Land without chimneys; or, the byways of Mexico

by Alfred Oscar Coffin

While Maximilian was in power, he issued a decree that every officer taken in arms against the government should be shot without trial, and he executed that decree with every Mexican officer he captured. Now Juarez was in power and the law had never been repealed, and he decided it would work as well with Juarez as with Maximilian. Aside from all this he decided that one dead Austrian Emperor on Mexican soil was worth a hundred live ones, and Juarez always lived up to his convictions.

P. S. Maximilian was shot.

Pachuca is the capital of Hidalgo, eight thousand feet above the sea, and overcoats are needed the whole year. There are three hundred mines here and the business has been carried on four hundred years, and the quantity of silver taken out will never be known. The Trinidad alone in ten years yielded fifty million dollars. The other principal mines are the Rosario, Caridado, Xacal, Santa Gertrudis, Caxyetana and Dolores. At Acambaro we change cars for the Lake Region, through the beautiful towns of Morelia, the capital of Michoacan and the residence of the Bishop. In olden times when the Tarascan Kings got tired acting King, they took their boats, and leaving Tzintzuntzan, their capital, paddled over to Patzcuaro, “Place of Pleasure.”

The town is very old and the streets are very crooked, with shrines and saints set in the walls at every corner, but the old settlers were right when they called it a place of pleasure. After a good night’s rest it is the proper thing to see the sunrise, that will leave its impression with you forever. Up the street to the Hill of Calvary you pass fourteen stations of the Cross where the faithful pray. You hurry on to Los Balcones, a stone parapet in front of the church of Calvary and what a sight meets your eye! From your elevation of a mile and a half above the sea, the world is spread before you like a panorama. Spread at your feet is Laguna Patzcuaro, “Lake Beautiful,” with its green islands and giant trees, and as the sun comes up out of the Sierras he discloses to your enchanted gaze a level plain with forty-three towns with a setting of mountains and valleys worth a journey to see. Lake Patzcuaro is the highest navigable water on the globe, being over seven thousand feet high. It is a thousand feet below you on Los Balcones, but its thirty miles of length and twelve of width are before you as a mirror. On its bosom is the quaintest little steamboat that ever paddled a wheel, the Mariano Jiminez, and it will take you among all the beautiful islands, and to the old town of Tzintzuntzan. This was once the capital of the ancient Kingdom of Tarasco that resisted to the last the sovereignty of Montezuma, and after the Conquest was the seat of the Bishopric of Tarasco. This Bishopric was held in such high esteem by Philip II of Spain that he presented the cathedral with the finest creation from the brush of Titian, “The Entombment.” The old church is crumbling down, but the Indians venerate the painting so much the Bishop has forbidden its removal. Art lovers have offered immense sums for it, but the church authorities refuse to entertain offers in any sum, and so it hangs where it was hung over three hundred years ago.

The lake is dotted with innumerable fisher boats and timber rafts and large flat-bottom boats hewn from giant trees. The fishermen simply dip their nets in the water at random and catch the fish, which here form one of the chief articles of food; but we started out to study art, and not fish, so we land on the opposite side to see the famous painting which is so zealously guarded. You are admitted through the outer wall into the patio where sit a number of Indian women braiding mats, and the padre said they were doing penance. With a lighted candle the padre leads you through a dark corridor to a grim door, barred, chained and padlocked. This door leads into a chamber dark as night. The padre opens a grated window and lets in a flood of light and the picture lies revealed with its life-size figures. You know you are in the presence of the great master, because everybody says so.

Artists from every part of the world have come to see this painting and they all say it is a genuine Titian, and I knew this was the proper place and time to expiate on art as I had heard those learned critics do before the Transfiguration. I had finished nearly all the phrases they said when the padre closed the window and the flood-gate of my eloquence. Ah, but it was grand! After the padre had blown out the light, barred, chained and pad-locked the door, a new idea came to me. The bishop of Mexico has offered these Indians fifty thousand dollars for the picture and they laughed at him, and ten times that figure cannot buy it. All the figures are life-size and it is large enough, but fifty thousand dollars will plaster both sides. My idea is to go down there to Tzintzuntzan and get a job of doing penance in that old church and finally get myself elected guardian of the keys to that room, and then I will write this letter to the bishop of Mexico: “Dear Bishop: I hear that you have money to burn; also that you have fifty thousand dollars to invest in old canvas, especially the brand that adorns the dark alcove in the old cathedral at Tzintzuntzan. If you mean b-i-z, meet me at the Rialto on Lake Beautiful this P. M., just as the moon is rising in China, and we will give that old canvas the first fresh air bath it has had in three hundred years.

“P. S.—Come prepared to move in light marching order, because the state of Michoacan will hardly be large enough for you and the picture after morning mass.

“N. B., P. S. No. 2.—Don’t forget the fifty thousand dollars, for

“Yours Truly.”

If ever I get to be doorkeeper down there I shall certainly vote to use that fresh air fund to the best advantage, and there will still be profit enough to give all those enthusiastic art lovers a square meal after I have started to Canada, and I certainly would do that much for them. In coming years when the Tzintzuntzan poets shall say, “What are the wild waves saying?” they will answer, that they saw the only hustling doorkeeper that old church ever had, cross that lake between two days once, and before Aurora, child of the morn, had awakened from her sleep, he had reached the other side of the mountains and lit running.