THE PASEO DE BUCARELI.
Mexico is a country of extensive prospects and magnificent views; and the poet Carpio is right when he says enthusiastically, in the poem in which he sings the praises of his country—
"Qué magníficos tienes horizontes!"
In truth, the prospect is the first and greatest beauty of Mexico.
The plateau of Mexico is situated exactly in the centre of a circle of mountains. On all sides the landscape is bounded by admirable peaks, whose snowy crests soar above the clouds, and in the golden beams of the setting sun they offer the most sublime pictures of the imposing and grand Alpine nature.
In the general description we attempted of Mexico we omitted to allude to its promenades, of which we intended previously to give a detailed account.
In Europe, and especially in France, promenades are wanting in the interior of towns; and it is only during the last few years that Paris has possessed any worthy of a capital. In Spain, on the contrary, the smallest market town has at least one alameda, where, after the torrid heat of the day, the inhabitants breathe the evening breeze, and rest from their labours. Alameda, a soft and graceful word to pronounce, which we might be tempted to take for Arabic, and to which some ill-informed scholars, unacquainted with Spanish, attribute a Latin origin, while it is simply Castilian, and literally signifies "a place planted with poplars."
The Alameda of Mexico is one of the most beautiful in America. It is situated at one of the extremities of the city, and forms a long square, with a wall of circumvallation bordered by a deep ditch, whose muddy, fetid waters, owing to the negligence of the government, exhale pestilential miasmas. At each corner of the promenade a gate offers admission to carriages, riders, and pedestrians, who walk silently beneath a thick awning of verdure, formed by willows, elms, and poplars that border the principal road. These trees are selected with great tact, and are always green, for although the leaves are renewed, it takes place gradually and imperceptibly, so that the branches are never entirely stripped of their foliage.
Numerous walks converge to open spots adorned with gushing fountains, and clumps of jessamine, myrtle, and rose bushes, surrounded by stone benches for the tired promenaders. Statues, unfortunately far below mediocrity in their execution, stand at the entrance of each walk; but, thanks to the deep shadow, the whistling of the evening breeze in the foliage, the buzz of the hummingbirds flying from flower to flower, and the harmonious strains of the cenzontles hidden in the fragrant clumps, you gradually forget those unlucky statues, and fall into a gentle reverie, during which the mind is borne to unknown regions, and seems no longer connected with earth.
But Mexico is a thorough country of contrasts. At each step barbarism elbows the most advanced civilization. Hence all the carriages, after driving a few times round the Alameda, take the direction of the Paseo de Bucareli, and the promenaders spread over a walk, in the Centre of which there is a large window in the Wall, protected by rusty iron bars, and through which come puffs of poisoned air. It is the window of the Deadhouse, into which are daily thrown pell-mell the bodies of men, women, and children, assassinated during the previous night, hideous, bloody, and disfigured by death! What a brilliant, what a delicious idea, to have placed the Deadhouse exactly between the two city walks!
The Paseo, or promenade, of Bucareli—so called after the Viceroy who gave it to Mexico—resembles the Champs Elysées of Paris. It is, in reality, merely a wide road, with no other ornament than a double row of willow and beech trees, with two circular places, in the centre of which are fountains, adorned with detestable allegorical statues and stone benches for pedestrians.
At the entrance of the Paseo de Bucareli has been placed an equestrian statue of Charles IV., which in 1824 adorned the Plaza Mayor of Mexico. When the Emperor Iturbide fell, this monument was removed from the square and placed in the University Palace yard—a lesson, we may here remark, given by a comparatively barbarous people to civilized nations, who in revolutions, as a first trial of liberty, and forgetting that history records everything in her imperishable annals, carry their Vandalism so far as to destroy everything that recalls the government they have overthrown. Owing to the intelligent moderation of the Mexicans, the promenaders can still admire, at the Bucareli, this really remarkable statue, due to the talent of the Spanish sculptor, Manuel Tolsa, and cast in one piece by Salvador de la Vega. The sight of this masterpiece ought to induce the Mexican municipality to remove the pitiable statues which disgrace the two finest promenades in the city.
From the Paseo de Bucareli a magnificent prospect is enjoyed of the panorama of mountains bathed in the luminous vapours of night; you perceive, through the arches of the gigantic aqueduct the white fronts of the haciendas clinging to the sides of the Sierra, the fields of Indian corn bending softly before the breeze, and the snowy peaks of the volcanoes, crowned with mist, and lost in the sky.
It is not till night has almost set in that the promenaders, leaving the Alameda, proceed to the Bucareli, where the carriages take two or three turns, and then equipages, riders, and pedestrians, retire one after the other. The promenade is deserted, the entire crowd, just now so gay and noisy, has disappeared as if by enchantment, and you only see between the trees some belated promenader, who, wrapped in his cloak, and with eye and ear on the watch, is hastily returning home, for, after nightfall, the thieves take possession of the promenade, and without the slightest anxiety about the serenos and celadores appointed to watch over the public security, they carry on their trade with a boldness which the certainty of impunity can alone engender.
It was evening, and, as usual, the Alameda was crowded; handsome carriages, brilliant riders, and modest pedestrians were moving backwards and forwards, with cries, laughter, and joyous calls, as they sought or chased each other in the walks. Monks, soldiers, officers, men of fashion, and leperos, were mixed together, carelessly smoking their cigars and cigarettes under each other's noses, with the recklessness and negligence peculiar to southern nations.
Suddenly, the first stroke of the Oración broke through the air. At the sound of the Angelus-bell, as if the entire crowd had been struck by an enchanter's wand, horses, carriages, and pedestrians stopped, the seated citizens left the benches on which they were resting, and a solemn silence fell on all; every person took off his hat, crossed himself, and for four or five minutes this crowd, an instant before so noisy, remained dumb and silent. But the last stroke of the Oración had scarce died away, ere horses and carriages set out again; the shouts, the songs, and talking, became louder than before; each resumed the sentence at the point where he had broken it off.
By degrees, however, the promenaders proceeded toward the Bucareli: the carriages became scarcer, and by the time night had quite set in, the Alameda was completely deserted.
A horseman, dressed in a rich Campesino costume, and mounted on a magnificent horse, which he managed with rare skill, then entered the Alameda, along which he galloped for about twenty minutes, examining the sidewalks, the clumps of trees, and the densest bushes: in a word, he seemed to be looking for somebody or something.
However, after a while, whether he had convinced himself that his search would have no result, or for some other motive, he gave the click of the tongue peculiar to the Mexican jinetes, lifted his horse which started at an amble, and proceeded toward the Paseo de Bucareli, after bowing sarcastically to some ill-looking horsemen who were beginning to prowl round him, but whom his vigorous appearance and haughty demeanour had hitherto kept at arm's length.
Although the darkness was too dense at this moment for it to be possible to see the horseman's face distinctly, which was in addition half covered by the brim of his vicuna hat, all about him evidenced strength and youth; he was armed as if for a nocturnal expedition, and had on his saddle, in spite of police regulations, a thin, carefully rolled up reata.
We will say, parenthetically, that the reata is considered in Mexico so dangerous a weapon, that it requires special permission to carry one at the saddle-bow, in the streets of Mexico.
The salteadores, who occupy the streets after nightfall, and reign with undisputed sway over them, employ no other weapon to stop the persons they wish to plunder. They cast the running knot round their necks, dash forward at full speed, and the unlucky man, half strangled, and dragged from the saddle, falls unresistingly into their hands.
At the moment when the traveller we are following reached the Bucareli, the last carriages were leaving it, and it was soon as deserted as the Alameda. He galloped up and down the promenade twice or thrice, looking carefully down the side rides, and at the end of his third turn a horseman, coming from the Alameda, passed on his right hand, giving him in a low voice the Mexican salute, "Santísima noche, caballero!"
Although this sentence had nothing peculiar about it, the horseman started, and immediately turning his horse round, he started in pursuit of the person who had thus greeted him. Within a minute the two horsemen were side by side; the first comer, so soon as he saw that he was followed, checked his horse's pace, as if with the intention of entering into the most direct communication with the person he had addressed.
"A fine night for a ride, señor," the first horseman said, politely raising his hand to his hat.
"It is," the second answered, "although it is beginning to grow late."
"The moment is only the better chosen for certain private conversation."
The second horseman looked around, and bending over to the speaker, said—
"I almost despaired of meeting you."
"Did I not let you know that I should come?"
"That is true; but I feared that some sudden obstacle——"
"Nothing ought to impede an honest man in accomplishing a sacred duty," the first horseman answered, with an emphasis on the words.
"The other bowed with an air of satisfaction. Then," he said, "I can count on you, Ño ——."
"No names here, señor," the other sharply interrupted him. "Caspita, an old wood ranger like you, a man who has long been a Tigrero, ought to remember that the trees have ears and the leaves eyes."
"Yes, you are right. I should and do remember it; but permit me to remark that if it is not possible for us to talk about business here, I do not know exactly where we can do so."
"Patience, señor, I wish to serve you, as you know, for you were recommended to me by a man to whom I can refuse nothing. Let yourself, therefore, be guided by me, if you wish us to succeed in this affair, which, I confess to you at once, offers enormous difficulties, and must be managed with the greatest prudence."
"I ask nothing better; still you must tell me what I ought to do."
"For the present very little; merely follow me at a distance to the place where I purpose taking you."
"Are we going far?"
"Only a few paces; behind the barracks of the Acordades, in a small street called the Callejón del Pájaro."
"Hum! and what am I to do in this street?"
"What a suspicious man you are!" the first horseman said with a laugh. "Listen to me then. About the middle of the Callejón I shall stop before a house of rather poor appearance; a man will come and hold my horse while I enter. A few minutes later you will pull up there; after assuring yourself that you are not followed you will dismount; give your horse to the man who is holding mine, and without saying a word to him, or letting him see your face, you will enter the house, and shut the door after you. I shall be in the yard, and will lead you to a place where we shall be able to talk in safety. Does that suit you?"
"Famously; although I do not understand why I, who have set foot in Mexico today for the first time, should find it necessary to employ such mighty precautions."
The first horseman laughed sarcastically.
"Do you wish to succeed?" he asked.
"Of course," the other exclaimed energetically, "even if it cost me my life."
"In that case do as you are recommended."
"Go on, I follow you."
"Is that settled? you understand all about it?"
"I do."
The second horseman then checked his steed to let the first one go on ahead, and both keeping a short distance apart, proceeded at a smart trot toward the statue of Charles IV., which, as we said, stands at the entrance of the Paseo.
While conversing, the two horsemen had forgotten the advanced hour of the night, and the solitude that surrounded them. At the moment when the first rider passed the equestrian statue, a slip knot fell on his shoulders, and he was roughly dragged from his saddle.
"Help!" he shouted in a choking voice.
The second rider had seen all; quick as thought he whirled his lasso round his head, and galloping at full speed, hurled it after the Salteador at the moment when he passed twenty yards from him.
The Salteador was stopped dead, and hurled from his horse; the worthy robber had not suspected that another person beside himself could have a lasso so handy. The horseman, without checking his speed, cut the reata that was strangling his companion, and, turning back, dragged the robber after him.
The first horseman so providentially saved, freed himself from the slip knot that choked him, and, hardly recovered from the alarm he had experienced from his heavy fall, he whistled to his horse, which came up at once, remounted as well as he could, and rejoined his liberator, who had stopped a short distance off.
"Thanks," he said to him, "henceforth we are stanch friends; you have saved my life, and I shall remember it."
"Nonsense," the other answered, "I only did what you would have done in my place."
"That is possible, but I shall be grateful to you on the word of a Carnero," he exclaimed, forgetting in his joy the hint he had given a short time previously, not to make use of names, and revealing his own incognito; "is the pícaro dead?"
"Very nearly so, I fancy; what shall we do with him?"
"Make a corpse of him," the capataz said bluntly. "We are only two paces from the deadhouse, and he can be carried there without difficulty. Though he is an utter scoundrel and tried to assassinate me, the police are so well managed in our unhappy country that if we committed the imprudence of letting him live, we should have interminable disputes with the magistrates."
Then, dismounting, he stooped over the bandit, stretched senseless at his feet, removed his lasso, and coolly dashed out his brains with a blow of his pistol butt. Immediately after this summary execution, the two men left the Paseo de Bucareli, but this time side by side, through fear of a new accident.