was 
surprised that I should have been surprised. 'Why, cer- 
tainly,' he said. 'I have never left my house in my life 
without kissing my father's hand/ 

On the outside of the church is a cross carved into the 
stone. It stands at the height of a man's heart. All around 
the cross the stone is pock-marked by little holes. You 
know what that signified: bullets. No one knows how 
many men have been executed standing in front of that 

As we left the old church and walked through the sleepy 
streets of the adobe town, there came to our ears a queer, 
squealing noise, punctuated by the beat-beat-beat of a 
tom-tom. We started to investigate. 

In an adobe house we found an impressive sight. The 
town butcher had got himself all-dressed-up in his best 
sombrero and his tightest leather pants. He had ridden 
his horse right into the house and was sitting in the saddle, 
trying to look like Napoleon at the battle of Austerlitz, 
or something. As he sat in silent grandeur, two little 
Indians played in his honor. One had a native pipe that 


looked something like a crude piccolo; the other had a 

A curious custom all through this part of Mexico is to 
hire bands to play in one's honor. If you have done some- 
thing of which you feel very proud or have a birthday or 
something, you hire a band and have it follow you around 
the streets tooting tunes by way of hurrahs. 

I don't know what the town butcher had done that he 
was so proud of, but he had been sitting there for a long 
time on his horse like a statue, his face pulled into a very 
haughty and proud expression. When he saw us, he beck- 
oned us to come in. There was a long and excited conver- 
sation between the Indian musicians, which we could not 
understand, as it was in some native dialect. Then the 
one who played the flute stood up and bowed and said, 
'We will now play in honor of the Gringos. We shall 
play the national anthem of their great country the 
United States.' 

And then they solemnly proceeded to play what they 
thought was our national anthem. 

It was *Oh, Katarina'! 


ALL the next day we rode through a country filled with 
romance. This is the country of the charcoal-burners. 
We passed an old burned-out volcano about equally well 
known for charcoal and bandits. All over the mountain- 
side we saw the huts and the furnaces of the charcoal- 
burners. At the railroad stations we saw charcoal heaped 
mountain high. They make it by burning the sap and 
green out of the fresh-cut boughs. Most of it goes to 
various parts of Mexico and to San Francisco, where 
many chefs still cook in the old style. 

For almost half a day we rode through the ancient 
hacienda called San Jose de Condi It dates back to 1550 
and is one of the oldest farms in the New World. It is a 
little kingdom of itself with villages and great ranch-houses 
and outpost villages where the vaqueros live. At the main 
ranchhouse is a large town occupied by the ranch peons 
and an old church. 

For generations the business of the San Jose" de Conde 
has been raising bulls for bull-fights. They are not hie 
the cattle we know. They are little black fellows as savage 
as tigers. Just as we breed cows for Tnilk by picking out 
good milkers for mothers, so they breed bulls for fighting 
by killing off every calf that does not seem to hate men. 
The young ranch foreman told me that the fighting bulls 
are as savage and dangerous as any known wild animal. 
He told me of an instance where a bull chased a vaquero 


up .a tree and kept him there for five days and nights, 
pawing the ground under the tree by way of challenge, 
only moving away for quick snatches of grass, literally 
sleeping with one eye on the tree. He said that the old 
ranch was going to abandon the business. Bulb for the 
fights do not pay. It is too risky. The fiercest bull may 
not pan out as a fighter once he is in the ring. If he 
doesn't, the fickle crowd begins to shout scorn and deri- 
sion. The owners of the ranch are going to stock it with 
modern beef cattle. 

There is a narrow strip of country near this old hacienda 
which is noted for scorpions. These venomous little in- 
sects always suggest a tiny leprous lobster to me. They 
have a deadly poison which is usually fatal to chil- 
dren. I know a woman who, stepping out of bed in the 
night in an old hotel, was stung by one. She said that it 
had the unusual effect of causing a partial paralysis of 
the motor nerves, yet an acute and agonizing sensitiveness 
of the skin. There is one hill near this place which the 
Government has fenced in, forbidding anyone to go there. 

Late in the afternoon we passed through a tiny village 
on a lonely mountain road. There is a tradition that, in 
the old Spanish days, a company of soldiers deserted the 
colors and turned bandit. One of them who was the 
chief bully established a sort of robber kingdom back 
in the mountains, with bandits working for him on a pay- 
roll like cowboys. Descendants of those robbers ac- 
cording to tradition settled in this mountain village, 
every inhabitant a freebooter. If so, the inhabitants 
must in the meanwhile have experienced religion. With 
night coming on, we approached the place nervously. 
The women came out to meet us, bringing us presents of 


melons and fruit. One of the cars needed water and one of 
the peon women lugged it out by the gallon in an earthen 
jar, smilingly refusing pay for her work. 

We arrived at the little town of Lctian at dark and found 
the sorry last chapter of a real bandit story. The German 
banker in Tepic to the huge disgust of the army officers 
had made a bargain with the bandits; they had re- 
duced their demands from thirty thousand pesos to 
six thousand. That morning a messenger had gone out 
with a pack-horse loaded with silver money in linen 
sacks. The bandits had agreed to deliver Mr. Bristow at 
Ixtian late that day. They wouldn't take a chance by 
bringing him to Tepic; and they warned the German 
banker that they would kill Bristow if any hostile move* 
ment was made by the troops. 

We waited with considerable excitement, but Bristow 
did not come for a long time. Late that night, after the 
moon had risen, an elderly man rode into town, swaying 
from sickness and exhaustion, on a wretched old wreck 
of a cow-pony. It was Bristow. He found a place to stay 
and went to bed. When he had had time to rest a little, 
we went to the house to hear the story of his adventures. 

As he told the story, he had been captured by four men. 
They had suddenly appeared out of the underbrush and 
leveled rifles at his head. They told his guide to go on his 
way and made Bristow ride with them. He said that he 
had no idea where they took him. He could speak only a 
few words of Spanish and they could speak no English, so 
all their conversation was carried on by signs. They took 
what money he had. One of the bandits took off his high 
field boots, which are considered a great prize in Mexico, 
and gave M" a pair of sandals. One of them took his 


watch; another his gun; and they divided up his money 
which amounted to several hundred pesos. 

For about twenty days he lived the life of a hunted 
coyote. The bandits were afraid of the troops. They were 
constantly on the move. Night and day they rode. They 
would ride into the mountains; suddenly double on their 
tracks, and strike off in a new direction. They were all 
mountain men and experienced riders, so they didn't 
mind the terrific pace and the fatigue. It nearly killed 
Bristow, who was an old man and in poor health. 

From time to time a messenger would appear and there 
would be a conference. Then the messenger would ride 
away again. Bristow understood they were bargaining for 
his lif e. They made him perfectly well understand that, 
if the money did not arrive at a certain day, he would be 
killed. Otherwise than that, they were very good to him. 
He said when they got any food, they always gave him the 
best of it. When they killed a chicken, they gave fa' the 
choicest bits and ate the neck themselves. Sometimes 
they went without food altogether and gave what little 
they had to him. Whether this was really kindness, how- 
ever, or merely the principle of feeding up a turkey for 
Thanksgiving Day, I do not know; and he didn't either. 

When the messenger finally came back with the money, 
they rode with him some distance toward the nearest 
town; then they all fell back and disappeared except one. 
He went on with Bristow until the lights of the town could 
be seen in the distance. He carefully explained to the sick, 
tired old man how to find the rest of the road and vanished 
like a ghost into the night. 

There was a garrison of Mexican troops in the town of 
Ixtlan. They were furious that the bandits should have 


been allowed to get away with this impudence. They were 
literally champing at the bits to take the trail against 
them. They insisted and it was probably true that, 
if they had had their way, there would have been no ran- 
som; only dead bandits. Out of courtesy for the Gringo, 
they reluctantly stood apart and let the ransom be paid. 
But then but then the next chapter was theirs. 

One of the officers drew for me a map in red, blue, and 
black ink by which he showed that they had every avenue 
of escape cut off for the bandits. To allow Bristow to come 
safely back to civilization, they had opened a place in the 
line, like a gate. Now they were going to close the gate. 
All through the night we heard the clatter of galloping 
horses as the cavalry patrols started for the hills. It was a 
mission of vengeance to avenge their hurt pride. 

We heard very little about it from the officials, but dur- 
ing the weeks that followed, the Mexican papers farther 
to the south where we had continued our journey published, 
now and then, small items stating that Jose Gomez 
or somebody a bandit had been caught and executed by 
the troops in the mountains of Nayarit. And I imagine 
that many a little pool of drying blood marked the spot 
where some bandit who had divided his chicken with the 
Gringo came to the end of his career. Some of them were, 
perhaps, surrounded and killed by troops. In many 
other cases, innocent-looking burro trains driven by peons 
and loaded with sugar-cane turned out to be moving forts 
the sugar-cane hid machine guns. 

Bristow said that when he was with the bandits they 
were almost starving. Most of the time a little corn meal 
mixed with water was all they could find to eat. One can 
imagine the torture of their fear after that, the leader 


knowing that any member of his bandit band was likely 
to turn traitor at any moment and kill him for the price 
on his head: every peon passing with a burro likely to be 
a soldier in disguise. Days and nights of terror a 
remorseless, bloodthirsty, untiring man hunt. The whole 
incident was a grand thrill, but convinced me that the 
life of a criminal is more unhappy and less profitable in 
Mexico than elsewhere. 

"Wherever cussedness is abroad, you can usually find a 
renegade American. According to rumor the real head of 
the Ixtlan bandits is an American who lives a life of appar- 
ent innocence in the town. There are reasons why he can- 
not go home to the 'States/ 

Ixtlan is an old Aztec town. From the earliest times it 
has been a stopping-place for travelers and an outpost for 
troops Aztec, then Spanish, now Mexican. We were 
the only guests at a little country inn. It was a sort of 
family affair. They tried hard to make us happy. The 
head of the household was a widow; we seldom saw the 
sefiora, although she came in every morning to wish us 
good-morning and every night to wish us pleasant dreams. 

The two daughters of the household waited on the table 
and made the beds in the old high-ceilinged bedrooms. 
The eldest was Amparo. She was pale and lithe with 
eyes in which dreams slumbered. She was very much dis- 
tressed if we didn't eat everything, which was quite im- 
possible because she brought it on by armloads. In the 
evening, she played the phonograph, and as she put on 
each new piece looked around anxiously to ask, *Le gusta? ' 
(You like it?) 

The other daughter was Juanita. She had eyes that lit 
up suddenly with humor. But her delicate mouth was sad 


and turned down at the comers. Her face was strong with 
Spanish strength. In the face of Amparo was the sugges- 
tion of the beauty of another race probably Toltec or 
Aztec. But Juanita was proud and Spanish. 

Amparo was something of a coquette. One day she 
invited one of the young engineers to go to Mass with her; 
then told him she was going at 5 A.M. 

In the evenings they played rummy for hours with the 
engineers, not having an idea what it was all about. 

A Mexican girl has but one thought to do what her 
men want. The domestic mores of the Eastern purdah 
still hold her. 

Her first social contact with American boys leaves her 
dazed. Great social changes are being made in Mexico by 
girls who have been educated in the United States. 

After her marriage, the Mexican girl becomes the em- 
press of her own household. All Mexican women of social 
breeding and mature years impress me as being very much 
alike. They cover their shyness with a regal dignity, but, 
having let down the bars, are witty, animated, and with a 
genius for intimacy. They are easily offended, however, 
by the slightest breech of ceremonious etiquette. When an 
opportunity comes, they often show high executive ability 
the product of their experience as chatelaines of great 
households. If you are accepted into a Mexican household, 
you find yourself overwhelmed with a tender maternal 
anxiety for your happiness and welfare. 

Maria was the maidservant the criada. She did all 
the laundry work and helped in the kitchen and pumped 
the water into the funny old shower bath for us. Maria 
was small and wistful. But she was pretty, too, in a 
timid, shrinking way. 


Pedro was the old manservant. He helped us with our 
baggage and eagerly ran our errands. In leaving, we gave 
him a tip. He looked at it and although it seemed very 
little to us ran down the street after us to give it back 
and ask for something smaller. He protested it was too 
much. If Pedro ever gets a job in an American hotel, the 
other bellboys will all insist that he be examined for in- 



IT WAS Palm Sunday in Lrtlan. I was wakened that morn- 
ing by a queer thumping sound on the pavement outside 
my window. A young Indian was on his way to church. 
As penance for his sins he was torturing himself. He had 
made a cross of timbers so enormous that the weight al- 
most crushed him. He was crawling on his hands with the 
cross on his back. It was so heavy that he could only 
struggle along for a few feet at a time. He had been 
crawling all night, since sundown the day before, from 
his hut in the hills. His face was drawn and pale, for he 
had eaten nothing. His knees were bleeding from contact 
with the hard stones. 

The church at Ixtlan is very, very old. The congrega- 
tion is of almost pure Aztec descent and the church some- 
how takes on the strangeness of that vanished race. The 
old belfry tower was a fortress and its time-grayed sides 
are torn by bullet marks. It is the shrine of a wild fierce 

The church was packed with peons whose Indian blood 
showed in their faces. Each one held in front of his face 
the frond of a palm as the priests passed down the aisles 
in the ceremonial procession. Bagged people, fierce people 
with wild eyes. In the hope of a miracle, the steps of the 
church were thronged with sick babies, some of whom were 
blind and some horribly deformed. Many were carried 
to the place by tiny little girls not much bigger than the 


babies themselves. Having deposited the babies, they sat 
and waited in hopeless, patient silence. 

It was a great fete day as well as a day of religious cele- 
bration. The sidewalks were packed with peddlers and 
booths. Some sold beads of colored glass; others, religious 
medallions, tortillas, sticky cactus candy, sugar-cane. 
One peddler had a board spread with relics odd spurs, 
garden tools, old knives with half the blades broken, dag- 
gers with rusted blades. In the midst of this trash was a 
court sword that had belonged to a Spanish knight. 

When we pulled out of Ixtlan, that day, our automo- 
biles bumped and thumped over the ruts of one of the 
oldest roads in the Western Hemisphere. It was the old 
Spanish treasure-road over which the long pack-mule 
trains carried the cargoes of the galleons from San Bias 
over the mountains to Vera Cruz. It was almost pitiful 
to tfiinlr of the labor that had gone into the making of that 
road. The pavement was made of small cobblestones 
fitted together like a mosaic. In the days of the treasure- 
trains, it must have been Eke a modern bathroom floor. 
For centuries it has been allowed to go to rack and ruin. 
Deep cafions have been cut into it by the cloudburst 
waters that come surging down from the hills. In places 
it is as much as a loaded burro can do to pick his way 
around the gullies and barrancas in the road. 

As we were fighting our way in low gear over this road, 
we met a burro train loaded with long planks that gave 
the effect of each little burrito carrying his stall along with 
him. One slipped and fell. With those long boards fastened 
to his sides, he could not get up again until some of our 
engineers climbed out of the cars, grabbed the ends of 
the boards, and lifted him back to his feet. The peon who 


drove the train must have been astonished, for no Gringo 
had ever shown any interest in him before, but his face 
was absolutely impassive as he raised his big sombrero 
and murmured, 'Muchas gracias, sefiores.' 

The road finally got so bad that we decided to tear 
down a piece of the stone wall that lined the road, first 
having asked permission of the Presidente of whom, 
more later on. A surprise met us in that wall. For hun- 
dreds of miles these walls line the road and crawl over the 
hills until your eye loses them in the distance. "We thought 
we could toss down the stones as in a New England stone 
wall. When we tried it, we found that every stone was 
wedged and fitted in so carefully that we had to pry 
it out with automobile tools. No wonder those walls 
have stood there since the days of Cortez! Everywhere in 
Mexico you have to be impressed with the superb engineer- 
ing genius of those old Spanish Conquistadores. It may 
be they were cruel and tyrannical and greedy in their hunt 
for gold, but they had brains. 

We found El Norteflo waiting for us at a camp that some 
of our party had established at a place called Porto Suelo. 
The boys had pitched their tents right in the middle of the 
old treasure-road. It was the first time we had taken the 
tents from the baggage trucks, and we all thought it was a 
good deal of fun. The tents were little tan-colored houses 
with one pole in the middle like a Sioux Indian tepee. At 
the front of the tent, part of the wall let down to make a 
little window, protected from insects by wire netting. 
Each of us had an army cot and a canvas sleeping-bag, 
lined with blanketing. To Nortefio's huge delight, the 
sleeping-bags could be opened and closed with zippers. 

We set up a long folding camp-table at one side of the 


road and got out the kitchen equipment. There was a 
camp stove with a gasoline flame. El Nortefio was very 
much astonished as he came into camp, struggling with a 
huge armload of wood, to learn that we had a machine that 
talked like a man our camp phonograph. He helped us 
to set up another mysterious instrument which had a long 
jointed pole that was braced against the winds of the 
tropic night by guide-wires tied into the stone walls of the 
time of Cortez. El Norteno had never heard of a radio out- 
fit, and the operator let him wear the head-piece and hear 
the faint little buzzing clicks. He looked politely skeptical, 
however, when he was told that those little clicks were 
coming from a boy in a little town in Ohio who had caught 
them by accident as he was feeling around in the air waves. 
Another one was coming from a sleepy army operator in 
Honolulu who suddenly came to lif e as he realized who was 
sputtering into the air, and who courteously agreed to 
take the message from the Mexican mountains and relay 
it for us back to Los Angeles. 

Our camp was right in the middle of the 'main-traveled* 
road up from the mysterious Barranca country to Ixtlan 
and the big towns beyond. All day long and far into the 
night, the burro trains pattered through our camp be- 
tween the cook-tent and our sleeping-tents. It was a pro- 
cession I shall never forget. Some of tne burros were 
loaded with jars and pots to be sold in the markets of 
Tepic. Some had crates of chickens or turkeys and several 
had squealing pigs. Some were serving as carriages, carry- 
ing women and children. All the women were riding side- 
ways sometimes curled around Mexican cow-saddles 
and sometimes on blankets. From one end of Mexico to 
the other, I have never seen but one woman riding what 


we call astraddle. She was the beautiful young wife of an 
army officer with a haughty, cold face. She was fashiona- 
bly dressed in white duck with a gorgeous gold-embroid- 
ered sombrero. When her wild young thoroughbred shied 
at our cars, she lashed him with merciless cuts of a gold- 
mounted quirt without a trace of expression on her 
* poker face." 

Late at night one little family came through the camp 
with two sleepy babies in panniers on the sides of a burro 
and a timid little mother plodding alongside. We always 
marveled at the wonderful way in which these loads were 
packed on the saddles. Just try, for the benefit of your 
soul, fastening a pack on a burro's back. The darn thing 
slides one side, then the other side. It usually winds up its 
career under the burro's stomach. Try then to pack a 
burro with fragile, jiggly native pottery, and you wfll come 
to the conclusion that the most famous of our diamond- 
hitch experts of the old border days still had something to 
learn from a Mexican mule-driver. The driver urged the 
little beasts on by shouting *Aye-bur-r-o'! 

What impressed us was the perfect courtesy of these 
simple little peons. You can imagine what must have 
been their secret astonishment to come suddenly upon 
this camp of strange Gringo gentlemen with queer tents, 
high radio poles, and the sputtering flash, of the radio 
itself. All day and far into the night they came, but of 
all that procession I did not see one who stared. They 
lifted their sombreros, murmured * Buenos noches, sefiores,' 
but looked neither to the right nor to the left. I cannot 
claim that we were equally courteous. 

Many features of our camp fascinated El Nortefio. 
Especially the patent can-opener. To tell the truth, I 


was fascinated myself by the can-opener. To his ineffable 
bliss, he was allowed to lift the lid from the cans, and had 
we not been firm, he would have gone on de-lidding all 
the cans on the West Coast of Mexico. Hie coffee per- 
colator came next of rank in his wonderment. After that 
my typewriter. He would plant himself in front of that 
instrument, watching the quick clicking keys with en- 
trancement. Only the coffee percolator could wean away 
his attention. He liked to watch that bubble. So also did 
we. It was an oasis in a desert. 

My frank admiration for Mexico stops just this side 
of the coffee. To our taste, at least, it is terrible. They do 
not grind the berries as we do. They pulverize them until 
they become a brown talcum powder. This they bofl 
until it is like lye. Very often they bring the coffee around 
cold hi a pitcher, and pour a portion into your cup. To 
this they add either hot water or hot milk, as your sins 
deserve. "Whenever I Jook hot milk, I was sorry I had not 
asked for hot water, and when I chose hot water, my 
regret was agonizing that I had not asked for milk. It 
is pretty awful either way. To the Mexican palate, ours 
is just as bad. In some of the larger Mexican cities they 
ask you if you would like to have cafe" americano. Say 
'Yes'! Say'SiM Yellit! Don't let there be any mistake. 

From Ixtian there had come with us as a guard of honor 
a troop of cavalry the bodyguard and escort of El 
Presidente, the boss of the town. He was a gorgeous figure. 
He was enormously fat, but he rode like a centaur. His 
mount was a dun-colored mule. His saddle was a thing of 
mystic beauty. It was mounted in solid gold. His bridle 
was fit for a prince of Cathay. All his personal, clothes, 
from his sombrero heavy with silver embroidery to his 


enormous silver spurs, went with the outfit. Leaving 
us in camp with the soldiers, El Presidente took two of 
our engineers and two mounted scouts and went away to 
find if possible a road over which our automobiles could 

We were interested in our troopers. They were so quiet. 
All day long they sat on the high land above with their 
carbines across their knees, saying scarcely a word. Once 
in a while they played a Mexican card-game. Three times 
a day they cooked their tortillas. They accepted our 
canned goods with shy thanks, but I don't think they 
liked the stuff much. One of our party was a Mexican 
navy officer, sent with us as an honorary escort. He was a 
charming and interesting fellow. Once during the after- 
noon he borrowed a carbine from a soldier and we had a 
target contest: but the fouled, worn-out cavalry weapon 
was a poor second against our American repeating rifles. 
Their horses were a poor lot. They explained that the 
good horses disappeared in the havoc of the last revolution. 
The soldiers themselves, however, were fine military 
material. I doubt if there is another soldier in the world 
who .will march so far or fight so courageously or uncom- 
plainingly on a diet of corn cakes which he cooks himself. 

One of the party had a movie camera. To relieve the 
boredom, a young army major, who had joined our party 
at Tepic, suggested that we stage a play about bandits. 
He stopped the next man who came along on a burro and 
explained to him that he had been cast for the part of the 
bandit. He was a handsome young fellow and played the 
part like a movie hero. When the major suggested that the 
soldiers hang him by the neck as a fitting finale to the 
drama, we made hasty objections. 'But we could cut him 


down before he really choked/ said the major. The peon 
did not offer the slightest objection. He apparently 
thought it would be a grand idea and great realism. He 
was the one most obviously disappointed when we de- 
clared the drama ended with the hero still unhanged. 

That night was the most gorgeous moonlight night I 
ever remember to have seen. The mysterious shadow of 
the mountain fell caressingly across a fairyland sunk in a 
deep cation. The Mexican major and I walked out along 
the old treasure-road. He talked of the relations between 
the United States and Mexico. Without a close under- 
standing friendship between the two countries, Mexico 
will be a Belgium for any European country seeking to 
invade the United States, a fatal vantage-ground from 
which it will be possible to strike at the heart of America. 
The talk then turned to art and music. He was speaking of 
an orchestra leader in the City of Mexico who has a new 
and interesting interpretation of Mendelssohn. Suddenly 
he thrust out an arm and swept me around behind him, 
shielding my body with his. His heavy army revolver 
was out of the holster and in his hand as he tensely watched 
a movement in the shadow. The chaparral parted and a 
burro came through into the moonlight. 

The major laughed. 'You never know,' he said. He 
put his revolver back into the holster. "We were speaking 
of Mendelssohn.' 

* Compafiero,' I said, hoping he would not hear my knees 
shaking, 'compafiero, excuse me but I cannot intelligently 
discuss Mendelssohn with gooseflesh trickling down my 
backbone. Let's go back and go to bed.' 


IF YOU can imagine what it would be %ei trying to drive a 
car down Bright Angel Trail and across Grand Cafion, 
you may get an idea what it was like when our engineers 
forced two small automobiles through the Barrancas. 

This is one of the greatest gulches in the world. It is a 
giant gash in the heart of the high mountains near the 
border of Nayarit and the State of Jalisco. Until an Ameri- 
can raikoad company built a track hugging the face of the 
mountains that tower above the Barrancas, Guadalajara, 
the second city of Mexico, was a city cut off marooned. 
Either you mounted a mule and plodded over mountains 
through a district at that time infested by bandits, or you 
made an enormous circuit by sea. The Southern Pacific 
Railroad tackled the terrific job of laying rails that encir- 
cled tlie rim of the great chasm. It is said to be the most 
difficult and expensive stretch of railroad construction in 
the Western Hemisphere -perhaps in the whole world. 
And now that it is built, it is one of the most amazing and 
beautiful train rides in the world. But it did not help 
motor traffic in any way. The problem of our party of 
engineers was to blaze a trail for automobiles. 

Back in the days of the Conquest, the Spaniards built a 
road through the Barrancas: the San Bias to Vera Cruz 
treasure-road pitched down over the brink of the big 
canon and crawled up the other side. With the passing of 
time, this road had gone to ruin. Whole sections of it had 


pitched down over the edge of precipices. What remained 
of it was cut into cations. It was an impediment rather 
than a passage. There were places where a burro had to 
be packed very lightly, to stumble and crawl over. The 
nature of the ground may be assumed from the fact that 
one section of the Barrancas bears the appropriate name 
Salsipueda (Get out if you can). 

We sent two of the five cars back to Ixtlan to be shipped 
by flatcar to Magdalena on the side of the canon. The 
remaining two cars which were to make the trip were 
stripped of their baggage load. A soldier had been sent 
ahead to arrange for ox-teams. A troop of cavalry rode 
behind to supply the man power. 

The cars were scarcely outside of our roadside camp 
when the trail pitched down over the brink. It will always 
remain one of the epics of automobile driving. But it is 
not interesting to tell about. There were places where the 
cars had to hug burro trails on the perilous faces of moun- 
tain cliffs, the wheels held on the edge by ropes and soldiers. 
There were places where they had to go up hills that were 
like climbing the side of a sky-scraper. It was a matter of 
backing up for a start, then a mad plunge of a few feet in 
low gear, then another start. There were places where 
six oxen pulled with their might and main ahead, a troop 
of dismounted cavalry pushed from behind, while the 
engine roared and screamed. It is a tribute to modern 
automobile makers that not even a tire was punctured 
during this terrific ordeal. 

At the bottom of the cation is a lonely, desolate little 
Mexican town whose inhabitants would no doubt die of 
homesickness were they removed to a spot more favored. 
The gentleman who wrote "Home, Sweet Home/ touched 


a mysterious phase of human character. At the end of the 
Apache wars, Geronimo and his renegade warriors were 
sent as prisoners to the most beautiful part of Florida. 
They yielded to the inevitable in the matter of losing their 
freedom, but some of them literally died of longing for the 
God-awful desolation of the burning Arizona deserts. 
One Apache chief explained the loneliness of his heart by 
saying, 'I can't look anywhere except up if I wish to see 
anything.' I don't know how the folks in Blandabarrancas 
explain their attachment. 

From one brink to the other, the automobiles fought 
their way twenty-eight miles over a motor Purgatory. 
Having shipped myself with the cars from Ixtlan, I found 
them resting on cots in a wretched little hotel in the town 
of Magdalena. It is a tradition that the hero who came 
through Pickett's charge at Gettysburg usually shoots 
his arm off with a Fourth-of-July firecracker. Just so the 
only damage to any of our cars was in taking one of them 
off the flatcars at the unloading. 

Magdalena was interesting, but did not tempt us to 
linger. There is a tradition that the mysterious hidden 
gold mine of the Aztec Emperor Montezuma was near Mag- 
dalena. More recent and more cold-blooded investigations 
of the stories of the Spanish Conquest bring a note of 
skepticism to these treasure tales. They considerably 
reduce Montezuma's financial rating in Bradstreet's. 
Historians are beginning to wonder if the Aztecs had much 
gold. Their interest seems to have turned to other min- 
erals obsidian, turquoise. 

An ancient letter from a soldier of the Conquest has 
been found. In telling the news to the folks back home, 
he says that, when Cortez had to retreat from the city 

^vp-^/r-" ' 

<* 'v/KiknvV 



Tenochtitlan (the present Mexico City), an order gave 
the soldiers the usual privileges of a forced retreat the 
privilege of looting. They could cany off all the gold they 
could find. He writes with sardonic bitterness that he 
wishes he had stayed at home in Spain and herded goats. 
Whether or not Montezuma got his gold from Magdalena, 
the fact remains that others have found gold there. Rich 
and important mines have been, and are being, worked by 
American and British interests. 

What interested me in Magdalena was the old church. 
It has a marvelous crucifix a lif e-size figure of Christ 
that is reputed to shed real blood at certain significant 
periods. A book might be written of some of the sacred 
figures found in Mexican churches. The artists of that 
period were nothing if not literal. The figure of the Cross 
is not conventionalized as in our modern artistry. Most 
of them depict the last episode of a human being dying in 
awful agony. It calls out the sympathy of the simple, 
warm-hearted little peons to them the Christ is their 
intimate friend. The day we visited the old church, a little 
Mexican boy of perhaps ten years was dinging to the 
blood-stained, worn, fragile hand of the Christ, kissing 
the hand again and again, murmuring caressing, loving 
words of sympathy and consolation. 

I found a volunteer guide in a smart Syrian from 
Beyrout. He was clever, illuminating, and brazen. The 
Syrians are all over Mexico. They are the sharp traders, 
the money pioneers. This one told me shamelessly how 
he had captured the trade of the town from the Mexican 
merchants. He said the gag was to pretend great friend- 
ship to play on the hearts of the peasants. 'I tell Mrs. 
Lopez,* he said, 'that the fellow across the way would 


charge her more: but to show her how warm my heart is 
for the people of Mexico, I am going to let her have her 
corn meal and pink dresses very cheap/ 

Although this may be effective in the homeland, the 
Mexican is disillusioned by the time he gets to the United 
States. The patent-medicine shows of Arizona find the 
Mexican suckers hard-boiled and wary. My friend Slim 
Sheets, who sells the world's most marvelous corn cure 
between acts of the most wonderful vaudeville show on 
earth, tells me that a Mexican will never buy anything 
until after the third day. He waits to observe the ex- 
perience of some Gringo friend before he is prepared to 
believe that an ointment rubbed on the outside of a shoe 
will cure the corn inside. 

My Syrian friend said that another factor of his success 
lay in introducing into Magdalena the dollar-down-dollar- 
a-week system. Like every other transplanted Gringo 
whom I consulted, he said that the Mexican peon was 
good pay a square shooter and commercially honorable. 

We drove out late that afternoon through narrow little 
streets where the women sat in doorways nursing babies. 
We were in the mescal country now hills covered with 
the fat-leaved maguey century plants that yield Mexico's 
national liquor. A Mexican maguey hacendado has a 
long wait ahead. Several years must elapse before the 
crop is ready to 'pick' and then it is not picked. 
Mescal is made by cooking and fermenting the root which 
grows almost to the thickness of a man's body; the result 
is a yellowish-white liquid very intoxicating and of in- 
describable taste. Tequila is a refinement of mescal. 

We stopped that night in what had been a lovely old 
suburban villa and had been turned into the worst hotel 


of my not inconsiderable experience. It was more sug- 
gestive of a Pompeian villa than a Mexican house great 
square rooms looking out on loggias, patios following 
patios. The bedchambers were not alluring. The mat- 
tresses were of board. I drew a room with two engineers. 
At bedtime, one remarked with heavy sarcasm: 'We leave 
to you the choice. Do you prefer the oak bed or the 
spruce?' We were warned not to step around in the dark 
on account of scorpions. 

In the midst of our misery, we found light. At breakfast 
next morning, we discovered ourselves sitting seatmate to 
one of the most interesting men in Mexico, a tiny, sprightly 
old man with long whiskers. It was Dr. Atl, the greatest 
expert in the world on Mexican churches. He has written 
a work in six volumes which is recognized as the last 
word. I thought it was strange that there should still be 
one in Mexico with a name so essentially Aztec. Then I 
learned that his private name is quite different. He comes 
from an old Spanish family. His heart from childhood was 
ever with the vanished Aztecs. Also it was an unfilled 
desire of his heart to be a doctor. Whereupon, returning 
from a long sea voyage, he announced to an astonished 
world that from that point on he was to be known as Dr. 
Ati, and from that point on began the real achievements 
of his life. He is also an artist, a painter of international 
fame, and a chemist of high repute. 

Hie idea that anyone could write six huge volumes on 
the churches of Mexico so staggered me that I felt drawn 
into the impertinence of expressing my wonderment. 'But, 
after all,' I hastened to add apologetically, 'it must be 
a great satisfaction to realize that you have absolutely 
exhausted a subject/ 


Dr. Atl looked as though he were going to faint with 
astonishment. 'Exhausted the subject!' he gasped. 'My 
dear fellow, I haven't even seen one third of_the churches 
of Mexico.' 

He told us much that was interesting as we ate break- 
fast, facts that were of value to travelers coming into one 
of the great centers of New World architecture Gua- 
dalajara. What seem to us now as Old-World architecture 
buildings that whisper of ancient days were the 
product of an outburst of a glorious period when Youth 
found an outlet. 

The myriad cathedrals and churches of Mexico represent 
a golden age of young untrammeled architecture. Work- 
ing under the masters of architecture in Europe, there 
were a great number of young artists who champed at the 
bit. As with many brilliant boys bending over drawing- 
boards of today, they had to do what they were told. 
The Spanish Conquest the opening of a new heathen, 
churchless land to the Cross and the throne was their 
opportunity. Their artistic handcuffs suddenly knocked 
off, they could work out their own ideas. Never in the 
history of the world was there such an era of church build- 
ing. In a period of about one hundred years, more than 
fifteen thousand important churches were built. An 
average of more than three a week! Not many of these 
stand as they were made. Many have been rebuilt several 
times. Just as in the case of the missions of California. 
I used to stand in their shadows and imagine myself 
standing with the good Father Junipero Serra until I 
discovered that Serra only saw one or two of the present 
missions. Many of them are not even on the spots that 
he built. The mission at Santa Barbara has been com- 
pletely rebuilt four times. 


I have spent a great part of my life admiring the voices 
that were off key, and standing transfixed with admiration 
in front of pictures that the committee was about to banish 
to the dark cellars: so, in a hoarse whisper of warning, I 
will pass on the verdicts of Dr. Atl. He says that the 
cathedral at Pueblo is by far the finest in Mexico. In 
Guadalajara the best architecture is to be found in the 
Santuaro and the church of San Felipe de Jesus. So now, 
if you go home, raving over the wrong church, don't 
blame me. 


GUADALAJARA always goes straight to the heart of the 
visiting American. It is different in atmosphere and 
psychology from any other Mexican city. In essence it is 
Spanish rather than Mexican. It was established in 1530 
about a hundred years before the Pilgrim Fathers 
landed at Plymouth Bock by Captain Juan de Ofiate 
in honor of his commanding officer, Nufio de Guzman, 
who was born in Guadalajara, Spain. 

It is fifty-two hundred feet above sea-level and I 
have an idea that its perfect, sparkling climate has 
something to do with its psychology. It is cynical, per- 
verse, gay, attractive, sophisticated. Independent, 'con- 
trary' almost as we would say, in the slang of the day, 
'snooty.' Mexican politicians say with some sourness that, 
whatever question arises, Guadalajara is always on the 
other side. Whoever you are, Guadalajara is not in the 
least impressed. No one escapes its gay, witty ridicule. 
The city has been fought over; bombarded, invaded times 
without number, but no tragedy can dim its spirits as 
crisp and volatile as its mountain air. The air never gets 
hot and the Guadalajarefios never get heated. It lies in 
the dip made by an extinct volcano, and its climate has an 
electrical exhilaration and tingle. 

The city is gorgeous with churches. It is the real center 
of the Catholic Church in Mexico a city of devotion 
underneath its cynicism. From my hotel windows I 


could count twenty-three magnificent churches. There 
are, I believe, some fifty in all, not counting the small ones. 

The hotels are colorful and charming. I have stayed at 
several. All have a quaint foreign atmosphere. In each 
one the rooms open out onto a great balcony, which in 
turn looks down into a handsome rotunda. You never 
have the sense of being fodder for a factory as in so many 
American hotels. There is a f eeling that they want you 
apart from your money. They have a real anxiety as to 
your happiness and peace of mind. The whole staff gal- 
loped up in a body when I announced that my bath would 
not run hot water. It developed that the native plumber 
not being a linguist had put the *hot* sign on the 
cold faucet. 

The first day I walked abroad in Guadalajara, I was 
stopped by a little boy about fourteen years old. He 
wanted to know if I wanted a guide. He said he was very 
poor and had four little brothers and sisters to support. 
As our intimacy continued from day to day, he kept 
increasing the number of brothers and sisters until I 
became alarmed lest he should turn out to be blood brother 
to all the half orphans in Mexico. The thing that reas- 
sured me in this regard was his nationality. He was not 
Mexican. His people had come from Indiana, his father 
being a miner as well as the champion father of all time 
in point of production. My little friend said he had been 
born in Guadalajara. We spent a pleasant and valuable 
morning together. He knew where we could find old 
Spanish chests, red and gold Chinese chests a little 
cylindrical chest with one flat side that was for the back of 
a carriage. He did all the bargaining. He beat the dealers 
down in their prices; then excused himself to go back to 


collect. When we marched back in triumph to the hotel 
with our arms filled with bundles and two cargadores 
following with the chests, the clerk at the desk almost 
fell over in his tracks. 

'"Where did you get that boy?' he demanded. The boy 
looked like innocence on a monument saddened by the 
evils of the world. 'I found him on the street,' I said un- 
easily. 'He found you on the street/ retorted the clerk. 
'And before he goes, you had better look to see if your 
watch is still there. He is the most notorious pickpocket 
in Guadalajara. He is just out for an airing before he goes 
back to jail again.' I remembered that he had shown a 
remarkable f amiliarity with the premises when we had 
gone to look over the jail a great courtyard surrounded 
with cells from which the dejected inmates spoke pleas- 
antly to my guide. 

He was the first of many interesting acquaintances I 
picked up on the streets. Another was Sefiorita Maria 
Guadalupe Pecheco, with whom I had a desperate flirta- 
tion. The seftorita was of the age of five years. She sold 
newspapers in front of the Imperial Hotel. 

'Look at that child's burning eyes!' I exclaimed to 
one of the engineers as we stopped to buy a paper from 
her. 'Don't they scorch a way right into your heart?' 
The sefiorita listened gravely and as we thought 
without understanding. We asked her name, but she 
turned bashfully away. The next morning at breakfast 
I felt a little soft hand on my knee and I looked down to 
see this lovely baby. In a little soft voice, watching my 
face meanwhile, she said: 'Mi nombre es Maria Teresa 
Pacheco, y yo tengo ojos ealientes. Hagame el favor de 
danne cinco centavos para un periodico.' (My name is 


Maria Teresa Pacheco, and I have hot eyes. Do me a 
favor; give me five cents for a paper.) We gave Maria 
Teresa many five-cent pieces until we observed to our 
pain that, at intervals, an older woman came and took the 
money away from her. 

Guadalajara is famous for the beauty of its girls. They 
are lovely beyond all description, but it will do you no 
good to know about it. The old Spanish customs prevail. 
It is unheard of for a girl to be on the street alone. To go 
anywhere with a boy unchaperoned is unheard of and 
unthinkable. The city was all torn up over the scandal 
of some of the young married people bathing in Lake 
Chapala with modern bathing-suits and horrors of 
horrors men and women together. The debate reached 
such proportions that the Archbishop was finally called 
in. To the dismay of the older people, he smiled and said 
he couldn't see any harm. 

Love is complicated in Guadalajara. Either the smitten 
young sheik goes to the father and asks for the hand of a 
girl he has only seen at a distance or he 'plays bear* at 
her window. This charming custom hacer el oso is 
the last stand of the true romance on the American con- 
tinent. Guadalajara is an old-fashioned city with narrow 
streets and the houses are built out to the sidewalks 
elbow to elbow without a space or an inch between. 
Family life goes on in the secluded patios. But in front 
there are heavily barred windows that look out upon the 
street. The boys come to these windows and whisper 
soft nothings to the girl sitting in darkness on the other 
side of the bars. Every night you see scores of these side- 
walk courtships. The girl sits on a window-seat and the 
boy leans with a swagger against the wall outside. The 


lovers seem completely oblivions to the throngs passing 
on the sidewalks. Sometimes the families are compkcent 
and shut their eyes. Sometimes the swain stands at the 
window and hears no response from within. He may not 
call. He can only wait and champ up and down in front 
of the window like a bear in a cage waiting and wonder- 
ing. There are girls whose reign as belles is so great that 
pathways have been worn in the cement in front of their 
windows. I have known of cases where a boy stood in 
front of a girl's window for three years every night 
hoping and adoring. Once in a while he finally gets in; 
usually he doesn't. 

Among the houses of Guadalajara there are a few of a 
somewhat later era that were built in two stories, some- 
what on the order of the balcony houses of Monterey, 
California. It distinctly cramps the style of the whisper- 
ing lover to be obliged to murmur soft caresses from the 
sidewalk to a second-story window. To meet this emer- 
gency, some bright, progressive young fellow introduced 
the portable telephone as a messenger of true love. This 
he managed to send to the girl. When the dusk of evening 
came, she would softly pass down the end of the telephone 
line and they would exchange their vows under the benign 
influence of the late Alexander Bell. While we were in 
Guadalajara a tragedy occurred. The palpitating swain 
came along the street burning with romantic ardor 
to discover another swain whispering soft nothings to his 
lady-love over the telephone which she had treacherously 
lowered to him. The interloper finished his song of love 
in the morgue. 

A touch of Mexican city lif e that never fails to interest 
Americans is in the cargadores. Hordes of them hang 


around the railroad depots they are the Red Caps and 
the express wagons of Mexico. They grab your suitcases 
and your trunks and trot off as though they had a load 
of feathers. I have seen two cargadores carrying a grand 
piano through the streets on their backs. Their strength 
is all in their legs. I have seen these human pack-horses 
fail to lift a bundle of moderate weight. But once get the 
weight shifted to their shoulders and their power is simply 
incredible. A heavy trunk that would cause two of our 
baggage-smashers to groan and complain simply rolling 
it along a platform is as nothing to a cargador. If 
there are any express wagons in Mexico, I have never 
seen any. When you buy the usual loot at the antique 
stores, the proprietor calls a cargador or two cargadores 
and they go trotting off to the hotel or depot with heavy 
boxes packed for shipment on their shoulders. 

If you are intending to do much shopping in Gua- 
dalajara, it is not unusual to call a cargador to carry 
your money. There is gold to be had, but the usual 
medium of exchange is the silver peso, valued at from 
forty-five to fifty cents according to the rate of exchange. 
To wander around on a shopping excursion with what 
amounts to two or three hundred dollars in silver half- 
dollar pieces is no light job. At the bank they give you 
small linen sacks with the money and you walk, lugging 
these sacks in your hands. It is not unusual to see a car- 
gador from a bank walking along the streets with a back- 
load of money. No one thinks of a guard. This is prob- 
ably due in part to the intrinsic honesty of the Mexican; 
due in part to the embarrassment that would confront a 
robber finding himself with a wheelbarrow filled with 
money to trundle along in his flight. I have often seen a 


peon wheeling a barrow filled with money along the side- 

Shopping in Guadalajara is a quaint and interesting 
experience. One of the best places to buy old chests is in 
an open patio behind the Governor's palace, where an 
old man has collected them from places that he alone 
knows. If you are not careful, however, in his beaming 
anxiety to please he will 'fix them up* by painting the 
horsehide lids with black paint and putting in new brass 
nails. There is another curio store in an old house on a 
side street. There are two or three stories of space loaded 
with junk, among which are priceless things. The pro- 
prietor is a charming old man with an amiable indifference 
as to whether or not you buy. If you don't like what he 
has there, he can be persuaded to open up two other 
houses where he has other treasures stored. He has no 
clerks, and 'salesmanship' is something of which he has 
never heard. I think, on the whole, he rather hates to 
part from anything in his collection. 

There are two public markets where the Mexican 
Indians sit in silence in inscrutable passivity while 
you look at their sugar-cane stalks, their blankets, their 
pottery, their dulces, their guarachas. There is here none 
of the cocky indifference you sometimes encounter in 
tradesmen; no * independence' of spirit. It is an attitude 
of complete acceptance of fate. If you wish to buy, that 
is your affair. Why should they tell you whether or not 
you should buy? 

One of these public markets is in the heart of the busi- 
ness district. The other is in the lower part of town in a 
great square in front of a municipal building. In latter 
years, the municipal government has built regular stalls 


for some of the little sidewalk merchants where trade 
goes on much as in our markets. But the Indians who sit 
outside in the gutters and on the ground go on in the old 
way. Going to market is a social event with them. They 
sit in the nest of their flounce of calico skirts seeing 
nothing, yet seeing everything until their packload of 
sugar-cane is gone; then they go back to the mountains, 
the delectable vacation having ended. Booths and glass 
counters would spoil their one great entertainment. 

Around the great plaza in Guadalajara is an arcade that 
runs in front of the buildings. This is called the Portales. 
It is an alluring place. Serapes hang from the pillars of 
the arcade. Dulce counters crowd booths where machetes 
are sold. Sacred images next to guarachas. It all has the 
gay air of a country fair. Behind these arcades are the 
regular department stores. Most of them are run by 
French people. In Mexico the nationalities fall into places 
established by race characteristics. The stores that appeal 
to women are mainly French. The factories and many of 
the banks are in the hands of Germans. The public 
utilities such as gasoline, street railroads, etc., requiring 
large outlays of capital are likely to be under the 
management of Americans or Canadians. 

Of these foreigners, the Germans have been the most 
successful with the Mexicans. Young German boys of 
good families and efficient education come from the 
Fatherland and marry into Mexican families. They learn 
the language thoroughly and the customs of the people. 
Such marriages are almost invariably happy. The French 
keep strictly to themselves. They have their own clubs 
and their own social circles. Usually they are working 
toward the day when they can retire and go home to 


Paris. The Americans are of various types. Mexico is 
filled with young college men of charming manners and 
high attainments who have gained respect and liking in 
Mexico and by 'slickers' who find it convenient to 
stay on the far side of the international line. A visitor to 
Mexico meeting other Americans is filled either with 
pride or shame; seldom by halfway emotions. One thing 
that brings great discredit and contempt for American 
tourists is the way the men sometimes drink. They sug- 
gest nothing so much as a locomotive stopping at a desert 

American women who go to live in Mexico are seldom 
completely happy while they are there and are never 
happy after they leave. There is something in the gay, 
careless leisure that, once experienced, can never be for- 
gotten. Most American women, going with their young 
husbands to Mexico, get a thrill out of the unaccustomed 
luxury of so many quiet servants a sweet, respectful 

One thing strikes a visitor to any part of Mexico 
but especially in Guadalajara, where you expect something 
different. This is the complete indifference to facts. No- 
body knows whether the city has twenty thousand or 
two hundred thousand people; as a matter of fact, it has 
about one hundred and eighty thousand. No one knows 
whether the Cathedral is twenty or two thousand years 
old. And nobody cares. It is not an atmosphere wherein 
you take stock. The exact facts of lif e just do not matter. 
You take what the day brings. 

It was given to Us to visit many homes homes of the 
old families with the barred windows 'on the sidewalk 
and the cool, lovely patios inside: homes of young Ameri- 


can business men with mission f umiture and Hollywood 
trappings; homes of the intellectuals built in the new style 
without patios and with front lawns; and at least one 
home of almost illimitable wealth. Forsaking the charm- 
ing old architecture of the Spanish era, some of the newly 
rich of the revolutionary period have built a new addition 
to the city the Colonia. Many of these fortunes have 
come with the suddenness of a desert thunder-shower. 
The new architecture in many cases is unspeakably awful. 
How any architect could look at those serene old churches 
and those lovely mansions in the old quarter and commit 
some of these horrors passes all understanding. The 
worst of them look like the offspring of a marriage be- 
tween a Hollywood movie bungalow and the cover of a 
Christmas candy-box. Some of them have front lawns. 
I have an unreasoning prejudice against front lawns. 
Why should they have followed me to Guadalajara? 

Just as in Sinaloa it had been permitted to me to come 
closely in contact with the life of the old haciendas, so in 
Guadalajara it came my way to be guest at a dinner 
attended by the aristocracy and beauty of Jalisco. The 
sefiora had been educated in a private school in Los 
Angeles. I had known her there. Her story is the story 
of modern Mexico. Young and beautiful, she has never 
known the meaning of money. It has been poured into her 
lap. The daughter of a very old Spanish family, dating 
back for centuries of Mexican life, her people have lived 
from the land. In Sinaloa they own an enormous planta- 
tion where her little-girl years were spent. In Sonora they 
have mines, and many of her memories are of the wild 
Yaquis who adored her distinguished father. In Michoa- 
can, her brother has a great hacienda where five thousand 


peons plant and reap his wheat. She has been educated 
to the limit. Most of the modern languages ripple off 
her tongue like music. She is married to a rarely handsome 
and distinguished young man of one of the old families. 
Nevertheless, I could sense that she was miserable. She 
goes to her house in Mexico City; then to Europe; then to 
Hollywood; then to the hacienda looking for something 
that she never can find. 

'You are a caged tiger/ 1 said critically. 

'Yes,* she agreed. 'Exactly. We entertain and enter- 
tain and entertain. "When we do not entertain, my hus- 
band goes to bed at nine. Following the Spanish etiquette, 
I then go to my room and for hours I walk up and down 
the floor like your caged tiger. I feel that I will die if I 
don't get out and where is out? ' 

'What you need,' I said, 'is a job.' 

She leaned eagerly over the table. 'Oh, for the love of 
God, give me a job; it would save me!' 

'Whatkindof a job?' 

'Any kind of a job ; anything to do. I must do something 
or die. I am young and strong. I am not a fool. I have no 
children. I have been educated. Where do I go from 

'How would you like to write?' 

*I would love it.' 

'It could be arranged.' 

'Then I am practically writing right now.' 

The words of a Mexican professor with whom I had 
foregathered in Mazatlan came back to me. 'The dawn 
of a new day for Mexico will come,' he said, 'when the 
peon woman stops grinding tortillas and begins buying 
baker's bread. In other words, when the brains and the 


strength of the Mexican women are released for something 
worth while/ 

About twenty years ago, Mexico suddenly leaped out 
of the Middle Ages into the twentieth century. The 
wonder is, not that she has had so many revolutions, but 
that she has had so few. And that these revolutions have 
had so little destructive effect upon the slow, steady pro- 
gress of the character of the people. The effect has been 
most marked upon the educated women of the better 
class. In search of clothes and excitement, they make little 
forays out of Mexico into other countries that have be- 
come essentially matriarchal; then they go home to a 
man's world. And never forget that Spanish Mexico had 
its roots in a remembered Moorish culture and civilization. 
The well-bred woman of Mexico two generations back 
lived the life of the chatelaine of a medieval castle. Her 
life was bound up in her family and a small circle of 
friends. Now she finds herself cut adrift from that and 
halfway into a new world where family life has ceased 
functioning and where nobody has any friends just 
bridge partners. To her a railroad ticket represents a 
bridge between long centuries. The peon woman has been 
the balance wheel. Not having the price of a railroad 
ticket, she has edged her way along very slowly. 

There are thoughtful minds in Mexico who see in the 
character of the Mexican peon the hope that Mexico may 
progress without f ailing into the fatal errors of neighbor- 
ing civilizations. They are anxious, among other things, 
that the Mexican farmer shall continue to regard farming 
as a manner of life rather than a food factory. Most of 
all that, as machinery inevitably comes into his life, it 
shall remain a tool. That the machine shall be his servant 


rather than his master. Most of all that money shall 
remain something to spend rather than a goal to be strug- 
gled for, fought for, and prayed for. But above all else 
these enlightened men of better minds are anxious that 
the iminsistent little Latin-Indian shall not lose his bal- 
anced appreciation of the realities of lif e. 

My Indian friends tell me that the white man has 
ruined his own happiness because he has departed from 
the world. He has built himself a world in which his 
horizon is a skyscraper; he walks on man-made pavements; 
he has surrendered his song to a machine; has lost his 
sense of sight and smell, and most disastrous of all 
has lost contact with the electric earth currents. The man 
whom we call primitive regards himself as one note in a 
grand symphony. The trees, the dumb animals, the rocks, 
are more than his brothers; they are his other self. 

The peon stands between these theories of life. His 
future course is one of perilous uncertainty. I think he has 
less in life and more in life than any other man with whom 
I have come in contact. There is such a thing as getting 
so much that you have nothing. From outward ap- 
pearances it would seem that no class of people have ever 
had so much as the favored children of Hollywood, for 
instance. It looks as though Fate had brought to them 
on a silver platter, like French pastry, all the blessings 
that men fight for youth, beauty, fame, wealth. Yet, 
take them as a class, if there is a more miserably unhappy 
collection on the face of the earth, I should not know in 
which direction to seek them. Miss Lillian Gish and I 
comparing notes agreed that we did not know one 
happy person among the favored children of fortune of 
Hollywood. I cite Hollywood because it seems to be the 


ultimate of everything that our Anglo-Saxon civilization 
erects as a goal. The little peon of Mexico hasn't had many 
Christmas morning oranges; but he has not had the shat- 
tering tragedy of sucking them dry and finding them sour. 

The woman of the type of our hostess has found herself 
adrift between the two worlds. The din of the jazz or- 
chestras of Hollywood has drowned out the plaintive strum 
of the guitar; but she dimly realizes that jazz is the 
cadence of a Hottentot prayer without any heathen 
god to pray to. 

Dinner she said would be at 8.30. With railroad punctu- 
ality, I punched the electric bell at 8.29. No answer. I 
punched and punched until my thumb gave symptoms 
of collapse. I sat down on the steps for reflection; then 
rose to take another punch. At last a surprised butler in 
evening clothes opened the door and I managed to con- 
vince hi that I was me. 'The sefiora,' he said vaguely, 
'asks you to sit in the library. She has not yet dressed.' 
Time means nothing in Mexico. Dinner is when you get 
there, and you get there when you get there. Being a 
cook in Mexico must have complications. The interval 
permitted me to study one of the most beautiful houses 
I have ever seen. French Empire yet Mexican a beauti- 
ful drawing-room opening into a flower-perfumed patio. 
Beyond the patio, the patio of the servants, still more 
like retainers than servants. They spoke to the sefiora 
with an easy affection under their formal respectful cour- 

The guests were of the old aristocracy of Mexico. One 
was a handsome young matron from an old family at 
Guaymas. She looked like a Moorish princess. Everyone 
seemed to have been educated in Europe. They spoke 


Spanish, French, or English as the topic came up. The 
dinner-table might have been set for a feast of Lucullus. 
The plate was of gold; likewise the goblets. All that was 
needed to complete the picture was to have led in a 
couple of captive emperors with strings through their 

The conversation was gay, cultured, and witty but 
sometimes profound. No one else has come into my ex- 
perience with charm equal to a cultured Mexican. Under 
his sophistication is a touch of occult mystery always a 
little whisper of things unseen, an echo of ancient Aztec 
and Mayan rites. 

The hostess told of the aged Maria, the bread peddler. 
She was a Yaqui. The sefiora encountered her first in a 
public market and she came thereafter to the house to sell 
Yaqui bread which attracted a whim of the moment. 

One day Maria was firmly insistent that bread must 
be bought even though the whim had passed. *I have/ she 
said, 'to earn money for my children/ 

'How many children have you, then?* 


'"What, not really forty-two! No; you couldn't have; 
it is impossible!' 

'The number/ said Maria firmly, 'is forty-two/ 

'But where did you get them? Certainly you didn't ../ 

'Battlefields/ she said briefly. 

She explained that in the terrific Yaqui battles many 
children were left orphans. She went around and collected 
the left-overs. 

'You have had to feed forty-two children all this while? ' 

'Sometimes not so many sometimes twenty-five, 


'How is that?' 

"When I find that I have more than I can feed, I kill a 
few,* said Maria. 'How much bread shall I give you, 

'Maria/ gasped the senora, 'not really? You don't 
mean to tell me that you actually kill the children you 
cannot feed!' 

'Certainly I kill them,' said Maria. '"What would you 
think of me, sefiora, if I allowed the poor little things to 

One day there was a murder mystery in Guadala- 
jara. They were discussing it with the usual excitement 
when Maria came in with the bread. She listened in, so 
to speak, until they got ready to pay attention to her 

'Oh,' she said, her eyes lighting up with sudden interest, 
'you mean that man down there in the cornfield? I 
killed him.' 

'Maria, what on earth are you talking about?' 

'Were you not discussing a man found dead in the corn- 
field? He had revealed the hiding-place of one of our 
priests down in the Yaqui country. I saw him when I 
came here, so naturally I killed him. What would you?' 

'Oh, yes naturally,' murmured the seflora. 

One day Maria happened to arrive at the end of a 
tiresome tea-party. As the guests departed, one of the 
sefiora's young house guests exclaimed in the direction of 
the departing group of ladies, 'Oh, how I would like to 
kill that woman!' 

The next time Maria arrived, another tea-party was 
assembling. Her quick Indian eyes took in the situation. 
She put down her bread-basket in a corner; pulled a long 


knife from her stocking, and took up her station near the 
front door. 

'For God's sake, Maria!' screamed the sefiora. 'What 
are you doing?* 

'Show me which is the one you don't like,' said Maria 
amiably. "I will kill her as she comes in.' 

Maria said that her father had been killed on a Yaqui 
battlefield, but that she had his skull in her home as a 
loving souvenir. 

'His head? Good gracious! Where did you get his head?' 

'I cut it off,' said Maria simply. 'After the battle, I 
went out on the field and searched until I found him and 
cut off his head. I loved my father very much and 
wanted something to keep by me. So I cut off his head.' 

"That was hard/ said the sefiora sympathetically. 
'It must have been very hard for you.' 

'Yes, it was a little hard,' conceded Maria. 'Especially 
that big bone at the back of the neck. That was very 
hard very tough.' 

It was a great relief to all concerned when Maria took 
her brood back to the Yaqui country. There was too much 
Roman matron in Maria. 

The talk at dinner turned to the philosophy of ex- 
perience as it applied to a lovely young woman who had 
suffered from an unfortunate marriage, but was headed 
for an encore. 'Having burned one's finger in the candle- 
flame, one does not put one's finger back into the flame/ 
said the hostess lightly. The young man at her right 
leaned over and held his finger in the flame of one of the 
table candles a tall cathedral candle, shrugged his 
shoulders, and put it back again into the flame humor- 
ously disproving her statement. I have known several 


Indians who could do that with fire; never before a white 
man. In some way they surround the flesh with a pro- 
tection of thought... 

Later in the evening, in the drawing-room, one of the 
older men came across the room to me. * When are you to 
start your book?' he asked. 

'Book? I am not going to write a book,' I said. 'I 
don't write books. I write a column in a newspaper. 
When gentlemen get angry at their wives, they prop up 
my column against the sugar-bowl and pretend to be 
reading it. I supply the 'studied silence' that you read 
about in divorce courts.' 

'Nevertheless,' he said gravely, 'you are going to write 
a book many books. It will be the happiest period of 

your life.' 
'How do you know all this? You have known me only 

about an hour.' , . , , . , 

He hesitated. 'It is difficult for me to explain, he said 

slowly. 'Does it mean anything to you when I say that you 
have come to the seventh period of your life?' 

'Not a darn thing.' 

'Then be content,' he said, smiling. 'And take my word 
for it that you are about to write a book.' 


WHEN I came down from my room this morning, an 
amazing sight met my astonished eyes. One of the engi- 
neers had been dressing up Nicolas Pinta El Nortefio. 
Not that we would willingly have changed one breath or 
replaced one missing front tooth from the personality of 
Nicolas, but we could see that he felt embarrassed in his 
ragged hickory shirt and his guarachas, now that he was el 
secretario to the Gringo caballeros. Nicolas had, after 
heavy meditation, announced that he was the secretary 
of the expedition. 

In his new clothes, his elegance was almost overwhelm- 
ing. His charming old straw sombrero had been replaced 
by a collegiate lid whose ribbon was of such uproarious hue 
that you could feel it in the dark. His shirt and tie were a 
rebel yell, and his tan shoes the most fanciful and the 
tightest ever seen south of the Bio Grande. It was the 
first time his feet had ever known shoes, and he was dying 
by inches. He walked like a cat on a hot plate. His face 
under his jauntily cocked hat was both alarmed and 
agonized. But when I suggested that he take off the in- 
struments of torture and put on his comfortable guaraches, 
he drew back indignantly. If he had to die, he was deter- 
mined to die stylishly. I observed that for the rest of the 
day El Nortefio remained in one of the automobiles. He 
said he had to stay there to guard it, but it was noticeable 
that he did not lift his feet where they could be seen. I 


had a suspicion that he was giving them a little surcease 
from sorrow. 

One of the quaint sights of Guadalajara is the public 
letter-writer. They are to be found elsewhere in Mexico, 
but nowhere else in such profusion. Guadalajara must 
have a lot of letters to write. The scribes sit around long 
tables on a side street off the plaza and thump out the 
missives for the cash customers on aged typewriters. In 
the stories I have read about the public letter-writers of 
the Orient, they are always represented as inditing sweet 
messages of love. But the customers who sit at the elbows 
of these Guadalajara letter-writers appear to be sending 
directions for distant funerals and the letter-writers always 
seem to have been incredibly bored in early youth and to 
have been accumulating boredom ever since. 

This afternoon we went to a bull-fight in the Plaza de 
los Toros. Over the rim of the amphitheater, towers of an 
old convent standing against the skyline. I had expected 
to see the wealth and fashion of Guadalajara in the seats 
on the shady side, but the expensive seats were half- 
empty and there were no belles. Bull-fighting seems to 
have ceased to be fashionable. Even the bulls did not ap- 
pear to have much enthusiasm for the drama. One bull 
jumped over the barrier four times looking for the way 
home. He was as lithe as a greyhound. 

The matadors were second-rate artists. One of them 
wore a surgical plaster on his cheek where a bull had gored 
him the week before in Mexico City. He looked white 
and shaken. He haggled the bulls with his sword, never 
making a clean kill. Once he jabbed the espada into the 


animal's shoulder blade. The bull shook it off, hurling 
the sword into the grandstand. 

There was, however, one real thrill. A toreador, coaxing 
away the bull from a fallen picador, missed his footing 
and fell flat. When he scrambled to his feet, it was too 
late to retreat behind the barrier. He backed off to the 
wall of the bull-ring the worst place he could go and 
stood with his arm raised before his face, instinctively 
trying to ward off the bull which was charging. His face 
wore an expression of dread and horror. There was a 
crash as the wall hit the bull's horns. To our surprise the 
toreador stood there unhurt. The bull happened to have 
extraordinarily long horns. They hit the wall on either 
side of the bull-fighter, leaving him unscathed inside a 
little pen of horns. 

What impressed me about the bull-fight was the world- 
weary lack of zest. The crowds jeered weakly when the 
matador missed the kill. Instead of cringing from their 
jeers, his face wore the bitter expression of sneering 
resignation of a floor-walker in a department store being 
rebuked by the manager to satisfy the vanity of the 
offended Mrs. Moneybags. 

The tamest part of the show were the picadors. They 
rode in on bored old horses who were gored to death on the 
horns of bulls who had to be aggravated to the goring. 
The horses struggled to their feet again with their bowels 
hanging out, but with a patient expression. It struck me 
as very pathetic to see how obediently they answered 
the slightest touch of the bit after this act of treachery 
on the part of their riders. 

There was nothing heroic about the fall of the pica- 
dors. They were so padded with clothes and leather 


shields that a freight train could have run over them with- 
out hurting them much. When their horses fell, they lay 
helplessly in a wad of clothes until the other bull-fighters 
helped them up. They suggested nothing so much as a 
drunken old gentleman being hauled home by his scornful 
wife. The most interesting chap in the whole fight was a 
picador who violated all the traditions by refusing to allow 
his horse to be gored by the bull. Each time the nag was 
summoned to the slaughter, the picador planted his long 
pike in the bull's bloody shoulder and held him there. If 
the bull charged, he only forced the horse to back off. The 
bull thus stopped in his tracks glared around at the 
circle of toreadors in puzzled embarrassment as though 
to say: 'Well, what do you suppose one does in a case like 

There were, however, points of unexpected interest in 
the fight. I was interested to see how the matador stepped 
out alone and studied the bull when he first came out from 
the dark pen. No fooling. Bull-fighting is playing tag 
with death. The ability to size up the character of that 
bull may be the difference between life and death for the 

Another thing that impressed me was the fact that the 
matador advances to the kill only after the bull has come 
to the point where he says: 'Well, say, what's this all 
about, anyhow? I am tired of hooking a lot of red flags 
that have nothing behind them.' 

The final point of drama to me was the puzzled look 
that came into the eyes of the bull as, with the sword up 
to the hilt in his vitals, he stood with his forefeet planted 
and blood gushing from his mouth, unable to understand 
the strange weakness that was taking his life away. 


In the afternoon we went to pay a call of ceremony and 
state to the Governor of Jalisco, of which state Guadala- 
jara is the capital. The engineers wanted to secure his 
cooperation in a great highway plan. 

The Governor's office is in a great palace* It is one of 
the most beautiful and most interesting buildings in 
Mexico. It was built in 1648. Here Miguel Hidalgo y 
Castilla sketched and wrote the declaration of indepen- 
dence from Imperial Spain. Here in March, 1858, Benito 
Juarez narrowly escaped assassination at the hands of a 
lunatic. The palace has played a great part in the long 
drama of Mexico. 

Like many other Mexicans of the new regime, the Gov- 
ernor who ruled Jalisco at the time of our visit was a self- 
made man. He had been a vaquero, and even then 
walked with the odd, rocking, uncertain gait of one who 
has spent his time in the saddle and whose walking has 
been done on high-heeled vaquero boots. 

The Governor received us in a magnificent palatial room 
from the walls of which the dead heroes of Mexico looked 
down upon us. We sat in a row of chairs at one side of the 
room. The Governor and his staff sat in a row of chairs on 
the other side. A servant brought in champagne, and we 
asked after the health of the Governor. Another servant 
brought in cognac, and he asked after our health. He 
said the State of Jalisco was honored by our presence. 
We said we were honored by his words. Then we retired, 
and he turned the proposition down cold and flat. 


CAN you imagine what would happen if our Federal Farm 
Belief Board went to the crop sufferers in some Iowa or 
Arkansas town with this proposition: 'We have a way out 
of your difficulties. Now that you are not making a living 
out of your farms, why not let the farms go and put in 
your time on one of the creative fine arts?' Yet there are 
two towns near Guadalajara in which the inhabitants are 
doing just that. The towns are San Pedro Tkquepaque 
and Tonala. In these two towns the one form of industry 
is creative art pottery. Literally everyone is a born 

The Mexicans are an amazing people in this regard. 
They drink in art with their mother's milk. If you will 
send away your wife who thinks she knows on a vacation 
and leave your landscaping to the Mexican who comes to 
hoe your garden, the result will be good for your soul. 
In California I had a peculiarly perplexing problem of a 
terraced lot that dipped into a little barranca where a 
house was to be built. In a moment of high inspiration, 
I grabbed the first Mexican day laborer who came to hand 
and gave him carte blanche. He was an old fellow named 
Juan. The result was something very charming and 
interesting. My reputation for culture and good taste and 
artistic vision has glowed in the hearts of my friends ever 
since. In the Mexican National Museum there is a tiny 
napkin admired by thousands as a work of delicate and 


lovely artistry. It was made by an old peon woman to 
keep the flies off the tortillas she was peddling. 

When the Spanish Conquistadores came first into the 
present State of Jalisco, they found the people of Tonala 
making pottery of rare beauty. The great-great-great- 
great-grandsons and daughters are still making pottery 
of rare beauty. I was just about to say they were making 
it from the same designs, but they have no designs. They 
make up the designs as they go along, as a true artist 
should. That's the wonderful thing about their work. 
They sit in the doorways of their adobes with an earthen 
jar in their hands and a little brush of dog's hair. They 
make the designs as they go. They do not even pencil 
them out, yet so accurate is their instinct that, as' they 
turn the jars round and round following the design, the 
figures all fit always meet on the far side with mathe- 
matical accuracy. 

Sometimes the whole family works at the job. You see 
them sitting in circles in the adobe doorways or in the little 
patios, quiet and contented. That little town of the pot- 
ters snuggled into my heart. In traffic jams with a thou- 
sand automobiles spitting out poison carbon monoxide, 
when the desk telephone rings and the town clatters and 
roars around me until I am one lap from the insane asylum, 
I think of the little peasants of Tonala, sitting in the dirt 
and the dust and fleas, in their white cotton clothes and 
their bare feet, a beautiful work of art taking shape in 
their hands and a gentle serenity in their faces. We are 
a mad people, straining and pushing and throat-cutting 
and tricking and double-crossing and what have we 
that the little gentle people of art in Tonala have not? 

I gained philosophy from an old man in Tonala. 



'Why, sefior, do you hurry, hurry, hurry?' 

'Well um er I hope to achieve something in 

'Achieve? What is that, sefior?' 

'Well, don't you see maybe if I hurry, I could get 
famous or something.' 

'What is famous?' 

'Why, you know where everybody talks about you. 5 

'Everybody would talk about you if you had three 
legs or six fingers/ 

Feeling compelled me to re-form my defenses. I said: 
'I hurry that I may not starve in my old age.' 

'Don't your children and your friends like you?' 

'I don't know; perhaps they like me well enough.* 

* Would they, then, let you starve?' 

'Well, you see it's like this,' I said desperately. "They 
will have their own burdens when I get old. As a matter 
of pride I do not wish to live on their bounty. There- 
fore, I hurry, hurry, hurry.' 

'You have strange ideas, sefior,' he observed. 'You 
would rather hurry, hurry, hurry, and make yourself 
miserable for sixty-five or seventy years rather than en- 
dure the small and brief discomfort of starving, which 
at the most would be a matter of ten or twelve days.' 

I don't suppose that Tonala is an Elysium, but you can't 
walk those little narrow, dirty streets, between the rows 
of peaceful adobes, and watch the pottery painters with 
their cotton drawers and their dog's-hair brushes without 
thinking of Kipling's lines: 

And no one shall work for money, and no one shall work for fame, 

But each for the joy of working, and each in his separate star 

Shall draw the Thing as he sees it for the God of Things as They are. 


A few years ago a Gringo hurrying 'gent* with a grand 
inspiration collected a group of these Tonala potters and 
lugged them off to California, where he planted them in 
houses with modern plumbing, gave them more money 
than they knew was in the world, and turned on the glories 
of the white man's civilization. They were so miserably 
unhappy, so homesick for the dust and dirt and the sunny 
doorways of Tonala, that they couldn't work, so he had to 
let them go home again. 

There is one little peon in guarachas who is an artist 
of such celebrity that his work has been placed in the 
National Museum and has been exhibited in Europe. 
Yet he seems to be quite innocent of the fact that he is 
famous. He is*just an abashed little peasant with a gentle, 
timid smile and a soul. I paid a visit of deep respect to his 
studio. It is an adobe hut in his back yard. Most of the 
time he and his wife do their work out in the yard, where 
the pig is tied up by one front leg. Having found a design 
that delighted my soul, I asked him if he would make 
eleven more like it. He shrugged his shoulders, but he 
could not summon the unkindness to refuse. His price, 
however, was approximately two and a half times the 
price of the original. When I expressed astonishment, he 
intimated that it bored him to copy things. I retired 
properly squelched. 

And so they sit in the doorways making pottery tall 
carafe-shaped botellones for cool water made of a clay 
called loza de olor; it has a peculiar dean smell and a 
slight tang that gets into the taste of the water; wide- 
mouthed oiks for cooking or for making chocolate; 
jacaras, the soup plates, water tumblers called vasos; odd 
ollas shaped like a drop of water with a flat flange around 
the mouth for aguardiente. . . 


The clay for the pottery comes from a hill near the town, 
a hill of mystery and legend. There was once a great queen 
(legend says she was white) who ruled over the Indians of 
Tonala. Her name was Cihuapilla. When the Spanish 
came, she was ruling over the ancestors of the present 
Indians of Tonala and San Pedro and the lands beyond. 
She made a treaty with the Conquistadores, which docu- 
ment is still preserved in an old monastery. Being a mis- 
tress of diplomacy and statecraft, she outgeneraled 
Alvarado, Guzman, and their diplomats. They were not 
unduly embarrassed by that fact, however. They simply 
disregarded the treaty after the manner of conquerors. 
At the time of her grandeur she had a great palace on the 
top of the hill from which the potters get their clay. If 
there actually was such a place, it has long since disap- 
peared. But her spirit lingers. Because of her influence, 
no clay can be found elsewhere that lends itself to the mira- 
cle of the Tonala pottery. 

As with everything else in Mexico, there is mystery in 
Tonala. There are in the town two peons who, of course, 
made pottery. Let them be called Pedro and Pablo. 
Pedro's pottery was taken away to a museum to be ex- 
hibited. Pablo became madly jealous. He put the Indian 
curse on Pedro; sent word to him that because of the 
curse he would presently die in great agony. Whereupon 
the evil-thinking Pablo sat down and made a little clay 
image of Pedro. The middle of it was made solid as a 
rock from native cement. Pedro became very ill. His 
stomach and bowels would not function. It was as though 
the middle of him had turned into solid rock. Death 
whispered to Pedro. Pedro's old mother, being a woman of 
courage and infinite resource, went to Pablo's house in 


secret. She found the bewitched figure of her son. Work- 
ing with furious haste and being no mean potter her- 
self she made a figure exactly like Pablo's cursed work, 
except that the middle was not ossified. Then she made 
another secret visit; substituted her figure of Pedro for the 
taboo. Safely outside, she smashed the witch figure on a 
stone. Pedro slept peacefully that night. In the morning 
he had taken a marked turn for the better. In a few days 
he was well, his stomach and bowels having returned to the 

Pablo, expecting to find him dead, met Pedro blithely 
walking along the street. Embracing his enemy, the 
wicked Pablo begged to be forgiven. *I have tried to kill 
one whom the gods have taken under their personal pro- 
tection/ he said. To Pablo's immeasurable relief, Pedro 
forgave him on the spot. Ever since then they have been 
the best of friends. 

I shall never forget the blind street minstrel of Tonala. 
He was a sad old man with a guitar. He was led around 
the streets by a ragged little boy who sat on the ground 
and threw pebbles at marks while the old man sang. 
We asked him to sing this and that for us, and it struck 
me afterward that the songs we asked for were not only 
grotesquely inappropriate, but a little cruel in the cir- 
cumstances. He sang them all in the fiat, lusterless voice 
of the blind. Most of them were gay little songs of love 
and romance... Cielito Lindo and Negra Consentida and 
Estrelliia. I wondered, as he sang, if the songs called to 
his blind eyes the visions that they called to mine of 
sefioritas with flashing black eyes seen under lace mantillas, 
of little red heels on satin shoes that clicked through the 
measures of the jarabe and the jota. And how strange it 


must have seemed to him, hearing voices in a strange, 
unknown tongue calling for these songs, and having coins 
larger than he had ever felt dropping from the mystery of 
the eternal night of his sightlessness into his hands! 

Near Tonala is the old town of San Pedro TIaquepaque. 
It is also a pottery town, but rather touristy. Before the 
first of the twenty-year series of revolutions deposed 
Porfirio Diaz, San Pedro was a fashionable suburb of 
Guadalajara. Remnants of the glory remain in the form 
of quintas suburban villas of great elegance and lux- 
ury. One especially remains in my memory. 

You enter the heavy studded front door into a sort of 
loggia which was part foyer, part living-room for the 
family. It opened directly into an enormous patio, a 
great courtyard in which a battalion of troops could be 
maneuvered. In some of the large quintas, a huerta a 
family orchard stands behind the wall of the patio. In 
this case, the huerta was in a side patio down upon which 
you could look from some of the bedrooms. 

Around the courtyard were the rooms of the establish- 
ment. On one side were the quarters of the servants, who 
must have been a young army. On another side, the 
kitchens, laundries, and storehouses. On a fourth side 
were the apartments of the more intimate retainers of the 
family. The house itself was in two stories, the master 
bedrooms being on the upper floor. The courtyard had an 
enormous gate which could be thrown open to admit 
wagons and teams, then closed for defense. A high wall 
surrounded the courtyard. 

In looking these places over, I was struck by the dif- 
ference between them and the old California houses I had 
seen. The California ranch-houses were all low one-story 


adobes built around patios. They suggest peace and in- 
timacy - simple homes in a country where everyone was 
literally a cousin of everyone else and where there was 
nothing to fear. All Mexican houses, on the other hand, 
suggest danger and tragedy heavy studded doors, for- 
tress gates, bullet-torn towers, death, tears, blood, and 

Guadalajara has other alluring suburban places. One of 
these is Zapopan. There is an old church and monastery 
that have more flavor than is to be found anywhere else I 
know of in Mexico. In August, it has one of the most 
interesting cermonies to be found in the country. In front 
of the monastery, which was built in the seventeenth 
century, is a great courtyard. During this celebration in 
August, the Indians go into camp there. A lodging for the 
night is a simple process for the Indian tourists. They 
wrap up in a serape and squat up against the wall with 
the missus and the kids. On the great day, the faithful 
come from their homes hi Guadalajara and they come on 
their knees a twenty-minute journey on a street car. 
All day long and sometimes all day and all night 
they come edging along on their knees, praying and telling 
their beads as they come. It is custom and etiquette to 
spread a blanket or a serape in the fashion of Sir 
Walter Raleigh for then* poor knees to rest on a moment 
if you pass them in the road. 

The climax of the festival is a native pageant a 
representation of the story of the conquest of Jalisco by 
the Spanish, presumably to call the attention of the Saints 
of the Sky to the dirty deal the Indians had at the hands 
of the Conquistadores. The Indians take the parts both 
of the Indians who suffered and of the Spanish knights at 


whose hands they suffered. A little Jalisco Indian, dressed 
up as a Spanish knight and talking in the way he thinks 
the knights must have talked, is something not to be 



EASTER WEEK came while we were in Guadalajara. 
The festival was of unusual significance that year. For 
two or three years the priests had been in exile. Some of 
them had been hunted down and killed. Others had been 
driven out. During this period the faithful had worshiped 
by themselves in the dim old churches. I had seen them 
during this period. It was poignant drama. I had seen old 
women crawling in on their knees over rough country 
roads to the churches, prostrating themselves to the last 
rags of humility, that God might be moved by their 
sorrow and send them back their priests. In the cathedral 
at Guadalajara I had seen young girls kneeling before the 
altars with crowns of thorns on their heads. I had seen 
peons standing for hours in the silent churches with arms 
outstretched expressions of rapt devotion in their dark 
eyes, standing in the position of Christ on the Cross, im- 
ploring God to relent and send back their priests. 

And now it was Easter and the priests had come back. 

Judas was hanged on every street-comer in revenge for 
his mortal sin. The Judas is as much a part of a Mexican 
Easter as the painted Easter egg is of our Easter. The 
Judas is usually a doll of grotesque ugliness. These dolls 
range all the way from tiny pocket-sized souvenirs to 
enormous dangling effigies that are strung across the 
streets on ropes like election banners. Judas is shot and 
kicked and burned and jeered. It suggests nothing so 


'much as an American crowd yelling at the umpire at a 
baseball game. 

With the beginning of Holy Week, the church bells of 
the city were stilled. The faithful were called to worship 
by the clatter of wooden wheels slapping on wood clappers. 
Curtains had been dropped over the holy images in the 
churches. By Wednesday it had become like a city of the 
dead. A hush seemed to fall over the streets. The taxi- 
cabs honking at the corners sounded like voices in a 
tomb. Even the sedate old horses dragging the quaint 
little open park carriages seemed to go slower if that 
were possible. 

Miercoles de Ceniza Ash Wednesday... the Holy 
Drama was rising to an intense climax. 

Jueves Santo Holy Thursday the night of the 
'Visitar los Monumentos,' when each penitent must visit 
seven different churches and make the Stations of the 
C ross __ the time before Easter when Holy Communion 
may be taken. 

Word had come to me that the Archbishop of Jalisco, 
one of the great lords of the Mexican Catholic Church, 
would receive me at his home Francisco Orosco 
Jimenez. He was a lovely, gentle old man with a hand- 
some, patrician face a regal bearing, but a manner of 
winning simplicity. We were ushered into his presence in 
a splendid old drawing-room with deep recessed windows 
and cool, deep shadows. He was a very old man and his 
face was white with fatigue. We knew he had not eaten 
that day, so we shook his hands while our guide, like a 
good Catholic, knelt to kiss the seal ring of the Arch- 
bishopric. Then we prepared to withdraw. 'No, no,' he 
said in the quaint precise English of one who had learned 


it from a book and a library, "you must not go. I do not 
want you to go.' Several times we rose to take our leave, 
but each time his thin, ascetic, beautiful hands pushed us 
back into our chairs. "Do you want me to be cross with 
you?' he asked. * Then sit down. I do not want you to go.' 

It was the hour of his quiet triumph. He told us that 
the year before he had celebrated Easter Mass in the 
darkened room of a lonely adobe house hidden in the 
mountains, conducting the service almost in whispers, 
with one priest to assist. 'As you well know,' he said to 
the Mexican gentleman who had conducted us into his 
presence. We also smiled, for we knew that it was this 
faithful friend who had carried news and food to the hiding- 
place during those days of peril. Daring death, not at 
the hands of the Government, but of bands of fanatics. 

'And now/ said the Archbishop, smiling. 

And now we knew that on Easter morning there was to 
be a magnificent High Pontifical Mass, with fifty priests 
assisting the Archbishop. 

When we finally insisted on leaving, in order that he 
might rest before the ordeal of the afternoon, the Arch- 
bishop got up with us and showed us over the old house. 
It was an interesting type of a city house of the aristocracy 
of an earlier day. It belonged to a family named Moreno. 
It had been tendered to him as a home until a new palace 
could be arranged. It was a charming old place of strange, 
unexpected passageways, lovely old worn stone stairways 
that twisted and turned in and out of little balconies. 
The Archbishop's study was a bare little cell at the top 
of the house, bare save for a rawhide bed, a simple table 
and a Holy Crucifix. 

That afternoon, by the Archbishop's special invitation, 


we attended one of the most interesting of all ceremonies 
of Easter week the Washing of the Feet. The cathe- 
dral was crowded to the doors. But a Mexican crowd 
lacks the football instincts of an American crowd. Every- 
one stood patiently where he found himself. Except our- 
selves. Magic hands seemed to open a way for us through 
the press until we found ourselves at last inside the chancel 
rail in the sanctuary. 

The ceremony was long and intricate and beautiful. 
It ended with the Archbishop washing the feet of twelve 
old men who sat in a row in front of the altar. In theory 
they had been picked up on the street. One was an old 
peon in white cotton pants and guarachas. Another was 
a fat old man with an imitation gold watch-chain across 
his shabby vest. One was a dignified old gentleman with 
a cane; his face bore the marks of better days. One was 
plainly of Indian blood. They were embarrassed and very 
miserable, but I was interested to see how quietly they 
could sit and still be obviously ill at ease. Their bodies 
were absolutely motionless during the whole ceremony, 
and they did not fiddle with their hands. Their faces were 
inscrutable and without expression. Yet I felt that they 
were wretchedly unhappy at having an Archbishop wash 
their feet. 

Just before the climax of the ceremony, the magnificence 
of the Archbishop's robes had been changed to a simple 
vestment of white, signifying purity and humility. A 
little processional started at one end of the line of twelve 
who sat, each with one foot bare those pathetic old 
bare feet with their ludicrous big toes. Several priests 
followed the Archbishop down the line of feet. One car- 
ried a large silver pitcher; another, a basin. The basin 


was put on the floor under each foot, and the priest with 
the pitcher poured out a tiny stream of water over the 
bare foot. A third priest handed the Archbishop a cloth, 
a beautiful linen towel edged with Mexican drawn-work. 
With this he wiped the water from the uplif ted foot and 
bent to press Ms lips upon the flesh. I have never seen 
anybody look more utterly miserable than the peasant 
whose foot was being kissed. 

That afternoon all of Guadalajara's fifty odd churches 
were thronged with penitents waiting to confess their 
sins in preparation for Easter. There were many touches 
of poignant and pathetic drama. In the old sixteenth- 
century church of San Francisco sat an old, old man wait- 
ing for the priest. His bullet-shaped head was white; his 
face, worn and tired. Finally, a door opened at the rear 
of the church and a priest in brown robes came out. He, 
too, was very, very old. His withered skin was like parch- 
ment. He did not go to one of the confessionals. He took 
his seat on a rough wooden bench, worn with age. He 
beckoned to the old penitent, who crossed the dim church 
and knelt by the bench. Tears were running down his 
deep-furrowed cheeks. He sank to his knees, and his tears 
ran down into the lap of the priest's coarse brown Fran- 
ciscan robe. For a while the priest laid one delicate, 
ascetic hand on the old man's head and allowed h to 
cry. Then he bent his head to listen to the confession. 
Their two old whitened heads were together. The penitent 
held his lips close to the priest's head and whispered so for 
a long time. Now and then the priest would nod his 
head as though in understanding. At last, the story 
finished, the old man who was confessing knelt with bent 
head waiting for his answer. The priest sat in silence for 


a moment. Then he spoke quietly; made the sign of the 
Cross; rose and walked back to the room from which he 
had come and shut the door. The old man remained 
kneeling for a while at the bench. Then he rose stiffly 
and wearily to his feet and walked back to the rear of the 
church, where he knelt again on the old, old tiles that had 
so often been wet with tears. The last I saw of him, he 
was telling the beads of his rosary and the tears were wet 
on his cheeks and upon his mumbling lips. 

That night the Visitar los Monumentos. Each faithful 
Catholic visited seven different churches, saying the 
prayers of the Way of the Cross in each church. It was a 
ceremony touching and interesting. Often whole families 
made the round together. One such group we met in 
church after church that night. The group consisted of a 
bent old grandmother, her son and daughter-in-law and 
their four children. One was a girl of about eighteen. In 
Spanish she read aloud the ritual of their prayers and 
litanies the story of the Christ and His divine sacrifice. 
They knelt in front of each station; prayed while she read 
aloud from the book. Then on to the next sacred image. 
And so on through seven great dim churches with their 
veiled altars, the faint, musty smell of old buildings cut 
by the acrid odor of incense. 

The cathedral, with its great Byzantine towers which 
dominate the city, its paintings by the old masters; 
San Francisco, with its ancient Baroque fagade and its 
pigeons; El Carmen, with its allegoricals done by native 
Indians; Jesus Maria, with its famous Santisima Virgen del 
Bayo; the Santuario de Nuestra Sefiora de Guadalupe... 
My favorite of all is one of the smallest churches, the 
little old Church of Our Lady of Aranzazu, with its golden 


altar and its quaint figure o! the Christ with false hair. 
Gold used in decoration is pretty awful, but gold in mass 
like this altar is beautiful and impressive. Santa Monica, 
with its crude statues, one of which was used in olden times 
by bandits as a hiding-place for their loot churches and 
churches and churches . . . 


ONE always thinks of Mexico as a country of sagebrush, 
deserts, skinny cow-ponies, and horned toads. On Easter 
morning we started through a Mexico of great pine forests, 
crystal lakes, wheatfields, and fine horses. 

Some day, this part of Mexico will become one of the 
great tourist resorts of the world. It has everything 
wild, picturesque beauty, history, tradition, interest, ro- 
mance all, thus far, unspoiled by tourist hotels, dude 
ranches, and radio announcers. 

Just out from Guadalajara, climbing to the high pla- 
teaus, we rode through an interesting sociological experi- 
ment. It is a great tract of land subdivided into model 
farms. Model farmhouses more like Hollywood cottages 
than old-time Mexican ranch-houses have been built 
as part of the movement to put the peon on his own land. 

At which point, I now proceed to run for my lif e. There 
are two subjects to be avoided in Mexico as one avoids 
scorpions and rattlesnake poison. These are the agrarian 
question and the labor question. Both are loaded^ with 
dynamite. Perhaps one may take a desperate chance and 
say simply this: that after the revolution which deposed 
Porfirio Diaz, the movement was started to cut up the 
big haciendas and distribute the land among the peasants. 
The hacendados contend that what has been the property 
of their families through many generations has been 
wrested from them without right; that the peasants do 


not know how to farm or manage the land after they get 
it, and that they end in cultivating enough corn for the 
family tortillas and the rest lies idle. The contention of 
the agrarian is that the land titles of the hacendados have 
no real basis in justice, law, or equity, and that the peon 
cannot be blamed for his lack of ability as a farm execu- 
tive. He will progress as Mexico progresses. 

The labor question is one still more bitter. The em- 
ployers claim that the labor laws are harsh and oppressive. 
The laborers claim that only by such regulation have they 
been set free from slavery. You can roll your own con- 
clusion; that cloud of dust flying down the road is me. 

The road from Guadalajara leads to Lake Chapala, 
one of the most charming and beautiful places .on the 
American continent. The playground of the city of Gua- 
dalajara, Chapala, is the scene of D. H. Lawrence's novel, 
"The Plumed Serpent/ The English novelist was one of 
the first to examine the soul of the Mexican peon. He re- 
corded shrewd and brilliant conclusions about them in his 
novel: 'Women were coming up between the trees on the 
patch from the lake with jars of water on their shoulders; 
children were playing around the doors, squatting with 
their naked little posteriors in deep dust; and here and 
there a goat was tethered. Men in soiled clothes were 
lounging, with folded arms and one leg crossed in front of 
the other, against a corner of the house or crouching under 
the walls. Not by any means dolce far niente. They 
seemed to be waiting eternally waiting for something/ 

Again he makes one of his characters say: 'Mexico is 
like an old, old egg that the Bird of Time laid long ago: 
and she has been sitting on it for centuries till it looks 
foul in the nest of the world. But still it is a good egg. 


It is not addled. Only the spark of fire has never gone into 
the middle of it to start it/ 

He speaks of the Mexican's strange indifference to 
death. 'They are strong to carry heavy loads, but they 
die easily. They eat all the wrong things and they don't 
mind dying. They have many children, and they like 
their children very much, but when the child dies, the 
parents say, "Ah, he will be an angelito." So they cheer 
up and feel as if they had been given a present/ 

He speaks of a dance where the dancers were artisans, 
mechanics, or railroad porters. No peons danced. 'Be- 
fore very long the organdie butterflies and the flannel- 
trouser fifis gave in, succumbed, crushed once more be- 
neath the stone-heavy passivity. Down on it all, like a 
weight of obsidian, comes the passive negation of the 
Indian. He understands soul which is not of the blood, 
but spirit, which is superior and is the quality of our civili- 
zation, this in the mass he darkly and barbarically repudi- 
ates. Not until he becomes an artisan or connected with 
machinery does the modern spirit get him . . . 

'And against the dark flow of the Indian, the white 
man at last collapses; with his God and his energy he 

Although many Mexicans laugh at the * Winged Ser- 
pent,' it is true that in the deeper phases of Mexican life 
one always has the sense of a people waiting for a terrific 
and mysterious Past to overtake them. 

One of the great artists of Mexico has a school, attended 
by many young children of Indian ancestry. To one who 
came to Fm with pleading dark eyes, he said: 'My little 
dear one, in your heart are the whispered memories of 
the most remarkable race of artists who ever lived on this 


earth. I would not have the impertinence to try to tell 
you how to paint pictures. See, here is paint and here is 
a brush.' The work of this child has since been seen in the 
great art galleries of Europe. Even in the ironic carica- 
tures of young Covarubias a sophisticate of sophisti- 
cates there are wild, untamed memories. I do not know 
whether people are born again in new bodies, but the 
spirits of the great Aztec, Toltec, and Mayan civiliza- 
tions are slipping back again to finish the saga inter- 
rupted by blood and conquest. 

The West Coast of Mexico, along which we had been 
traveling, has always been a military frontier, an affair 
of the outposts to which professional soldiers had been sent 
to lonely garrisons to fight back the natives while the 
engineers explored the hills for gold. The country to which 
we had now come had always been a more or less settled 
country a country of memories and mystery, a country 
where the wind in the wheat seems to whisper in strange, 
forgotten tongues. 

We passed quaint little villages with old weather-beaten 
churches on this Easter morning thronged with peas- 
ants. In one old town was a strange, eight-sided monu- 
ment, ornate with figures and sacred carvings erected to 
the memory of one of the Popes. La Barca is a quaint 
little old town on the banks of a sleepy river which forms 
the boundaries of the states of Jalisco and Michoacan. 
The rural committee had been waiting at La Barca for us 
for hours. They led us on a formal ride through a city park 
planted with camphor trees and brought us finally to a 
grove where a table had been set out under the trees. It 

A splendid banquet of young goats* flesh and tortillas 


and frijoles and goodness knows what was cooking in an 
oven made of stones. The cook was an old Southern 
mammy. She was a thin old darkey with snow-white 
hair and skinny, claw-like hands and the plaintive melan- 
choly of her race. You would expect to find her in a 
bandana making beaten biscuits, but here she was making 
fiery hot dishes in a strange land. She had forgotten her 
own language and looked at us uncomprehendingly when 
we spoke to her in English. She, of all the people at the 
party, seemed to take no interest whatever in us. To her 
it was another job. Her story was easy to reconstruct 
a handsome young soldier in a Mexican garrison on the 
border and a likely mulatto gal from the cotton-fields of 
Texas then a lifetime of exile in a strange land. She 
cooked one of the best dinners I ate in Mexico. 

As we ate, the village orchestra came to the side of the 
table and played. The musicians were not like the gay 
fat fellows we had seen in Northern Mexico. There were 
four players. The leader was a young violinist with a 
delicate, ascetic face and long black hair that poured down 
over his face until he shook it back. The cornetist was an 
old, old man, almost in rags. There was a younger man 
with an ancient 'cello. He had broken off the spike which 
supported it on the ground, so he had hung it around his 
neck with a rope. The fourth member of the orchestra 
was a young boy with a guitar. For our benefit they had 
learned American tunes and laboriously and painfully 
fiddled out that infernal ditty from Tin-Pan Alley, 'Show 
Me the Way to Go Home/ They sighed with relief when 
we sent word by El Nortefio to ask them to play only 
Mexican music. They could play anything. One piece 
for which we asked they had never heard of, whereupon a 


member of the reception committee left the table and went 
over to hum it to them. The young leader nodded gravely 
and began to play it with the other musicians 'follow- 
ing* as though that had been their orchestra pttce de 
resistance all the days of then* lives. 

While the luncheon was still going on, another orchestra, 
this one of Mexican gypsies, whirled in from another 
town. With a most patronizing air they took the center 
of the stage while the little ragged orchestra retired behind 
a big camphor tree and listened with patient, unresentf ul 

I watched the face of the old Negro woman while this 
little drama was going on. She continued to plod back 
and forth from her barbecue oven in the ground to the 
banquet table without one human sign of interest. Only 
the deep melancholy of her race. It was an interesting 
vignette of primitive racial contrasts of the peasants 
of two races which have suffered bitterly and endured 
while bound to the soil; who have been in virtual slavery 
and who have worn out the fetters that bound them. 
The Negro has emerged with a deep, melancholy resigna- 
tion through which bursts an unquenchable gayety of 
heart: emerged with a religious emotion that expresses 
itself in wailing spirituals that plead for a Paradise with 
golden chariots and fancy harps. The Mexican has 
emerged also with a resignation that is an acceptance of 
the dictates of God; but he is a rebel against men. The 
emotion of the Mexican heart is expressed in songs of a 
witty and sardonic humor; in fine irony and withering 
ridicule. I couldn't imagine a Mexican singing a spiritual. 
He clings to the hope of celestial life that will be his reward 
for suffering, but he neither hopes for nor expects fanciful 


heavens with gold streets. His religion is an obedient 
homage to a divine ruler to the celestial commander- 
in-chief. He stands in silence with outstretched arms in 
his church, torturing himself with penitential fatigue or 
whispers his prayers in dim old cathedrals to El Seftor 
Jesus Christ the Master. The songs of the Negro are 
the songs of his servitude in the cotton-fields. The songs 
of the Mexican are songs of a freed soil like Cuatro 
Milpas that tell of a soldier's return to his cornfield 
ruined by the Revolution. There is always a suggestion 
of death in almost everything a Mexican does. He always 
marches to war yelling Death to somebody or other. 
Yet to him death is relatively nothing. 

The more you know about Indians, the better you can 
understand the Mexican peon, for the roots of his being 
are Indian. Yet there is an essential difference. There is 
the same element of masked sarcastic humor; the same 
touch of sardonic malice. But in the case of the Mexican, 
it is a mask of courtesy a charming smile that goes to 
the lips and is not of the eyes. In the case of the Navajo, 
the Sioux, or the Apache, it is a mask of open scorn. The 
American Indian would never and could never have en- 
dured the bitter slavery and oppression of the Spanish 
Conquest. He would have died fighting. The final irony 
accomplished by the Mexican Indian is that he is breeding 
into extinction and oblivion the races that kept him in 
slavery. The one hope of survival of the proud war peoples 
of the plains is in merging quietly into the white races. 
The Mexican Indians are reasonably certain of holding 
the trenches until the day when Mexico is virtually an 
Indian nation. It will be a great day. It is good blood. 

When modern highways are built, this route that we 


traveled will be thronged with tourist cars. We had long 
days on wonderful panoramas, lakes and glorious moun- 
tains a crystal fairy lake called Canecuaro hidden by 
willows. We were paddled out across its clear depths by 
an Indian in a boat that was a hollo wed-out log. It was a 
place for naiads who live in deep waters... and again a 
valley where sulphur springs come bubbling out of the 
ground furiously hot... a vivid green lake on a high hill 
in the crater of an extinct volcano... dreary little villages 
that seemed to have no reason for being there... roads 
turned to sticky gruel in the heavy rains... bands of 
musicians waiting to welcome us to tiny, sad pueblos... 
fields of waving wheat . . . landscapes like Turner paintings 
seen from hilltops... stone houses... the gates of great 
haciendas... villages of sullen, sardonic Indians where not 
a Mexican face was to be seen... ox-carts... burros... 
peon horsemen mounted on superb steeds . . . sombreros . . . 
dark faces... sashes... spurs... 

And at last Zamora. This is an interesting old city 
which in the rainy season is marooned from the rest of 
Mexico. It has two old churches which rear themselves 
over the town with an ancient splendor of bell-towers and 
weathered walls. There is the inevitable plaza and the 
inevitable band; and around the plaza an arcade of shops 
scarlet serapes hanging against the adobe walls, gua- 
rachas stacked on the sidewalk, sombreros on the shelves, 
candies in little glass boxes, saddles and silver bridles... 

We were escorted in state to a hotel, where the stair- 
ways to the second floor run up from a charming old 
patio. My bedroom fronted on a street that was a pro- 
cessional of Old Mexico packed burros weaving their 
way through the traffic; grave-looking peons with serapes 


hanging over their shoulders and huge sombreros tilted 
down over their eyes; women in open doorways; lovely 
young girls making their demure way down the sidewalk, 
watching the Gringo cars out of the corners of dark eyes 
with shy curiosity. Farther north in Sonora the sefioritas 
are not so different from our own flappers; but in these 
mountain valleys they are still the sefioritas of the Spanish 

The sweet old criada raps at the door of my room, 
asking me if she can help me in any way. I am only half- 
dressed, but the Mexicans have no mawkish modesty. 
She insists on helping me drag off my heavy field boots. 
She has only one English word 'Flit.' I take a look at 
the bed, which is a little fortress guarded by mosquito- 
netting. 'Si; gracias, sefiora. FLV She gallops off after 
the Flit. She not only sprinkles the whole room and all 
the crannies, but crawls under the bed on her hands and 
knees in relentless pursuit of the enemy. Her gratitude 
has a note of surprise when I give her a half-peso cin- 
cuenta centavos. The Mexican peasants are sweet. When 
we leave the hotel next morning, she is there to say Good- 
bye, but waits bashfully until I say, 'Vaya con dios, 
sefiora,' before she has the temerity to say that lovely 
phrase. She has the shy timidity of a little girl, yet I 
know she would face death without a tremor without an 
expression in her inscrutable, calm eyes. 

All the grandees of the town were on hand for dinner, 
which was served at a long table under a portico at the 
edge of the patio. I sat next a young fellow who was 
general manager of the water company. I mentioned his 
excellent English, and he told me that he had lived in 
Los Angeles; had been educated at a Los Angeles business 


coDege. His people had been among the refugees driven 
from Mexico at the time of the overthrow of Porfirio Diaz. 

'Providence works for good in his own way/ he said. 
"There is nothing so important in the world, sefior, as 
that there should be a complete understanding between 
Mexico and the United States. Europe is dying in her 
ashes in her old hatreds. It is for our two countries 
to make a new world over here. Nature has given us 
everything but understanding. That is for us to work 
out. It is being worked out in two ways by the Mexican 
boys who go to the United States as children and return 
here with a complete appreciation of your people. The 
other way is through the American travelers who are 
coming to Mexico to look and understand and go home to 
relate what they have seen. They are coming in increas- 
ing numbers every year and are going home knowing 
what is in our hearts.' 

He said he was doing what he could to bring modern 
business conditions into his work hi this placid old town. 
But he wistfully confessed that he wished he were back in 
California. He was happy; yes, he thought he was happy; 
nevertheless, it was nice in Hollywood. 'I like the people 
of the United States,' he said. 'They have warm hearts 
and quick sympathies. They have biff and bang and pep, 
yet they are human and very kind.' 

The contrasts of Old Mexico are a never-ending delight. 
That night we walked down the ancient streets and across 
the plaza at the hour of the paseo when the sefioritas 
walk in one direction, the gallant young caballeros in the 
opposite direction, passing and repassing, the old, old 
hour of the flirtations a custom as old as the Moorish 
invasion of Spain. We went through the paseo, through 


old studded doorways to a patio that had been the middle 
of a long-forgotten inn there to see two teams of college 
boys playing a furious game of basketball with the 'rah, 
'rah, *rahs, coaches on the sidelines and outbursts from the 
cheering fans and f annettes. 


THE next day we rode through a country peopled by 
strange and ancient gods. The Tarasco Indians can fairly 
defend themselves from any possible charge that they are 
tenderfeet in the country. They are old settlers. They 
were here in the lake country of Michoacan before the 
Aztecs came wandering down from the north a half- 
savage hunter people. 

The Aztecs came; endured a species of slavery; fought 
their way to freedom like the Children of Israel; built a 
mighty empire; were wiped out. But the Tarascos are 
still living in their little stone villages scornful, con- 
temptuous, and unmoved. Aztec, Spanish knight, Mexi- 
can, Gringo they all look equally unimportant to the 

Were I an artist trying to figure out a picture that 
would represent 'Contempt/ my model would be a little 
Tarasco Indian boy who hitch-hiked a ride on the back 
of one of our cars. We had been riding all morning through 
the Tarasco villages eleven in all little houses of 
stone crowded together on narrow, rocky roads; back of 
them a landscape of surpassing beauty; wind rippling 
through wheatfields backed by great mountains heavy with 
timber. The Tarasco women sat in the doorways and 
watched with malicious scorn. They looked like Apaches 
billowing calico skirts ten yards wide. They watched as 
though we were bugs and not a desirable variety of bug. 


A boy about twelve hooked a ride on one of the cars, 
perching himself inside the extra tire. In the car im- 
mediately behind sat a colonel of the Mexican army an 
aide of the Governor of Michoacan, a potentate. The 
colonel shouted a sharp order for the boy to get off the 
car. The little Indian gave him a glance of calm insolence; 
then looked away to a leisurely contemplation of the 
landscape. The colonel raved and roared, standing up in 
the car and shaking his impotent fists. To tell the truth, 
he looked as though he were about to disintegrate from 
spontaneous combustion. The little Indian glanced at 
him again with casual interest and curiosity; then retired 
into his own philosophic contemplations. At last, when 
the free ride had begun to lose its zest, he slid off and 
waited at the roadside for the colonel's car to come up. 
The colonel stopped the car and screamed a torrent of 
denunciation at the boy, who stood there, erect and 
proud and withering in his contempt. When the colonel 
had absolutely exhausted his vocabulary and his larynx, 
the boy threw the end of his serape back over his shoulder, 
turned coolly and contemptuously away to walk back to 
his village. All of which is probably to be classified as one 
of the reasons why the Tarascos are an unconquered people. 

In one of the oldest of these Tarasco towns, the in- 
habitants make a very interesting kind of glazed pottery. 
Long before the arrival of the invading Aztecs in Mexico, 
there was a race called the Toltecs of whom little is known 
except that they were master craftsmen. Toward the 
end of their reign in the Valley of Mexico, they came 
wandering north into Michoacan. Here they encountered 
the Tarascans; taught them some of their arts among 
them the art of making this glazed pottery. 


I went up to a group of Indian women, watching us 
from the end of one of the dingy old streets. I showed 
them that I wanted to buy some glazed pottery. They 
turned away and scurried into the house but did not 
come back with glazed pottery. Finally, I found a boy 
who was playing a lone game of tossing a basketball into 
a basket, with his serape over his shoulder. He was 
obviously bored, but finally, at my request, stopped a 
woman who was carrying a magnificent glazed bowl under 
her arm. He made known my wants. She did not even 
hesitate, but continued her walk. 'She doesn't care to 
sell you any pottery,' he said indifferently, as he went 
back to his basketball. On the whole I don't feel that I 
was exactly what you could call a social riot with the 
Tarasco Redskins. 

Zacapu is hoary with romance and mystery as well as 
age. The town lies in the lee of a hill. On the hill stands 
a blockhouse like a fortress of the Middle Ages. The 
story of this hill runs back to a time before there was 
history. To stand under the hill of Zacapu is like standing 
in the shadows of Mount Olympus in Greece. 

On these hills there once lived a long-forgotten tribe of 
hunter people. They were ruled by a king named Ticatame* 
who was half a god. Under his direction, the tribe moved 
restlessly on down the valleys until they came to Lake 
Patzcuaro, about whose shores lived the ancestors of the 
Tarascans. They were sedentary people who lived by 
planting crops in the lush wet lands by the lake and by 
fishing in its blue, sparkling waters. In all probability 
there was a grand fight down there by the lake shores; 
but they finally patched up the quarrel and the tribe 


from the hills of Zacapu settled down. Eventually they 
became the dominant faction of the merged tribe. Their 
story can best be told later on the shores of the lake where 
it happened. 

Zacapu had turned out in gala dress to see the Gringos. 
The narrow, time-worn streets with their adobe houses 
were filled with children, school having been dismissed 
for the celebration. Hundreds of girls in Pablano costumes 
were lined up on both sides of the street. These Pablano 
costumes are something like the dairy-maids' costumes of 
comic opera gay with ribbons. The Mexicans are a 
handsome people in any costume, and these children, with 
their black eyes and their olive skins, were adorable. 
They had baskets of confetti, but drew back from the 
temerity of throwing it. At last an old peasant woman 
asked me, with shy deprecation, * Would you mind, 
sefior, if the niflas threw confetti at you in your honor?' 
I picked up the nearest little girl and kissed her. Then 
the battle began until the streets were like snow. At last 
we got to the top of the street under the blockhouse. A 
committee of prominent citizens agitated almost be- 
yond human endurance began setting off sky-rockets. 
Being broad noon daylight, nobody could see the rockets, 
but the z-z-z-z-z of the whizzing stick seemed to supply 
a distinguished and impressive note. 

The entire population of the town gathered around the 
door of the mayor's palace where we dined. They peered 
over each other's shoulders as they crowded about the 
windows and doors. When the street behind became so 
black, and blocked with people that no one could move 
forward or backward, the front row obligingly sent bul- 
letins' back over their shoulders relating the progress of 



Our Spanish being a little weak, the one person at the 
feast who could speak English naturally absorbed the 
attention and the center of the stage. He was a flamboyant 
young man with a country barber-shop haircut plas- 
tered back with great elegance on the starboard side. He 
had a bright red tie and a stick-pin made in the shape of 
a horseshoe. He said that he had been in the United 
States Navy; had served as steward on a trans-Atlantic 
liner sailing from New York, and now was foreman in a 
steel foundry in Cleveland, Ohio. He had come home to 
Zacapu to visit his father and mother, and was in great 
alarm for fear the new immigration laws of the United 
States would not allow him to return to his wife and 
baby. He said with great pride that his wife was an 
American girl and had blonde hair. 

'K you can't go back to Cleveland, you could bring 
your wife and baby to Zacapu/ I suggested. 

He was quite shocked. 'I couldn't do that my wife, 
she is an artist/ 

'What kind of an artist?' 

'Well, once in a while, she and her partner get a job 
singing and dancing in the prologue at the movie theaters/ 

'She has a partner?' 

'Sure; yes/ Then, in answer to what seemed to be an 
unspoken question, he carefully produced a letter from his 
inside pocket. He read it aloud; then he asked me to read 
it aloud; then he translated it to the mayor, who sat in 
uncomfortable silence at the head of the table, wondering 
what it was all about. Then he handed the letter down 
the length of the table from hand to hand. The letter 
was written in a weak, scrawling hand, and this is what it 


'Dear Husband: I love you, I adore you. I am well. 
The baby is well. I am dancing at the theater. Yours 
truly, Your Wife/ 

After we had all read, seen and felt the letter, he took 
it back and read it aloud again. 

At sunset that night, we stopped at the summit of a 
hill and watched the last rays flaming into the waters of 
Lake Patzcuaro. This mysterious lake is as beautiful 
as Tahoe and not as cold or as gloomy. The forest comes 
down to the shore. There are little islands that one can 
believe are enchanted. Descendants of the fisher people 
who were there in the lost ages are still running their log 
canoes into the rushes of the little lagoons. Across the 
face of the waters we could see the ancient capital of 
Tzintzunzan standing white against the mountains. It 
was the seat of the last emperor of the Tarascans. His 
name was Calzanzin. It was a fierce and haughty Indian 
federation which, to the end, defied Montezuma of the 

Patzcuaro has always been an abode of the gods. When 
the invaders came from the hills of Zacapu, they brought 
with them a god of the hunting people Taras. The lake 
people not only stole him bodily, but adopted his name. 

There was also a goddess who had much to do with the 
<Aiming of the rain. Back along the road, near a lonely 
Mexican village, we had stopped the cars to walk out into 
a field that was alive and bubbling with hot sulphur 
springs. The goddess was accustomed to snatch up victims 
from the fields and fishing-boats; cut out their living 
hearts, which she tossed into these boiling springs. By 
some alchemy known only to goddesses, these boiled 
hearts gave forth a steam that became rain-clouds. 


There was also Tlaloc, who was a god of the lake, but 
who was apparently kidnapped to become one o! the most 
important gods of the Aztecs. He became the third sun 
who re-created mankind after a couple of cataclysms 
only to see his work destroyed in a mighty fire that 
swept away all human beings. 

When the planet Venus comes up over the hills of 
Patzcuaro, she looks like a flaming ball of fire threaten- 
ing and terrible. It is easy to believe that she was once 
among the great goddesses oi the lake people at Patzcuaro. 

Human history picks up this strange and self-reliant 
people about the time that the era of the Toltecs was draw- 
ing to a close as they were slipping away for some unac- 
countable reason, leaving a pre- Aztec people to wander in 
from the hills to look in wonderment at the ruins of their 
beautiful civilization. 

It was late that night when we saw the spires of Morelia, 
standing in a sparkle of light on a high plateau in the 
distance, a sparkle of lights against the thick black tropi- 
cal darkness. 



MORELIA the capital of Michoacan is suggestive of 
nothing so much as an old New England house that has 
been made over by an architect with the old doors 
and fireplace, but with hot and cold water and a tele- 

What has happened to Morelia is what will happen to 
all Mexico modern sanitary regulations planned by 
young university men sitting in offices where heretics 
were tortured by the Inquisition; modern asphalt pave- 
ments carrying automobiles that whizz by the monastery 
where the Priest-General Morelos dropped his prayer- 
book for a sword. 

Morelia is the cleanest city I have ever seen. It is 
absolutely spotless. It has one long magnificent street 
which once seen will be never forgotten. Upon this street 
are the cathedral, the Governor's palace, the college where 
the priest Morelos planned the Revolution against Spain, 
and another bishop's palace that is now a hotel. 

The cathedral is, next to the cathedral in Pueblo, the 
finest church in Mexico, immeasurably finer architectur- 
ally than the famous cathedral in Mexico City. The latter 
has a regal magnificence of detail in its various chapels, 
but is too scattered and too diffused. It lacks a central 
motif. The cathedral in Morelia is not so large and not 
so magnificent, but it has cohesion and focus. You know 
where to look. It has composition. The cathedral in 


Mexico City suggests a religion exposition an art collee- 
tion. The cathedral in Morelia fairly envelops and over- 
whelms you with its atmosphere. 

Our hotel had been the palace of a bishop and was a 
place of faded magnificence with great patios with porti- 
coes, with impressive alcoves outside the bedrooms. I 
had a room so large that one was fairly lost. The windows 
looked upon the majestic front of the cathedral and the 
chime of its great bells filled the room. The stairways 
fascinated me. They started and ended in extraordinary 
places, old half-dark recesses, rooms slipping into rooms. 
In the bishop's day it must have been a regal establish- 
ment with great retinues of servants. 

The night of our arrival, the Governor of the State of 
Michoacan came to the hotel to meet us, and we had 
quite a gay and friendly time and we thought that from 
now on we knew Mm. But we discovered that to meet a 
Mexican Governor is no such light and frivolous matter. 
We had just spent an evening with him. We had not met 
him yet. Early the next morning, an aide in uniform 
arrived at the hotel to inform us that the Governor 
would receive us at the palace. We advanced on the place 
in state, driving our cars in through the great medieval 
gates into the open courtyard of what had been the seat 
of an archbishop. It was a grand palace built with huge 
balconies around a cobblestoned court. 

It was like all government offices stenographer girls 
finding business-like excuses to come out to look us over, 
aides scurrying in and out of offices. We were escorted in 
state to a reception-room. Finally, a great old door of 
the Middle Ages was thrown open and we were shown into 
a magnificent room with a blood-red carpet on the floor. 



We were seated in a solemn row of chairs. Our merry, 
affable young friend of the night before the Governor 
sat there facing us. His face was frozen with solemnity. 
He said that he was honored by our coming. We said 
we were honored by his honor the same 'line' as at 
the Governor's palace in Guadalajara. We sat there for 
sometime. We were utterly miserable. He was miserable. 
At length we were aware that we might take our leave 
and rose stiff and solemn and august in our dignity. 
After we had departed with stiff and formal bows, we went 
down to the courtyard. Presently the Governor now 
human again came down also, and we talked about 
automobiles and tires and roads in the manner of the 
jolly little visit at the hotel the night before. 

That afternoon he gave us a luncheon at a charming 
casino on the edge of town. It was a pleasant affair until 
we came to the speeches when we froze into solemnity 
and dignity again. 

A Mexican banquet is a pretty awful affair, although 
the speeches are far superior to the average of our Ameri- 
can banquets. They are mercifully free from jokes about 
Scotchmen. They have vehemence and glow. I found a 
short way and a sure way to attain immortal fame as an 
orator. Called on to speak, I replied in English, and my 
remarks were much like a movie young lady speaking 
into the radio 'mike' on the night of a grand Hollywood 
movie opening. I am sure that every one has heard them . . . 
'Hello, everybody. I am very glad to be here tonight and 
I am sure we are going to see a WON-derful WONderf ul 
picture. Good-bye, everybody.' That sounds very much 
like my remarks at Morelia. I must have said about 
thirty-five words, and they were not my very best words. 


When I sat down, a young man at the other end of the 
table rose to translate my thoughts into Spanish. 

'I cannot hope/ he said, 'to repeat in my poor way the 
golden eloquence, the glowing thoughts, the beautiful 
and poetic imagery with which Senor Carr has spoken/ 
Whereupon he translated my remarks for the next forty- 
five minutes and sat down amid a fury of enthusiastic ap- 
plause. I was 'made' as an orator in that moment from 
the jungles of Yucatan to the jagged peaks of Sonora. 

'When I rose to speak, they, as usual, played the 'Diana' 
with a great flourish 'Toot doodle de toot toot toot 
too.' I was reassured to learn that, in addition to playing 
it when the bull comes in, they also play it in token of great 
military victories. I am not sure whether I was a military 
victory or the d&ut of the toro but I guess it was all 
right. Anyhow, I was golden eloquence. 

The Governor of Michoacan at that time was a young 
man named Lazaro Cardenas, one of Mexico's men of 
destiny shy, simple, unaffected, and in terrible earnest. 
He had surrounded himself with an extraordinary group of 
young men engineers charming young university 
men. They have made a model city out of Morelia. 

General Cardenas is, however, a devout adherent of the 
Agrarian Party and has filled the rich hacendados of 
Michoacan with indignation and alarm. He has an almost 
pathetic eagerness for recognition of his so-little-known 
state by Americans. He realizes that its future prosperity 
must depend upon publicity and tourists to a great extent. 
As the only newspaper man in the party, I was a strategic 
point. At the banquet he asked me with some evident 
anxiety what I thought of the State of Michoacan. There 
could not be room for two opinions about a state with one 


beautiful lake after another in a country of sublime 
mountains, with fields of golden wheat and fine horses. 
So my honest answer was one of admiration. That night 
he sent an aide to inquire of our party what I said about 
Michoacan in private conversation. Later, when we were 
received by the President of Mexico, who is a native of 
Michoacan, the procedure was repeated, with the addi- 
tional question as to what I thought of General Cardenas. 

The next day, the Governor sent an aide to show us the 
city. Especially his schools and hospitals. The most 
interesting of these is an industrial school for boys in an 
old Jesuit monastery of the Inquisition. The boys of this 
school are mostly waifs some from the streets, some the 
orphaned sons of soldiers of the Revolution. It is a school 
of which any city might be proud. They are taught every 
kind of craft, from printing to repairing airplanes. It 
will be a surprise to my readers to know that Mexicans 
take to machinery like the proverbial duck to water. They 
are natural automobile mechanics. One of the features of 
the education of these boys is to conquer fear. They are 
taught never to acknowledge being afraid of anything. 
The monastery where they are in school is an interesting 
old place with an old torture-chamber and cells where the 
heretics were disciplined during the Inquisition, which was 
a very lively affair in Mexico. Old racks and the other 
machinery of agony and anguish have been removed from 
the ancient torture-chamber. It has been turned into a 
gymnasium. In Mexico, for some reason, it embarrasses 
them quite obviously when a visitor becomes too much 
interested in the events of the Inquisition. They are a 
super-sensitive and very * touchy* people. 

I know of no other place in Mexico where progress is in 


such visible or dramatic terms as in Morelia. We went to 
what had been the ruin of an old church. It is now a pub- 
lic library with more charm and atmosphere because 
of its peculiar construction than others I have seen. 

General Cardenas, among other reforms, was fighting 
the drink habit among the peons. There were not many 
cantinas in the city. On the walls of each saloon was, by 
edict, a huge cartoon in color, depicting the evils of strong 
drink. It strongly suggested our own W.C.T.U. warnings 
of pre-Prohibition days. It had the same 'Father, Oh, 
Father, Come Home With Me Now/ motif; the degrada- 
tion of the man who imbibes; the beaming happiness of the 
virtuous man who forswears the demon Rum. 

I called the attention of the polite little bartender in one 
saloon to the dreadful warning. 'Esesta verdad?' lasked 
him. (Is this true?) 'Es la ley.' (It is the law,) he replied 
diplomatically, with a shrug of his shoulders. 

The state lottery of Michoacan is conducted by an 
American. The Mexican has an entirely different attitude 
toward the lottery from ours. It is not only respectable: 
it has acquired a certain distinction. The lottery is located 
in a charming old building. It has its own printing-plant 
and executive offices. The drawings take place in a sort of 
patio. As showing how respectable people feel toward 
lotteries, the director gave a ball in our honor and it was 
attended by the elite of the city. The dancing took place 
in the patio of the official weekly drawings. 

To see Morelia without seeing the old college where the 
Priest-General prepared the revolt against the imperial 
power of Spain would be like going to Niagara without 
looking at the Falls. Mexico is a country whose history 
has been one long terrific drama, and the dramas that we. 


know have been built in the ashes of forgotten dramas that 
we Iqiow must have occurred before history began to be 
written. The West Coast of Mexico is redolent with ro- 
mances, with high adventure, the footprints of gay young 
blades sallying forth, of Arab war-horses in search of the 
end of the rainbow. The Valley of Mexico to the south is 
scarred with the, crash of battles and the debris of falling 
empires, of slaughtered Aztec kings and the bloodstains of 
human sacrifice. In these mountains, you are ever re- 
minded of the struggle of Mexico for its freedom from 
Spain. The monastery where Morelos lived; the bridge 
where Hildalgo was beaten; marks of a struggle of simple 
Indian peasants armed with knives and clubs against the 
trained and tried troops of an imperial army. 


WE LEFT Morelia in high state, with General Cardenas and 
his staff escorting us out to a crossroads where we met two 
cars of our party who had taken another route from Gua- 
dalajara by way of Leon and Guanajuato. 

They were bursting with exciting stories about their 
trip of the great theater of Guanajuato: of the under- 
ground crypt where bodies mummified by some peculiar 
chemical quality of the soil stand propped up in rows 
waiting patiently for Judgment Day. Upon the faces of 
some of the mummies are expressions of horror and agony 
which suggested that they had been buried alive in 
the days before modern embalming, a great many poor 
wretches unquestionably were. They told us of the street 
that was paved with silver to celebrate the wedding of the 
daughter of a Croesus; of a tunnel made for street-cars 
which is being picked and pock-marked for the silver ore 
in the rock roofs and sides. 

Our road went into a mountain country and it re- 
quires considerable imagination and etiquette to call it a 
road. As we approached the mountain town of Ciudad 
Hidalgo, named for another priest-general of the Revolu- 
tion, we saw a car waiting by the roadside. Into the middle 
of the road came three adorable little children dressed in 
Pablano costume, who flagged us down. They were 
Seflorita Maria de la Luz Montoya, aged five, and Seflorita 
Teresa de la Pifla, aged seven. There was also a little boy, 


but, as is the usual fate of males, nobody paid much atten- 
tion to him. A committee of grown-ups had also come 
out with speeches that they never had a chance to deliver. 
These two little girls with their black eyes captured the 
works. We made them ride with us as we rolled through 
streets that were snowing confetti, between lines of school- 
children. They were in charge of two beautiful young 

I may seem to overwork the word * beautiful,' but it is a. 
temptation. I verily believe that the Mexicans are the 
handsomest race who inhabit the earth. Their erect 
pride of bearing, their grace and charm, their regular 
features, and those deep, glowing eyes are a study in 
human beauty. Their eyes have peculiar quality. They 
seem at once to be wet and hot. There is a damp, mysteri- 
ous glow that seems to shut up the soul like a curtain, yet 
to suggest burning potentialities behind. 

A luncheon banquet had been set for us under the trees 
behind an old house. We wrecked all their careful ar- 
rangements by insisting that the Senorita Teresa de la 
Pifia should sit at the head of the table, which honor she 
filled with the serene and slightly bored composure of an 
empress presiding over a regiment of which she was honor- 
ary colonel. 

It goes without saying that someone would have to 
perpetrate the usual feeble joke about going to the United 
States, to leave her father and mother, and be our little 
girl. An American child would have giggled. TheSefiorita 
Teresa lifted her eyes from her enchilada for a moment, 
looked the jester over from head to foot with calm, con- 
templative eyes; then said simply, 'No, thank you.' 

That little banquet was a touching incident. We knew 


that this village was almost starvation poor, yet they lav- 
ished the board with the choicest food their imaginations 
could conjure up. The ptice de resistance was young goat's 
meat, but there was every other kind of native food I 
ever heard of and many of which I had never heard. 
There was one especially delicious something like the 
inside of a tamale served in an earthen jar. Peasant women 
hovered about the long table with great pitchers of pulque, 
which pale liquid is disturbing to the head, but soothing 
to the stomach and a good digestive agent. 

They had the usual village orchestra but this time 
with an added attraction. Some of the magnates of the 
town fairly dragged a bashful young peon in white cotton 
drawers and a cotton shirt up to the table. He was Fer- 
nando Delgado and he had composed a song. A comrade 
with a sunburned old guitar played the accompaniment 
while Fernando sang it for us. He was so shy that as he 
sang he kept his eyes on the trees with the fixed attention 
of a child looking at the chandeliers while speaking a 
. piece on Friday afternoon. 

Fernando sang his song, slipped back into the crowd, 
and was gone. I dare say he is down there somewhere in 
the mysterious mountains driving a burro a genius 
who will never be heard of. If he were in the United States, 
he would probably be a famous song-writer of Tin-Pan 
Alley on his way to Reno for a new and expensive 
divorce, riding in his Rolls-Royce with a retinue of ser- 
vants who snicker at him. As it is, he is condemned to 
obscurity and peace of mind. 

The song that he sang will be important source material 
for historians some day. The corrido is the voice from the 
dark stream of the native life of Mexico. It is to the peon 


what the saga was to the Nordic the ballade to the early 

Mexico is moving forward through a period of remark- 
able changes. These corridos will remain as the record of 
the emotion of a people. They compose a record more 
accurate as registering a phase than all the books 
written. There isn't much tune to them a monotonous 
recitative with a certain pleasing hit. 

One well-known corrido, for instance, is Las Esperanzas 
de la Patria par la Rendition de Villa (The hope of the 
country is for the surrender of Villa). Another, La Toma 
de Zacatecas (The Fall of Zacatecas). Another: El Tren 
Descarrilado (The train that jumped the track). Triste 
Depedida de Emiliano Zapata (The sad farewell of Zapata). 
The theme of most of these songs is, 'We are tired of 
fighting and we want to go home.' 

There are many corridos of a later vintage; one tells of a 
Mexican peon who decided to go to Hollywood and be- 
come a famous movie star like Ramon Novarro. After 
many adventures, he wound up as a section hand on a 

Fernando's corrido related the coming of the first air- 
plane a priceless historic record of the reactions of a 
primitive but humorous people. He told what the different 
villages of the neighborhood thought of this winged 
monster. This gave him an opportunity for sly digs 
none of which he missed. It was witty, satirical, and de- 
lightful. It had a certain flavor you will find in the songs 
of no other people. Behind his inscrutable mask, the 
Mexican peon is a past-master of the delicate art of ridi- 

We stayed that night in a dreary little town. The hotel 


was built like a prison with rows of bedrooms like cells 
looking out onto a balcony that looked down upon a nar- 
row, cheerless patio. When we left that morning, we saw 
the peasant women going to early Mass little shabby 
figures slipping through magnificent old doorways; the 
music of the solemn Mass; the same music that was being 
sung in great cathedrals of distant lands with the same 
imperial grandeur of candle and gold-crusted robes 
and the realization was brought to me of what religion 
brings into the lives of these sad peons. To the women 
especially it is then* life and their refuge. At the breakfast- 
table that morning we found the table adorned by a splen- 
did bouquet of roses in an old jar of Mexican pottery and 
the simple card 'Greetings from an American woman 
who lives in Zitacuaro.' We never heard more of her. 

The roads from Zitacuaro climb straight up the moun- 
tains. The grades were severe. They called for every thing 
that a car could muster. And frequently for something 
that they couldn't. The professional drivers made the 
grade. The one manned by an amateur driver stuck. 
Along came two peons with an old ox-cart and two lusty 
bueyos (oxen). Our colonel ordered them to unhitch and 
drag the car up. They- cheerfully obeyed.. They twisted 
ox-tails; put their own shoulders to the wheel, and yelled 
and struggled, and at last smiled benignly when the car 
snorted up the hill. The peons were so poor that the 
guarachas of one were only a couple of tattered shreds 
under his feet. Yet they looked astonished when one of 
our engineers held out a couple of pesos to them. They 
had no thought of pay. They had at last to be pressed to 
accept the money and went away fingering it in wonder- 
ment and embarrassment. There is a generous soul under- 


neath the cotton shirts of these Mexican peons until 
he gets into the hands of the labor agitators and is con- 
vinced that he is outraged and that his liberty has been 

We climbed nearly ten thousand feet until our lungs 
panted with effort from the altitude when we walked up 
the steep slopes to lighten the struggling cars. 

At last we came to an old town called San Bartolo which 
was altogether delightful the city hall was an old build- 
ing which appeared to have been born during the Middle 
Ages, with a cobblestoned court, narrow, hilly streets 
with the horses of the caballeros tied to old-fashioned 
hitching-racks like our early Dodge City towns. We 
stopped there to ask the mayor to send out oxen to the 
relief of the heavier cars which were trying to follow us. 

The horses, in a way, establish the character of the peons 
in these mountains. They are a horse people. On the West 
Coast, you seldom see a peon on a horse; he rides burros. 
From generations of picking a precarious existence in a 
cruel, rainless country, the horses of the north of Mexico 
have acquired coarse hard mouths, pot-bellies, and 
fighting hearts. Feeding in herds has taken away their 
speed. The horses of these well-watered mountain valleys 
have always fed well. From time to time they have been 
improved by new blood. As a result, it is not unusal to 
see a peon riding on a magnificent charger that looks as 
though he had come from a horse show. Some of the finest 
horse-breeding farms in the world are in this part of Mex- 
ico. The revolutions have taken toll of them, however. 
In the last kick-up, there were troops of cavalry mounted 
on chargers that would have done credit to plumed knights. 

Whenever we traveled on Sunday, we were pretty sure 


to run into a horse-race, run on the open road behind 
long lanes of mounted vaqueros. The grandstand is always 
the back of a horse. I knew a man who had broken his leg 
and insisted on being carried out to the back of his favorite 
every morning while it was setting. He couldn't find any 
other kind of chair that seemed comfortable to him. 

On the long slope of a mountain road we met a touring- 
car from which climbed one of the most remarkable men 
in Mexico. We were to see much of hi afterward in his 
own State of Mexico, in Toluca, his capital, and after- 
ward in the United States Governor Filiberto Gomez. 
With him had come to meet us two or three charming 
young officers of his staff. 


PEASANT life in these mountain towns of Michoacan is 
naive and unspoiled. From our material viewpoint the 
peon doesn't get much out of life; but he puts untold 
sweetness into life. 

Everything is an excuse to him for a fiesta. And every 
fiesta is a prayer. No doubt this is a subconscious reaching- 
back to his Indian blood. In some of the larger Mexican 
cities, the children look forward to some benign personage 
approximating our Santa Glaus; but these little mountain 
children never heard of Saint Nick. They have a Christ- 
mas of their own, even more charming than ours. 

The Mexican Christmas begins nine nights before 
Christmas Eve. Nine houses have been previously selected 
where the festivities are to occur. At seven o'clock in the 
evening, a procession starts, probably in a plaza or in the 
courtyard of some house that has been selected as a 
rendezvous. It is led by an old man recognized for his 
piety and social prestige. Walking with him at the front 
are usually two young girls who carry images of Saint 
Joseph and the Virgin Mary and often an image of the 
donkey upon which Mary rode the burrito. Chanting 
the Christmas alavanzas the special hymns of this oc- 
casion they make their way down the street until they 
come to the house which is first to be host. Knocking at 
the door, the leader of the party asks for admission. 
'Quien viene alii?' (Who is there?) comes the brusque 


answer. The leader in the words of the alavanza 
says there is a woman outside seeking shelter. 'Well, we 
are not running a tavern/ is the reply. The leader insists 
that the woman is suffering and in great pain and must 
have shelter. But she is told to go away they can't 
be bothered. But finally they talk or sing their way 
into the house. 

On entering the house, people in the procession all kneel 
and sing a hymn while the figures of the Virgin Mary and 
Saint Joseph are placed upon an altar which has been 
prepared for that purpose by the owners of the house. 
According to the wealth of the family is the altar. Some* 
times they are very elaborate and beautiful with minia- 
tures of the Holy City and its scenes. After the cere- 
mony of the placing of the images on the altar, they all go 
to the patio for the fandango. Always at a Christmas fan- 
dango is the pinata. This is a lot of fun. An earthen olla 
is suspended high from the ground. It is filled with gifts 
dulces and toys. Someone is blindf olded and a club is 
put into his hands. He is turned round and round until 
thoroughly bewildered; then he tries to swat the olla. 
Finally someone, after many have made wild swings and 
misses, happens to strike the earthen jar. It breaks and 
the favors scatter all over the patio. With shrieks of 
laughter, everyone, young and old, scrambles for the 
presents. Then the dancing starts. The native dances are 
full of gayety and humor, as, for instance, one in which 
the caballeros cast their sombreros at the feet of the 
dancing girl. She kicks them aside until the hat falls from 
a swain with whom she wishes to dance. 

The next night, the procession starts at this same house, 
when the sacred images are taken from the altar and they 


go to another house, where again they beg for admission 
in behalf of the expectant mother. This is repeated at 
eight houses with eight fandangos. 

The ninth night is Christmas Eve. This is more elabo- 
rate and costly than any of the other parties. I have 
known families to reduce themselves almost to financial 
ruin with their prodigal expenditures for the 'Good Night.' 
I have known instances on the old Mexican ranches of 
California where the festivities for this one night cost 
one hundred thousand dollars in steer hides... the usual 
medium of exchange. 

The first part of the ceremony on Christmas Eve is the 
same as on the other nights. Dancing is going on furiously 
in the patio when, at eleven^thirty the music suddenly 
stops. A dead hush falls. The guests all make their way 
to the family altar and fall to their knees. Amid prayers 
and the chanting of hymns, the host reverently places 
the small image of the Christ child on the altar in a 
little miniature manger which has been prepared. 

The Christ had been born. 

At midnight, the chanting of hymns stops and the pro- 
cessional moves to the nearest church, singing as they go. 
Here a High Mass is celebrated. At the conclusion of the 
Mass, they all go back to the house and the dancing starts 
in the patio again with more gayety and laughter and 
hilarity than before. 

The children are permitted to adore the Christ child in 
his manger and to pray before the Shrine; but no Christ- 
mas presents are distributed except what they have 
managed to grab in the scramble when the pinata breaks. 

Present-giving for the children comes on January 6. 
This was the day when the three wise men, their way 


lighted by the Star of Bethlehem, came bringing adoration 
and presents to the manger. In Mexico, they speak of the 
three wise men as the three kings, and this ceremony is 
called Santos Reyes (Holy Kings). 

After the religious ceremonies, the host produces an 
enormous cake called the Rosca. It is something like a 
giant doughnut baked from cake flour. In the Rosca has 
been hidden a ring. If the family is wealthy, the ring is 
sometimes a beautiful gem. In poor families it is some- 
times a simple toy. Wealth or the lack of it is a matter of 
unembarrassed frankness in Mexico. The guests in turn 
cut the cake and one, of course, gets the ring. These 
guests are always those who were present at the Christmas 
ceremonies. Winning the ring by a lucky cut is not an 
unmixed blessing. It involves the obligation to become 
host at 'El Dia de Candelaria' (The Day of the Candle). 

On the night of Santos Reyes, all the children must go to 
bed promptly at nine o'clock and you can be sure no nina 
begs off on this wonderful night. As they go to bed, they 
leave their little shoes on the sills of their windows. In 
the night the camels which composed the caravan of the 
three wise men go pad-pad-padding along the roads and 
streets and the little shoes are filled with gifts from their 
packs just as American children are visited by the rein- 
deer of Santa Glaus. 

The Day of the Candles is supposed to be the anniver- 
sary of the day when Mary took her infant son to the 
Temple. In Mexico, it is the day when the seeds are 
blessed. Each little rancherito with simple faith brings 
one tenth of his last year's crop as a present to the Church 
and his saints. Also he brings the seed to be planted in the 
coming season. The peon is always a little inclined to 


bargain with his saints. If the saint blesses the seed with 
fertility, then his one-tenth tithing on the next Candle 
Day will be so much the larger. After the religious cere- 
monies the peons spend the day exchanging seeds with 
one another to strengthen their crops. And of course they 
dance. The Day of the Candle is February 2. 

One of the sweetest and most affecting sights in the world 
is a Mexican pueblo inMes de Maria, the month of Mary. 
Every day from May 1 to May 81, flowers are brought to 
the Virgin. Each day of that month the church is turned 
over to a different family for decoration. Often this 
involves the idea of penitence and gratitude. If a Mexican 
family has grave illness or dire trouble, it is usual to pro- 
mise the Virgin to bring her flowers on a day in May if she 
will help them in their affliction by her prayers. 

The family whose day it is to decorate the church makes 
elaborate preparations long in advance. In the case of 
well-to-do families, orders have been placed with florists 
for white blossoms. The flowers, in any event, must al- 
ways be white. In the case of poorer families, they find 
wild flowers or even make paper flowers, which the Mexi- 
cans do with extraordinary artistry. 

The flowers are placed in the vestibule of the church in 
readiness for a procession of little girls all in white and 
wearing tiny wedding veils on their heads. As they come 
into the vestibule of the church, singing hymns, each is 
handed a basket or a bouquet of flowers. They march 
into the church and the ceremony of singing the Rosary 
begins. After 'Hail, Mary,' has been sung for the tenth 
time, two or more of the little brides walk up the main 
aisle and lay their white flowers at the feet of the Virgin. 
Ten more "Hail, Marys'; then more little girls marching 


up the aisle with more white flowers. At the end of the 
ceremony, the image of the Virgin is often completely 
hidden by white blossoms. Both the flowers and the can- 
dles are provided by the family whose day it is to take 
charge. In the case of the poorer peons, the residents of a 
barrio (a court) will sometimes combine their efforts and 
hold a day in the church as a group. I have known peons 
to save and scrape for a whole year to bring flowers to the 

Cinco de Mayo the Mexican Fourth of July comes 
on the fifth of May, during the Month of Mary. It is a 
grand and hilarious celebration the anniversary of the 
victory of a rag-tag army of Mexican peasants, armed with 
knives and clubs and rocks, over the trained French 
regulars who were trying to establish Maximilian as an 
emperor over the Mexicans. Although General Ignacio 
Saragoza was actually in command at the battle of 
Fuebla, the hero of the celebration is Benito Juarez, 
who headed the revolution. The Mexicans contend with 
some justice that we Americans should also celebrate 
Juarez and the Cinco de Mayo, as Napoleon HI probably 
intended to slide that empire of Maximilian over across 
the American border. Juarez chased the armies of Europe 
off American soil forever. In fact, Cinco de Mayo has be- 
come an important day in California. Next to the City 
of Mexico, Los Angeles is the largest Mexican city in the 

The next date to which the peons look forward is 
'Viernes de Dolores' (The Friday of Sorrows, or of the 
Sorrowing Virgin). This is four weeks before Good Friday. 
They have a charming custom of planting seeds of wheat 
in plates as we plant Chinese lilies or ferns. They grow 


up into tiny gardens of green blades. These plates of 
wheat are placed before the image of the Virgin. After- 
ward the heads of wheat are often used to decorate the 
altar. The straw stalks are often painted in bright colors 
and used for the same purpose. A curious and naive part 
of the celebration is a punch made of beets, oranges, 
chia, Jamaica, and other things. This is placed in tiny 
ollas between the plates of wheat. During the religious 
ceremonies as they pray and sing the Rosary this 
punch is passed around. It is called 'The Tears of Dolores/ 

During Holy Week everyone appears in deep mourning, 
that of the women as elaborate and beautiful as their 
purses can stand. The women wear no hats only the re- 
bozo no matter what the social station. 

In some of the villages notably at Ixtiapalapa, near 
Mexico City the Indians put on a Passion Play during 
Holy Week. The part of the Virgin is always played by an 
Indian girl notable for the purity of her life. 

The next great day in the lif e of a pueblo or a city 
is Mexican Independence Day September 16. This 
ceremony is fiery and dramatic especially in the City of 

Miguel Hidalgo y Costilla was the parish priest in a lit- 
tle town in Guanajuato the Pueblo of Dolores. He was 
a native-born Mexican nearly sixty years of age. He 
planned a revolt from the intolerable tyranny of Spain. 
It was to have started in December, 1810, at the time of 
the annual Indian fiesta; but his plot was discovered. Ac- 
cording to local tradition, he intended then to sound the 
battle-cry of freedom at three o'clock on September 17, 
when the peons came to early Mass before going to work 
in the fields at daybreak. But, believing that discovery 


was near, he rang the famous Mexican Liberty Bell at 
eleven o'clock on the night of the 16th. The historic fact 
seems to be that he was informed by a secret messenger at 
two o'clock on the morning of September 16, and at early 
Mass made the stirring appeal that has ever since been 
known as 'Grito de Dolores' the cry of Dolores. The 
evening of Independence Day is known to the peons 
as 'Noche del Grito* night of the war-cry. In Mexico 
City, the President of the Republic comes to the balcony 
of the palacio at eleven o'clock; strikes the Liberty Bell 
which has been preserved in the National Museum and 
cries 'Viva La Independencia.' It is the dramatic climax 
to what is possibly the most dramatic patriotic celebra- 
tion on the American continent. 

Benito Juarez, Miguel Hidalgo y Costilla, and Jose 
Maria Morelos, in Mexico, are names like Washington and 
Lincoln and Grant with us. 

The two latter heroes are venerated as martyrs. Both 
Hidalgo and Morelos were executed by the Spanish and 
their heads impaled in public for eleven days. 

The Mexican finds nothing whatever incongruous in 
interrupting the lovely and touching ceremony of the Mes 
de Maria, with its prayers and white flowers, to whoop and 
shoot firecrackers in memory of Don Benito and why 
should he? 

And just so, why should he not come home from the 
solemn and sacred Mass of the Birth of Jesus and dance 
the night out. The God of the peon does not demand 
solemn faces. 


MEXICAN cities have character. They are like people. 

Hermosillo is an elegant ranchero mounted on a splendid 
Palomino horse. 

Guaymas is a lovely, sad, aristocratic old sefiora in a 
faded mantilla. 

Mazatlan is an orchid growing in a smelly old patio. 

Tepic, an ancient aristocrat sipping his aguardiente 
in his courtyard while his orchestra plays. 

Guadalajara, a cynical young Spanish cavalier with a 
light guitar, serenading a girl he has never seen to 
win a bet. 

Morelia, a shining Rolls-Royce dragging an ox-cart. 

Ciudad de Mexico the City of Mexico an Aztec 
princess of merciless beauty dressed in a Paris gown, 
stepping with delicate disdain across pools of blood shed 
by men who fought over her. Ciudad de Mexico is Paris; 
it is Berlin; it is an ancient Aztec capital; it is Hollywood. 
It is every city. 

Every one has his own Mexico City. There is a Mexico 
City with nothing in it but dim old libraries, containing 
manuscripts written in the regal flourishes of the Spanish 
authors of the days of chivalry. There is a Mexico City 
that contains nothing but the footprints and blood stains 
of history. Another Mexico City has only mystery the 
whispering ghosts of old religions, ancient rites, and for- 
gotten philosophies. Yet another Mexico City is entirely 


a city of beautiful works of art beautiful buildings, 
superb statues, stark, wonderful paintings, murals that 
overwhelm you with their crude, wild strength. There is 
again a Mexico City that lives like a beautiful flower of 
the night dark-eyed sefioritas and sensuous music and 
laughter and flowers. 

My Mexico City is a stage a stage where mighty 
dramas have been played; where strong men have fought 
for power and died in their armor. There is no other city 
in the world unless it be Imperial Rome where so 
much history has been written; so much blood spilled. 

The city presents a picture of sharp and thrilling beauty. 
Through its heart runs one of the most magnificent boule- 
vards in the world. At one end is Chapultepec Castle; 
at the other end, the Palacio and the great cathedral 
waterlogged with drama and history. Through the mists 
the snow-peaks of Popocatepetl and Iztaccihuatl are 
dimly seen like ghost mountains. Although it lies in a 
long level valley, Ciudad Mexico is very high between 
seven thousand and eight thousand feet and the thin 
air sparkles and snaps with vitality. 

It is Mexico, but not Mexico of the rebosos and the 
tortillas. You are conscious of the native life only as a 
dark stream running silently below the surface. You 
may perhaps dine in a cafe that was an old monastery 
scarred by the swords of Cortes and with Aztec graves 
beneath its foundation stones; but you dine with a Paris 
gown and a malacca stick. That it should be a cosmo- 
politan city is natural when you remember who built it 
ancient and long-forgotten Toltec craftsmen Monte- 
zuma, Cortes, and the Empress Carlotta of Austria. 

The hotel lobbies reminded me of The Hague during 


the World War well-dressed gentlemen of mystery and 
without visible means of support, whispering to you of 
their intimate connections with powerful persons. In 
Mexico they are called coyotes. Fine automobiles drawing 
up at the hotel doors; fashionable women making then: 
way through the dark river of Mexican life on the side- 
walks; peons with loads on then- heads; insistent street 
beggars; peddlers of blankets; dulce-sellers, postcard 
merchants; abashed, silent women in rebosos the dark 

To stroll around the streets is to acquire a never-ending 
succession of gooseflesh thrills. You stop to buy flowers 
at a little stand fronting a park, and it is suddenly borne 
in upon you that this street, with its solemn and re- 
spectable-looking office buildings, was the bloody Cause- 
way where the Knights of Spain died on Noche Triste 
the Sad Night when so many Spanish families went into 
mourning. Somewhere in the middle of what is now an 
asphalt street full of rushing taxicabs was the place where 
Alvarado put the butt of his lance down upon the corpses 
and wreckage of the canal and saved his lif e by the first 
pole vault in the history of the world a mighty leap in 
full armor helped on considerably by the arrows and 
javelins of the yelling Aztec warriors. 

You pass a somber old monastic-looking building in the 
old part of the city and realize that this is the College of 
San Fernando where Father Serra chanted his litanies be- 
fore he started on his tremendous crusade to civilize the 
Indians of California and to establish the missions of 
Camino Real. 

Another dark building in the old quarter was a mon- 
astery where a son of Cortes and the luscious Marina was 


tortured in the Inquisition. After nearly tearing him to 
pieces, the Spanish government sent him word that it 
was all a little mistake and he could consider himself 
innocent which must have helped his broken body a 

As you stop to buy a carved leather cigarette-case on 
the Avenida Juarez, someone points out in the most 
casual way that the park right back of the shop was the 
place where the heretics were burned from time to time 
as a gentle suggestion to the pious. 

The Cathedral and the Plaza Mayor and the Palacio 
axe all drenched with memories of Montezuma. The 
Aztecs were not very old-timers in Mexico. They came 
in from the north about five hundred years before Cortes 
began the Conquest. It is a matter of historic experience 
that some of the most magnificent civilizations have re- 
sulted from the conquest of a sedentary, artistic people by 
a race of military invaders. The Aztecs had arrived as a 
subject people, but had fought their way to domination. 
Montezuma was in full flower when Cortes arrived. He 
was stepping high, wide, and handsome. His court was 
one of regal and incomparable splendor. Even his soldiers 
were arrayed with the gorgeousness of Oriental princes. 
The Aztec army must have been a grand sight with their 
cloaks of feathers and head-dresses sometimes of gold 
and silver. 

Where the cathedral now stands was an Aztec temple 
built like a pyramid with terraces. At the top was the 
sacrificial stone upon which the victims were laid while the 
priest tore them open and ripped out their living hearts. 
Sometimes the victims were prisoners of war; but every 
year the priests sacrificed a beautiful boy. For a year they 


fed him on the fat of the land and allowed him to wander 
around the city enjoying himself. Although it occurs to 
me that the morning occupation of counting the days un- 
til his heart was to be cut out while a priest bent his back 
over a rock was not the best inspiration for a holiday. A 
month before he died, they always sent the beautiful boy 
four young wives who no doubt were also beautiful. 
In the circumstances even this four-ply honeymoon must 
have had its drawbacks. These brides were supposed to 
stand around and watch his bloody death on the sacrificial 
stone and contribute their grief to the show. 

This grim sacrificial stone is still in the Mexican 
Museum along with various Aztec gods, Maximilian's 
carriage and Indian handwork and native crafts. Some- 
how the stone does not look sufficiently wicked. I was 
disappointed. Nothing looks dramatic in a museum. 

The day I went through the museum I fell into the 
hands of a young professor from the University of Mexico. 
As we went around the exhibits, he suddenly stopped 
and said: 'Say, who are you anyhow?* 'A fellow going 
through a museum,' I replied meekly. 'Yes, but you are 
somebody different. Come on; let's start all over again. 5 
So we started at the beginning again. He explained the 
great calendar stone and so many symbolisms that my 
head reeled. I felt like the Jewish gentleman who said to 
the professor of algebra, 'I don't know what you mean 
I am just listening because I like to hear the numbers.' 

I came out of the daze at least with this; that the 
calendar stone of the Aztecs was far more than a calendar; 
it is a religion in shorthand and perhaps the most amazing 
relic in the world. Superficially there isn't much mystery 
about the Aztecs. Their ceremonies are known in the 


most intricate detail; just so their gods and their philoso- 
phy. There is even in existence a letter from an Aztec 
mother to her flapper daughter that sounds like the 
Beatrice Fairfax column in the Hearst newspapers. In 
Mexico City there are several classes where the Aztec 
language is taught. It is a terrible language to see in 
print, but pleasant to the ear. Near Durango there is a 
village where pure Aztec is spoken. It sounds like the 
twitter of birds. 

The Spaniards destroyed every vestige of the old 
temple to build the modern cathedral. Only a wall half 
excavated on a side street back of the church remains of 
the mighty Indian city of Tenochtitlan. 

The cathedral is rather overwhelming. You can walk 
into any ordinary church; absorb what spiritual inspira- 
tion is there for you and walk out having in a measure 
seen the church. To say you have seen the cathedral in 
Mexico City is about like saying you have seen the 
British Museum or that you know music. It is a place to 
study rather than to see. Its art treasures, its side chapels, 
its sacred images, its altars . . .It is an aggregation of many 
churches in one church. Its splendor and magnificence 
overawe the most casual visitor, but it is for artists and 
savants to appreciate it in detail. 

Personally, it was an overdose for my cosmic con- 
sciousness. My favorite churches in all Mexico still re- 
main the cathedral at Puebla, the cathedral at Morelia, 
and the little Church of Our Lady of Aranzazu in Guada- 

On one side of the Plaza Mayor, where the Palacio now 
stands, was an old Aztec palace. It is said to have been at 
this place that Montezuma, a prisoner of war, stood and 


tried to tell his people the Spaniards were his loving 
friends and that all was well. It is interesting to imagine 
what would have happened and how the history of the 
world might have been changed if Montezuma had had 
the courage to stand there on the balcony and yell out to 
his people a call to arms. That moment on the balcony of 
the ancient palace is one of the crucial moments of human 

Montezuma was a weak voluptuary. The Aztec 
Empire groaned under the weight of his tyranny. When 
he dined in royal state, three hundred subjects waited on 
him. More than a hundred viands were always placed 
before him. He pointed the golden royal scepter at what 
he wished to eat. No one addressed him without making 
three bows and exclaiming, "Lord, my Lord, Great 
Lord/ without raising the eyes. The slightest carelessness 
of a servant meant death by torture. In fact, he suggested 
the imperious stupendousness of a Hollywood movie 
director, and the gorgeousness of his surroundings at 
times approached the elegance of a Cecil De Mille movie 
set, although, of course, I don't know about the bath- 
rooms... When Cortes arrived with his war-horses and 
his cannon, the bold Montezuma collapsed like a bank 
check marked 'no funds/ 

Had he come out that day to the balcony with a call 
to arms, the Spanish army would probably have been 
destroyed. Cortes was in a bad way. He had only a 
handful of men; he had been disowned by the Spanish 
Government. As it was, when the Emperor came out to 
the balcony dressed as usual in his best clothes the 
noble young Cuahutemoc heaved a brick at him. The 
Spanish announced that the blow had killed him; but 


doubtless he received what the police of today call 
* special treatment' after they got him back inlto the 
house. Anyhow, he died and the Spanish in the con- 
fusion managed to escape in the night down that blood- 
stained causeway. Cuahutemoc took command of his 
people, but was finally captured and tortured to death. 
A fine statue of this gallant young fellow now stands 
in the middle of the Avenida Refonna below Chapul- 

Bad as Montezuma was, the Spanish Conquistadores 
were worse. Compared with the record of Cortes and 
Alvarado, Al Capone is a fragrant white lily. There was 
no treachery of which they were not guilty. The war 
with the Aztecs was started, probably in this same 
historic square in front of the cathedral, while the natives 
were giving a fiesta in honor of Alvarado. In the middle 
of the dance, Alvarado's soldiers leaped into the audience 
with swords and cut them to pieces. 

Fronting on the far side of the Plaza Mayor, the Aztecs 
had a great market where they sold everything, from 
native jewelry and corn to slaves with collars around their 
necks. Back of this market now stands the Thieves' 
Market. I have heard many tourists and Mexican resi- 
dents tell of buying priceless treasures for a song in this 
place. Many residents used to go there to buy back their 
own stolen property. I saw nothing there but junk. It 
looked like a cross between a country fair and a five-and- 
ten-cent store. I was looking for swords of Spanish 
chivalry. I found Mexican shoes, old stoves, and cheap 
tinware. The Thieves' Market has been condemned for 
a new court house. A much more entertaining place is the 
national pawnshop, where from time to time pledged 


articles are auctioned off. Bargains. This also is near the 

Here and there in the city you come across scars of the 
American invasion what we call the ' Mexican War ' 
which brought California, Arizona, New Mexico, and 
Texas into the Union. General Grant, as a young officer, 
is said to have been quartered in the Palacio. Military 
experts of our own army tell me that the American victory 
was due to the mercy of High Heaven. General Scott, 
who was not overweighted with brains, is said to have 
committed a military absurdity and would have been 
licked to a finish except for a quarrel between two Mexican 
generals who could not agree upon a plan. So, as to the 
American occupation, it is safer to say, with the Two 
Black Crows, 'Why bring that up?' 

One of the most interesting places in Mexico is the long 
row of little shops really open booths which line the 
edges of the Alameda. Sometimes they run clear around 
the edges of the park. On Sundays they make a great 
country fair; on Monday, two thirds of them have disap- 
peared. In Jalisco one finds pottery; in Mazatlan, iguana 
shoes; in Pueblo, blankets. But here you find them all 
the pottery of Jalisco, the iguana shoes of Mazatlan, and 
blankets of Pueblo. 

Here is a little booth where old Juan makes his little 
pottery figures. With a thimbleful of clay, a little wire 
and thread, he will turn out a charging bull or a vaquero 
mounted on a rearing pony or a matador with the espada 
poised against the bull. The head of the vaquero may be 
no larger than a match, but his features are all there. 
Pleased with your praise, old Juan will shrug his shoulders 
and murmur, 'Es nada; mica/ And he shows you half of 


a peanut shell in which there is moulded a woodland scene. 
Under the glass it shows completeness in every little de- 
tail. Yet old Juan wouldn't know what to do with a glass. 
He comes from a people with eyes the Jalisco Indians. 
Some of these Indians have been known to make an ac- 
curate count of cattle so far away that to Gringo eyes 
they were only a faint cloud of dust in the distance. 

Here is a booth where a shy little Mexican sells dressed 
up fleas. Under a magnifying-glass we see that each 
flea is dressed correctly in the complete attire of el toreador. 
Old Concepcion, withered with age, sells guajes gourds 
grown, shaped, and painted by the Tarascan Indians 
of Michoacan painted in scarlet and black and gold 
gourds that have been made into cups, pocketbooks, 
plates, jugs, musical instruments, and art objects. The 
lacquers and vivid paints are secrets age old of the 
Tarascans. Some of the gourds are amazing. On the 
vines they have been trained into alligators, egrets, 

The next booth is also an art studio mounted 
vaqueros, bandits of ferocious appearance; little toys 
made of tule grass by the military prisoners; Jose and his 
beautiful colored candles from Durango; yellow candles 
with green-and-red stripes. The art of dyeing these 
candles has come down to him from long generations. 
Maria, who makes tamales and enchiladas; Esteban, who 
will carve a piece of cowhide into the most beautiful 
revolver-holster or a cigarette-case while you stand there. 
You can name your own design or he will carve into the 
leather the Mexican coat-of-arms the eagle perched on 
a cactus branch strangling a snake. It was this eagle who 
gave the signal to the nomadic Aztecs that they had ar- 


rived at the Promised Land and their long wanderings 
were at an end... the fulfillment of an old prophecy. I 
have observed that these magical sign-posts, erected by 
Providence for the guidance of various wandering peoples, 
always seem to be on mighty good land that belongs to 
somebody else. The eagles and the arrowheads and the 
snakes are a strict command to the pious that it is their 
solemn duty to grab it. 

Blankets of scarlet and white, blankets of black and 
gray; exquisite lace and drawn-work; silver filigree; chairs 
with seats made of cowhide the hair still on; chairs 
made from mesquite and hide from the Yaqui country; 
strange pottery from the Mayan country to the south, 
made amid the ruins of lost cities; echoes from the myriad 
lives of my sweet, gentle, fierce, patient, fire-eating old 
Mother Mexico who dances gay fandangos on blood- 
soaked ground. 


BREAKFAST... It is a long bar-room in the hotel. At one 
side is the polished bar; along the other side of the room 
are the booths, spotless with white tablecloths. We give 
our orders to the Mexican waiter and puzzle through the 
morning papers while we wait. In comes a party of news- 
paper men a correspondent of a syndicate of American 
papers and two charming Mexicans. One has an Irish 
name, but his people have been so long in Mexico that he 
speaks English with a strong native accent. We become 
conscious of another figure behind us, and there stands 
El Norteno, still walking gingerly in his stylish shoes 
with his collegiate hat balanced precariously on his head. 
Goodness knows where El Nortefio stays; he has a hotel 
room somewhere among his own people. 

A soldierly looking young officer comes up, who bows 
formally as he asks, 'Pardon me were you not at Naco 
during the battles?' I return a surprised 'Why, yes.' 
And then at the bar, leaning on one elbow, I see my old 
compaflero the General the gay, reckless young general 
who got up at ten o'clock in the morning, battle or no 
battle. We give each other the embrazo with much patting 
on the back. Our breakfast party expands to the limit of 
the table; then on into the aisle. . . 

One of our engineers leans over and whispers... 'To- 
day's the day. Hurry through your breakfast and come.' 
We finish the huevos and coffee and excuse ourselves. 


Today we are to be received by the President of Mexico 
at Chapultepec. 

Celebrities are coming thick and fast. It was only 
y rt terday that we were received by General Almazon in 
the big bleak office building where he holds forth as 
Minister of Communications. He is one of the strong men 
of Mexico, bulking large physically as well as mentally. 
I remembered him as he marched down from Pulpito Pass 
during the Revolution at the head of eight thousand of 
the best troops ever seen in Mexico. 

I remembered his social adroitness at the American 
Club in Agua Prieta the night of his arrival. A brash 
American traveling man, seeing him sitting with an officer 
of his staff at a table, had called the waiter and said, 'Take 
a bottle of wine to that gentleman's table/ For just an 
instant the General looked dismayed at this social brash- 
ness. Then he turned to the waiter and said, 'Take a 
bottle of champagne to every table in the American Club.' 
The drummer should have been squelched, but I imagine 
he completely missed the rebuke. 

And in the afternoon we had met General Amaro at the 
country club. He, too, is one of the most remarkable 
men in all Mexico. A full-blooded Indian, he is Secretary 
of War and a brilliant soldier. When he first came to the 
capital, he was a primitive. In two or three years he has 
mastered English, French, German, and Russian. When 
he first arrived, he wore one earring. Among his people 
this was not an ornament. The man who had killed his 
father still lived. In due course of time the earring disap- 
peared. Draw your own conclusions. 

And now we were to be received by Ortiz Rubio, 
President of Mexico. An officer of the presidential staff 


had a car waiting for us at the door. We rolled along the 
magnificent Avenida Reforma past the monument to 
the liberators of Mexico, one of the finest works of art in 
any city of the world; past the monument to the memory 
of the martyred Aztec Chuahutemoc; past the American 
Embassy, into the depths of the great cypress forest above 
whose tops rear the terraces of Chapultepec. At one time 
the forest was a magnificent wild-animal park, but the 
officers of one of the revolutions gave a swell hunting party 
and killed them all. The road circles round the hill and at 
length we swept around into a graveled courtyard speckled 
with soldiers on guard Chapultepec. 

There are palaces in Europe that are peopled with 
memories; but they are new bungalows compared with 
Chapultepec and its ghosts. No one knows who first oc- 
cupied the site. Before the Aztecs came into the Valley 
of Mexico, some forgotten Iring had his palace here. 
Montezuma had his summer place here with his harem 
when the Spanish came. 

The foundations of the present castle were laid in 1783 
by one of the Spanish viceroys. He laid himself out so 
elaborately in the way of house that all work was stopped 
for a time by order of the Spanish "King. He thought the 
man must be building a fortress instead of a house, from 
the size of the bills. It was hammered to pieces by the 
cannon of the Yankees when Mexico City was captured 
during our Mexican War. Over here at the edge of the 
courtyard is a parapet looking down the side of a deep 
precipice into the cypress forest. With a deprecating 
smile, our guide explained that over this cliff two little 
cadets fourteen years old had thrown themselves to 
certain death rather than basely surrender to the Gringos; 



the defense of Chapultepec was largely in the hands of 
little boy cadets. 

We were ushered into a small reception-room on the 
ground floor. Presently a young officer in a uniform that 
fitted like a glove came with word that the Presidente de- 
sired that we should be shown over the castle while we 
waited. It is a beautiful place. We stood on the great 
terrace and looked over the Valley of Mexico where 
history has been written in blood; over the lovely city 
that pours down the length of the valley like a world's 
fair in crystal white; out through the haze of the morning 
to the snow-peaks of old Popocatepetl and Iztaccihuatl; 
through vistas of brocaded and wainscoted rooms; into 
the coral-tinted bedroom and apartments of the Empress 
Carlotta; into the somber elegance of the imperial dining- 
room of the Emperor Maximilian. 

The spirits of Carlotta and Maximilian pervade 
Chapultepec. It was she who planned the present castle 
out of the ruins left by the Gringo shells. She also who 
planned the modern City of Mexico with its broad 
boulevards. In her apartments with her regal bed and the 
rose-pink brocades, everything is as though she had just 
stepped out. 

The tragedy of Maximilian is Chapultepec's best drama 
because it was a drama of women. It is one of the ironies 
of history that the innocent, well-meaning monarchs are 
the victims who have to 'take the rap/ The Peter the 
Greats and the blood-thirsty Ivans the Terribles die of 
indigestion. It is the meek, inoffensive little henpecked 
married men, like Nicholas and Maximilian, who are as- 
sassinated in dark Russian cellars and die in front of firing 


I have often wondered to what extent the history of the 
world would have been changed had the pulchritudinous 
Miss Maria Eugenie Ignace Augustine de Montija de 
Guzman been cross-eyed or had had buck teeth and a 
mole on her nose. As it was, she was so beautiful that the 
fatuous Napoleon III married her and she became Em- 
press Eug&ne. Her insatiable lust for power wrecked the 
French Empire and brought a harmless Austrian archduke 
a peck of trouble. 

It was a great story a story of three women: Eugenie, 
who evolved the idea of a Mexican empire under the 
thumb of France. When the defeat of the Confederate 
army in the Civil War gummed up her conspiracy, she 
abandoned Maximilian to his fate. Carlotta, the beautiful 
Belgian consort of Maximilian, packed her suitcase and 
went back to France to take the French Emperor to task. 
Eugenie promptly threw a beautiful and well-planned 
swoon, and Napoleon blubbered and sniffled and said he 
couldn't do a darn thing. So the beautiful Carlotta's 
reason reeled. Through all the years until her death, 
three or four years ago, she sat in a Belgian chateau, still 
believing herself to be Empress of Mexico. Her marriage 
with Maximilian was a charming love-story. Her last 
message to him from Europe was heart-rending. Be- 
lieving herself the object of a poison plot, she wrote him 
this message: 'Dearly beloved treasure:' I bid you fare- 
well. God is calling me to him. I thank you for the hap- 
piness which you have always given me. May God bless 
you and help you to win eternal bliss. Your faithful 

Another woman entered into this grim tragedy. She 
had shared the happy golden days of the last Empire. 


It was a sort of play empire. The courtiers of Maximilian 
delighted to dress themselves up as Mexican caballeros 
galloping around the country with jingling spurs. Carlotta 
had a carriage drawn by six cream-colored mules two 
at the pole and four abreast as leaders. One of those about 
the court was the Prince Salm Salm, a German soldier of 
fortune. He had married a beautiful French-American 
girl. It was court gossip that she had been a circus rider. 
The story of the Prince Salm Salm and of the Princess 
is one of desperate and romantic loyalty to a lost cause. 
When nearly all the others had deserted Maximilian, 
they stuck. In the last days her husband in a military 
prison, Maximilian under sentence of death the Princess 
tried to save the doomed man. According to a story left 
by an officer of the Emperor's staff, the Princess Salm 
Salm inveigled the commander of the death-watch into 
her rooms at Quaretaro. First, she offered him one 
hundred thousand pesos to allow the Emperor to escape. 
This being refused, she said: 'Is that not enough? Then 
here I am, Colonel/ And began to take off her clothes. 
It is related that the officer was so thoroughly alarmed at 
this Saint Anthony temptation that he tried to run out of 
the door; found it locked; threatened to jump out of the 
window unless she put on her clothes and let him out. 
The Princess Salm Salm then rode on horseback to the 
stern revolutionary chief, Benito Juarez, and knelt before 
him, clinging to his knees when he tried to raise her, 
begging for the life of Maximilian. He told her sadly that 
he could not spare the life of Maximilian if all the kings 
and queens of Europe were kneeling at his feet. 

In Los Angeles I knew one of the officers of the firing 
squad who shot Maximilian to death on the *Hill of the 


Bells ' at Queretaro. He was a Pole, Colonel John Sobieski, 
descendant of Poland's great Sobieski. He told me how 
the Emperor shook hands with each soldier; handed them 
each twenty dollars, and asked them to shoot straight. 
But each dreaded the job, so they haggled him. So Colo- 
nel Sobieski handed his revolver to the sergeant, who 
placed it to the ear of the wounded man and pulled the 
trigger. When I knew Colonel Sobieski, he was a tem- 
perance lecturer. 

Ghosts of the tragedy of Maximilian ghosts of the 
tragedies of Porfirio Diaz of Madero ghosts of 

In the little 'Yank-Mex' town of Los Mochis among 
the sugar-cane plantations I formed a firm friendship 
with one Colonel Octavio Serrano, who had been eye- 
witness to the tragedies of Diaz and Madero. As a little 
boy of twelve he had run away from his home in Guadala- 
jara and had made his way to Mexico City, hiding under 
the car seats. He had resolved to be an army officer. 
Making his living like a sparrow on the streets, he came 
every day to the Palacio, there to wait all day long in the 
hope of meeting El Presidente. For three months he 
waited with the patient endurance of his race. One 
day he fell asleep and an indignant hand jolted him 
awake. His sleepy eyes saw an officer of El Presidente's 
staff, reproaching him for using the President's waiting- 
room for a lodging-house. The little fellow faltered out 
his story. 'Hm, Hm,' temporized the officer. 'Come 
here tomorrow/ When he was at last ushered into the 
presence of the great Don Porfirio, he was so overcome 
that he could only burst into tears and cry, 'El Presidente, 
military school, military school!' Although under age, he 


was admitted by the President's order. When the sudden 
collapse of the Diafc regime came, he violated all military 
discipline and sent a personal telegram to the President, 
in which he said, 'I ask for the privilege of dying at your 
side.' Don Porfirio, deeply touched, told him to come on. 
Once at Chapultepec, he found to his dismay that Diaz 
had no realization of the tragedy. He thought it would 
blow over and everything would turn out all right. 

When Madero came to Chapultepec, he retained 
Colonel Serrano as his aide in spite of his protestations of 
undying loyalty to Don Porfirio. The day that Madero 
was assassinated, all the members of his staff were put in 
prison. Colonel Serrano, giving his honor as a Mason to 
return, was allowed to go out to look after Mrs. Madero, 
who, of course, was in great danger. He put her in a car- 
riage and sought refuge for her in one of the Embassies. 
She refused to be taken to the Embassy of the United 
States. In the bitterness of her heart she said she would 
rather die. The French Ambassador looked into vacancy 
and hemmed and hawed and well really you-see- 
how-it-is. At length in despair they went to the Japanese. 

The Japanese Ambassador heard the plea, but made no 
answer. Instead he turned to a servant and gave a sharp 
order. Presently several servants came out bearing a strip 
of scarlet carpet which they spread from the front door to 
Mrs. Madero's carriage. As Colonel Serrano said fare- 
well as he had to go back to jail the Japanese 
Ambassador said, with quiet dignity, 'If anything hap- 
pens to this lady, you will know, in your jail cell, that our 
dead bodies are lying at her feet.' 

Afterward, when Pancho Villa captured Zacatecas after 
a terrific battle in which men were killed at the rate of 


one thousand an hour, Colonel Serrano was captured and 
sentenced to death. He was saved by a telegraphic ap- 
peal to Villa from Mrs. Madero, then in the United 

We were waited back into the present day by the ar- 
rival of a young officer who announced that El Presidente 
was ready to receive us. Over a broad terrace we were 
brought into a beautiful reception-room that might have 
been a room of the Palace of Louis XVI. It was light, 
airy, and charming. On a grand piano stood a large 
photograph of Herbert Hoover. It was the only picture 
in the room. 

The President of Mexico stood in the middle of the 
room waiting to receive us. Ortiz Rubio is a type of high 
official not often seen in Mexico. He is not a soldier, but 
an engineer and a very capable one. He is rather tall and 
well made, with a pleasant face. On this particular oc- 
casion a patch of surgical plaster disfigured one side of his 
face the mark of a would-be assassin's bullet. I could 
not help observing that he took a chair alone with his 
back to the wall near a corner of the grand piano. We 
were seated in a semicircle in front of him. Our backs 
were toward two French doors that opened out onto the 
terrace. At each of these two doors lingered two young 
officers. I noticed that their trim uniforms bulged over 
the right hip and that they never took their eyes off our 
backs. A hostile movement on the part of any of us 
would have been a brief and economical method of 

We talked through an interpreter, but I had a feeling 
that the President understood English as well as any of 
us. We had found General Almazon rather chilly and 


formal, but Ortiz Rubio was quite chatty and friendly. 
As an engineer he was deeply interested in the project of 
building the international highway we had scouted. He 
asked all kinds of questions. At length he turned to me, 
the only journalist present. 

'His Excellency/ said the interpreter, 'wishes to know 
what Senor Carr thought of the State of Michoacan/ He 
beamed when I told him my impressions of that lovely 
mountain country, with its clean cities and its beautiful 

'His Excellency * wishes to say to Senor Carr that he is 
deeply gratified to hear these impressions, as Michoacan 
is his home land/ 

Somehow I got the heavenly inspiration to say that, 
although Michoacan was a beautiful country, I thought 
of it only as a setting for its great men that its greatest 
product was its progressive, outstanding men, like 
General Cardenas, the Governor, and his staff of brilliant 
young experts. 

The President smiled and nodded; then the interpreter 
added: "His Excellency wishes to say that he is particu- 
larly gratified to know that you feel this way as he re- 
gards General Cardenas as one of the most promising 
men in all Mexico/ 



EVERY morning, through the courtesy of an old friend of 
mine, a limousine with a driver drew up in front of the 
hotel for our daily 'buggy ride.' Also and this was un- 
usual in a Latin country came the daughter of the 
house to be our guide. She was eighteen a very pretty 
girl. Educated in a California finishing school, she had 
returned to the cloistered lif e of a Mexican girl of the 
aristocracy; and she was perishing by inches of ennui. 
Like the women of her race, she was silent before the 
wishes of men, compliant, simpatica. She had no de- 
sires beyond the pleasure of her guests and had very 
little to say. Unlike most American girls, she understood 
the intricacies of politics. One man at the hotel had told 
us, with the confidential whisper of the coyote, that his 
friend at the next table was to be the next Governor of 
Yucatan. He could provide an introduction for a 

'Don't bother with him/ she said quietly. 'He is the 
jefe of the garrison in a little Mexican State and he will 
never see Yucatan.' She knew the intrigues of this 
general and that... as she knew the location of the Holly- 
wood studios; and she knew them like a postman. 

One day we went to Xochimilco to see the famous 
floating gardens. This is just about the loveliest place in 
the whole world. Originally the gardens were planted on 
floating rafts of wicker; now they have taken root. To 


all intents and purposes, Xochimilco is a Venice of flower- 
boats. Whereas in Venice you gondola your way between 
gloomy, dank palaces, the canals of Xochimilco ramble 
through immense fields of blossoms. The boats upon 
which you ride are floating bowers of beauty and fragrance. 
Usually you hire a little string orchestra to play as you 
ride. Some of the boats have tables under a canopy where 
you dine to the strains of Estrellita in the perfume of 
flowers. As the boatman poles his way along, you pass 
market boats absolutely hidden by blossoms, so that the 
effect is of a floating bouquet. The sight of an Iowa farmer 
who has made a killing in pigs, floating along on this 
dolce far niente sea of perfume to the accompaniment of 
the soft thrum of guitars, gives an impression of dreamy 
elegance not to be forgotten. 

Yet Xochimilco has had its battle scars, too. Some of 
the most savage of the early Aztec wars were against this 
tribe of blossom-sellers. And in the days of the Aztec 
Empire the feather-cloaked army was always uneasily 
waiting for the battle-cry which would announce that 
Xochimilco had jumped the reservation again. In those 
days the favorite blossom of the floating gardens must 
have been the tiger lily. 

Often, in these days, we went for luncheon in the lovely 
old hotel at San Angel. The guides say that it was a 
convent, and it may have been used at some time by the 
nuns; but I saw an abstract of the real estate title and it 
showed that it was the casa of a great hacienda. At any 
rate, it is a charming place of quiet, dreamy old patios, 
ancient corridors, quaint old passages, terraces, and 
sacred shrines. It is hundreds of years old. 

Another day we went to Coyoacan to see the little 


church where Cortes went to say his prayers for Divim 
guidance on the job of killing and torturing the Aztecs, 
from whom he was planning to wrest their home lands anc 
wreck their civilization the Aztecs who had receive* 
him with open arms as an honored guest. 

Cortes stands in history without parallel either f 01 
treachery or military genius. He had the shining moral* 
of a Chinese hatchetman; but he conquered a great mili- 
tary empire with a handful of some six hundred soldiers. 
The conquest of Mexico with this tiny army was mere 
child's play compared with another feat attempted by 
Cortes, namely, to keep his lawful wife, Dona Catalina 
Juarez Marcaida, and the delectable Marina in Coyoacan 
at the same time. After all, the conquest of Mexico was 
only a series of battles. At the end of a banquet at which 
Cortes and Dofia Catalina both spoke what was on 
their minds, she suddenly died of * asthma* the kind c 
asthma which shows the marks of a man's fingers on th 
victim's throat. Dofia Catalina is supposed to be burie( 
in the old cemetery at Coyoacan along with othe' 
who died of various kinds of asthma. The Cortes palat . 
at Coyoacan has entirely disappeared. Within its walls 
the Aztec Prince Cuahutemoc was tortured to death n 
an attempt to make hi reveal the hiding-place of the 
imperial treasures. Cortes was a nice fellow! 

We saw the villa where he parked the lovely Marina, 
his Indian 'interpreter.' She was the most valuable in- 
terpreter in the history of the world. According to tradi- 
tion, Marina was an Indian princess captured from an- 
other tribe and held as a hostage by the Aztecs. Probably 
Montezuma was out of cigars the day that Cortes called, 
so he gave him Marina. It was a fatal blunder. She grew 


to love her white captor and advised him in his campaigns, 
an important feature of which was the alienation of other 
jhxdian tribes from the Aztecs. It is a queer fact of history 
:feat few nations have ever conquered primitives without 
lie help of other primitives. If the dark races of the world 
could have restrained their 'mads* at each other, there 
would be no white races. We should have been wiped off 
the face of the earth centuries ago. Had the Chinese and 
the Hindus and the Persians fought with Genghis Khan 
i.' it her than against him, all Europe would by now have 
s ant eyes and would be burning punk sticks. Just so the 
White Mountain Apaches beat old Geronimo when our 
army failed. We had to enlist the Crows to fight the 
$ioux for us. 

. We went to Cuernavaca, which, from Montezuma to 
Ambassador Morrow, has been the summer home of the 
f anous. The present palace of the Governor was a sum- 
ju'ir palace built for Cortes; and from its splendid ter- 
jces he could watch the valley for uneasy dust-clouds 
-mt might give warning of an Aztec uprising. The hapless 
iwiaxiinilian, with Carlotta, spent some of his days at 
Cuernavaca playing at being a Mexican caballero in a 
silver saddle. The great Borda Gardens are here, too, 
and dim old churches. 

One of our great days was the trip to Guadalupe 
one of the great sacred shrines of the world. To the 
Mexican Indian it is what Mecca is to the Moslem. In 
almost every Catholic church in Western America you 
will find a picture of the Virgin of Guadalupe, painted on 
what looks to be a hide, but is supposed to be a blanket. 
It is a beautiful and interesting legend. 

In the year 1531, an Indian peon named Juan Diego 


was trudging over a bleak bare cactus hill when he be- 
came aware of strains of sweet music and found himself 
enveloped in a strange, holy light. The Virgin appeared 
to him and instructed him to carry word to the bishop of 
that district that she desired to have a chapel built in her 
honor at a place she pointed out to Juan Diego. The 
bishop, skeptical of the peon's story, demanded proof. 
Again the Virgin appeared to Juan Diego. She told him to 
go to the top of the bare cactus hill and pick his blanket 
full of roses as a token for the unbelieving bishop. Juan 
Diego wonderingly climbed the hill, where he found a 
miraculous garden of roses. Having picked his serape 
full of blossoms, he carried them back and emptied the 
blanket at the feet of the bishop. To his astonishment he 
found that a beautiful picture of the Virgin had miracu- 
lously imprinted itself on the serape. The blanket of 
Juan Diego is still in the church at Guadalupe hanging 
upon the high altar under glass. It was under this stand- 
ard that the soldier-priest Miguel Hidalgo y Costilla led 
the revolt against Spain in 1810. 

Every year on December 12, a great celebration is 
held in the old church on the anniversary of Juan Diego's 
meeting with the Virgin. Indians make long pilgrimages 
to be there. Guadalupe Hidalgo is a shabby little Mexican 
town which is perpetually thronged with tourists 
American school-teachers with notebooks and horn- 
rimmed glasses; rich tourists in fine cars; devout little 
Mexicans in guarachas and soiled cotton drawers, who 
have plodded over weary miles of country roads to pray 
at the shrine and drink of the blessed waters. At the spot 
where Juan Diego first saw the Virgin is a well that gushed 
out from under her feet. Sometimes the water bubbles 


benignly halfway up the well-curb, when the Virgin is 
pleased. When the Virgin is displeased, the water level 
drops. The day we were there, a sad little group of peas- 
ants were trying forlornly to fish up the blessed waters in 
a tin pail from a puddle in the wet mud at the bottom of 
the well. 

It was in Guadalupe Hidalgo that the treaty of peace 
between Mexico and the United States was signed, the 
* Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo* whereby Western America 
passed under the Stars and Stripes. It is a state secret 
that the United States intended to claim a great deal more 
than she got, but our emissary was feeling mellow that 

At the top of the hill where Juan Diego found the roses 
is a chapel. Compared with most Mexican churches, it is 
small and unpretentious. Back of it lies an old cemetery 
with elaborate raised tombs much like the tombs in the 
cemeteries of New Orleans. The most notable grave is that 
of General Santa Anna the 'Napoleon of the West/ 
He was one of the most extraordinary characters in the 
history of Mexico. He ordered the bloody massacre of the 
Alamo; then, in his underclothes, surrendered to Sam 
Houston at San Antonio. He was forever being defeated 
and disgraced, but always bobbed up smiling for new 
honors. No one else has ever had so romantic a hold on 
the imaginations of the Mexican people. 

The climax of our Mexican adventures and in a way 
the most momentous spiritual experience of my whole 
life was the day we visited the pyramids at San Juan 
Teotihuacan. We rolled along through old city streets 
until the city fell away and the road led through pleasant 
fields. We stopped to take pictures of an old courtyard 


against the walls of which Morelos, the priest-general ol 
the War of Independence, was executed by a firing squad. 

Again we turned off a few miles to visit the magnificent 
old monastery of San Augustin. At one time it was half 
under water. You can still see the water-marks on the old 
Spanish doors. It must have been among the most splen- 
did edifices of the New World. It is more like a palace than 
a religious retreat. It suggests the descriptions of the Al- 
hambra, with its serene and beautiful patios now in ruins; 
cool dining-rooms with murals still on the walls, quaint 
stairways, cloisters, and the great vaulted church. San 
Augustin must have been very close, to the heart of great 
wealth. Its cost must have been enormous; its luxuries 

The pyramids of San Juan Teotihaucan stand on a wide 
level plain looking out toward Popocatepetl and Iztac- 
cihuatl. You cannot but feel that these mountains had 
something to do with the selection of the site. These 
pyramids are among the mysteries of the world. We know 
exactly why the pyramids of Egypt were built and who 
built them. The story of the pyramids of Mexico is 
shrouded in mystery and darkness. 

There are two large pyramids and several smaller ones. 
Originally they were surfaced with stone and had several 
terraces. One has been re-terraced by an archeologist, and, 
as usual, all the other archeologists say it is all wrong. It 
is assumed that one of the large pyramids was a temple to 
the sun; the second in size, a temple to the moon. The 
others are temples to the major planets. Astrologers of 
today read all kinds of meanings and symbols into the 
arrangement of these sacred mounds. 

Near the pyramids is the excavated ruin of an old 


Aztec house which is assumed to have been a residence 
for the high priests who came out for the ceremonies which 
were probably seasonal as the planets assumed certain 
positions. It is possible to identify with comparative 
clearness the purpose of the different rooms in this palace. 

At the end of the majestic avenue of pyramids is a huge 
amphitheater which has been reconstructed from the 
mounds found there. It is an immense quadrangle sur- 
rounded by terraces, flat stone platforms approached by 
broad terraced steps. At one end of the quadrangle is a 
temple with steps leading to an altar. Exactly in the mid- 
dle of the quadrangle is a high level platform like a giant 
prize-fight ring, with steps. In all probability the priests 
and kings gathered here for the great ceremonies of the 
Aztec year. It is considered probable that the sacrifices 
were made on the high altar and possibly sacred dances 
were held on the platform in the middle. One theory is 
that the different separated grandstands surrounding the 
quadrangle were set apart for the different tribes or castes. 
Whatever theory is advanced, all the other archeologists 
rise to point out that the theory is obviously wrong. 

It is impossible to sit alone in that ancient place and not 
feel the world slip away . . . The Aztecs come again the 
ancient splendor of Montezuma, the feathered cloaks,the 
glittering head-dresses of the warriors, the faltering ap- 
proach of the beautiful boy to the altar, transported with 
religious ecstasy, shaken with mortal dread and terror, the 
flash of the black obsidian priest knife in the sun, the dread- 
ful gurgling shriek of the victim bent back over the stone, the 
living heart still pulsing in the uplif ted hand of the priest, 
the blood dripping down his arm and onto his linen and 
feathered robes, and at last the torn body bumping step by 


step down the terraced throne, gathering scarlet stains 
on pale flesh from the little river of blood . . . 

Astronomers have announced that the place was built 
according to the position of certain planets and thus 
establish the age as two thousand five hundred years. 
Near San Angel is a pyramid which shows signs of being 
immeasurably older than that. At some forgotten period 
of time a volcano belched out fire and brimstone and lava 
all over this region. The ground is almost a lava pavement 
for miles around. But the pyramid is not built of lava 
rock. It is built of stone no longer to be found in that 
vicinity. It is a fair conclusion that the pyramid was 
built before the volcano spewed good building stone all 
over the map which would denote incalculable age. 

Behind the temple is the most interesting wall in the 
New World. It thrusts out, half-buried, from an em- 
bankment, an elaborate stone bulwark, the front of a 
building, intricately and beautifully carved with the 
images of Aztec gods: fiercely scowling gods, serpent gods, 
fat gods, Quetzelcoatl, Huitilopochtli, Tlahuizcalpante... 
It stands to reason that back of this wall must be the re- 
mains of an ancient temple. It is now in process of careful 
scientific excavation by trained archeologists. No other 
country in the world is spending as much money on ruins 
as Mexico. 

The truth is that Mexico is reaching back to an ancient 
spiritual heritage. The ancient cults of the Mayan, the 
Aztec, and the Toltec are rising from the soil like a dark 
miasma. The coming of the Spanish knights of Cortes 
interrupted the life-flow of a great philosophy. Had the 
Mayan been allowed to continue his civilization for an- 
other two hundred years, the jungles of Yucatan would 


have produced an era more glorious than the Golden Age 
of Greece. Just so, the Aztec and the Toltec. These 
civilizations were overrun by various invaders and beaten 
down in their blood. But they did not die. Their thoughts 
and their spiritual impulses lived on. The most remarkable 
drama happening in the world today is the return of these 
ancient cultures to Mexico. The arts, the music, the 
drama, the cultures even the religions of those old 
Indian civilizations are stirring; are coming back to life. 
Daring young artists like Diego Rivera terrific, crude, 
ungainly misshapen murals they shake you with their 
power savage splashes of color, devastating brutal 
strength. But they have not created a new art. They 
have merely reached down to lost and forgotten fires, to 
release something that has lain smoldering and steaming 
since the day of the Mayan temples and the human 
sacrifices of the Aztecs. Through the veneer of a sophisti- 
cated Moorish-Spanish culture, touched up by Holly- 
woodish spots, these old Indian mysteries are pushing 
their way into the soul of Mexico. Out of the mists of the 
past these old Indian races are coming back to finish their 
interrupted story. "Whoever tries to deal with Mexico 
without reading this mighty soul drama is trying to judge 
an automobile by the paint on the hood; the nature of a 
tiger by the soft feel of the fur. 

Who knows but that this temple into which they are 
now digging may not solve mysteries of ages; disclose 
hidden secrets. In a way this beautiful wall poking out 
from the side of a hill is symbolic of the search for the 
secret. The Aztec civilization has been a curtain which 
has hidden rather than revealed the past. There may or 
may not have been a Toltec race. Many latter-day 


scientists deny that such a race ever existed. They say 
that the Toltecs were merely a caste of architects and 
builders in the Aztec scheme of things. True or not, it is 
obvious that the Valley of Mexico was once occupied by 
a people who were possessed of high spiritual insight, to 
whom the occult was an open book. The Aztecs were a 
rough fighting people who came afterward. Just as some 
of the religious symbolisms of the American Indians have 
been reduced in significance to ghost dances, penitential 
tortures, and mud idols, so it is probable that the Aztecs, 
only half understanding what they found among the 
ruins of this previous civilization, tried to materialize the 
spiritual truths into something they could touch and feel. 
They dramatized half-perceived philosophic truths into 
funny-looking gods wiggling with snakes. Ideas that were 
probably purely abstract in the beginning were pepped-up 
with blood-fests in which the priests cut out the hearts 
of screaming victims. Aztec gods and the Aztec fondness 
for ritual and feather hats constitute a barrier to our search 
for the soul tracks of these earlier people. 

It is a belief almost universal among the highly edu- 
cated people of Mexico that this lost race was a marooned 
remnant of the population of the Lost Continent of At- 
lantis. Many startling things are found in the jungles of 
Mexico and Central America, relics that tie into the relics 
of the earliest Egyptian civilizations some at least that 
are close cousins to the relics found in the seven-cities- 
deep ruins of Troy. 

Nothing has been found thus far to prove the existence 
of Atlantis or to identify the 'mother race* of Mexico as 
Atlanteans. On the other hand, there is no clear reason to 
disprove it. During the last few years, the floor of the 


Pacific Ocean has undergone great changes. Govern- 
ment vessels making ocean surveys have found bottom at 
six hundred feet where comparatively recent soundings 
showed depths of thirteen hundred feet. And vice versa. 
On the peaks of the High Sierras in California I have 
found ancient lagoons literally packed with prehistoric 
shellfish more shells than earth. If continents can rise, 
they can also fall. 

So, after all, the Aztecs and their pyramids are of not 
very great significance. We say that these young artists 
like Diego Rivera are, in their terrific and astounding 
murals, going back to the Aztecs. In truth, they are un- 
consciously trying to reach around the Aztecs to the 
wisdom and philosophy of an older people. 

To me Mexico is a great seething crucible in which the 
plans of a mighty Destiny are being boiled out. In his 
book, 'The Race Life of the Aryan People,' Dr. J. P. 
Widney gives a hint of what this Destiny may be. In the 
mists before human history began to be written, the Aryan 
Race started from the high plateaus of Mid-Asia on a 
long trek. They were a herder people a people of the 
grass. Driven on by some mysterious Destiny that they 
themselves did not understand, their impulse was always 
to press on toward the west. They founded empires and 
saw them fall. Then over the ashes and the ruins 
they pressed on toward the west. They founded a great 
empire in India and pressed on. Built a mighty Greece 
and surged on to create the Roman Empire. Through its 
wreckage they crossed the Channel to lay the foundations 
of the British Empire. 

The settlement of America showed how inexorable was 
their disciplined fate. It was written that they should 


never turn from their pathway around the earth. It was 
forbidden to them to leave the grass belts, the temperate 
zone. The Spanish landed far to the south out of the 
accustomed avenue, the ordered route, of the Aryan trek 
and the Spanish colonies decayed and perished. The 
French veered too far north into the snows of Canada 
and their sovereignty crumbled and fell. The Teutonic 
Aryans kept to the grass belt. Although landing on bleak 
and forbidding shores, confronted by almost insurmount- 
able mountains, they pressed on along the destined path 
and took root. 

The last racial migration of the Aryan people was across 
the prairies to the Pacific Coast the march of the 
covered wagons. The settlement of California was written 
in that far-forgotten day when the Wanderlust first seized 
those half-wild Aryan herders on the cold Mid-Asia 
mesas when man was young. The advice of Horace 
Greeley was plagiarized from the grunts of a half-wild 
ape-man who poked his hairy thumb toward the setting 
sun and said 'Come on/ 

If it was our destiny to press always toward the west, 
then we have come to the end of the story. We are writing 
the last chapter. We have circled the globe. We stand at 
the shores of the Pacific and in the mist beyond, we see the 
wave-lashed shore of the home land from which we 
started to circle the earth. Our long trek has ended. 

At about the same time that our flat-faced hairy 
ancestors were heading west from the Asian plateaus, 
another people were starting from the same place in the 
opposite direction. Their sealed orders from Destiny 
were to press ever toward the east to hunt the rising 
sun while we walked toward the sunset. They also 


founded empires empires of the Mayan, Toltecs, and 
the empires of the lost people. 

We who trekked to the west developed into races of 
builders, fighters, explorers, machinists people steeped 
and sunk in materialism. The people who pressed east- 
ward became highly spiritualized mystics, occultists. 
As we learned how to use mowing machines and guns, 
they perfected themselves in the knowledge of strange 

The history of races shows that, at intervals, the Aryans 
have turned south, and always a golden if temporary 
age of the world has resulted the Golden Age of Greece, 
Imperial Rome, Spain of the treasure galleons... 

The phosphorus of decay. 

The Aryan races are turning southward again 
spiritually if not physically. This sudden vogue for all 
things Latin that has seized America is not an accident. 
We have finished our mad race around the world. We 
have stopped with our forefeet stuck out stiff like steers 
driven into a fence. We have gone materially to a perilous 
point until machinery threatens to destroy us like a 
Frankenstein monster. It is as though Providence had 
said: 'I have sent you around the world. You have seen 
everything. You have done everything. But you haven't 
had time to think about anything. Now sit down and medi- 
tate until you realize the meaning of what you have seen.' 

In the ruins of these ancient Mexican civilizations in 
the thought impulses that still linger there among these 
mysterious temples are we perhaps to interpret our 
brash experiences? Have we like the Aztecs been 
sent to put life into the philosophies left by a wise and 
ancient people? 


A new race is being developed in the world. We see 
advance scouts of it among our own flapper generations 
daring, instinctive, intuitive. Just so in Mexico. Young 
men and women oi advanced thought and high spiritual 
concept are digging down through the veneer of Spanish 
culture, down through the strong virile Indian civiliza- 
tions, down through the Aztec arts and culture. They 
will not stop until they touch the thought impulses of the 
lost 'mother race.' 

It has often been observed that the half-breed races of 
Mexico are dying out; that Mexico is taking up her 
heritage of strong Indian blood again. This is true. But 
the significance is deeper. Old Mother Mexico is whisper- 
ing a lullaby to new races not yet born. 



THE last night. Tomorrow we were to pull out. Three 
cars were to leave at daybreak by way of El Paso. The 
rest of us were to go north by train. El Nortefio was to 
ride with the cars up the Laredo road. He was im- 
measurably proud. By telegraph we had arranged a job 
for him in Los Angeles. He was to be sent to school as 
a side issue. He was beginning to feel hie a Yankee 
already. With obvious reluctance he took off his col- 
legiate clothes and put on his old guaraches and som- 

Our highly intelligent immigration laws! It would have 
been all right had he been headed for California with 
every prospect of starving in the gutters. The fact that 
he had a good job ahead of him made him contract labor. 
He was with us in the hotel lobby when they came in from 
the consular office with the news. 

I don't think he quite understood what it was all about. 
He only knew that, for some cruel reason, the light had 
been torn out of his soul. He took it like a soldier, standing 
very straight, with eyes shut down to a hard point and the 
color blanched from his face. Then suddenly he began to 
cry. His body was torn by sobs that seemed to be tearing 
his heart to pieces. I put my arm around his shoulders 
and made him sit down. He put his head down on my 
knee and cried until he could cry no longer. But' we sat 
there for a long time. I remember .how his long slim 


fingers ran up and down, ceaselessly sharpening the 
crease in my trousers. 

Finally, one of the young engineers came in with a 
glowing inspiration. He was followed by another equally 

'Can the tears, Nicolas/ he said. 'We've got an idea. 
We will pull in at El Paso late at night. In the dark- 
ness we will sneak you across the border. Come on now, 
Old Top. We will be voting for you for mayor of Los 
Angeles some day/ 

El Nortefio dried his eyes carefully with his new hand- 
kerchief. He smiled at them tearfully, but slowly shook 
his head. 'If I can't go into the United States honorably, 
I don't want to go at all.' 

The last time I saw El Nortefio, he was sitting on a 
curb by the waiting automobiles which were packed and 
ready to start. Two engineers were sitting on each side of 
him on the curb and all five were crying.