Rambles by Land and Water; or, Notes of Travel in Cuba and Mexico

by Benjamin Moore Norman

The Market Place of Tampico is a rude open square, without embellishment, natural or artificial, one corner of which is occupied with stalls or tables, for meats and vegetables, which are guarded and dealt out by as motley a set of beggars as I had ever seen, as uninviting group of caterers as can well be imagined. The tarriers at home can little realize the many disagreeable offsets to the pleasure one derives from visiting foreign lands; while the traveller learns, by a painful daily experience, to appreciate all the little conveniences and proprieties, as well as the thousand substantial comforts of home.

In the centre of this square, a monument is to be erected in honor of the celebrated General Santa Anna, commemorating his successful encounter with the old Spanish forces, in this place, in the year 1829, during the last struggles of Mexico to throw off the yoke of Spain, and establish an independent government. The foundation of this monument is finished, and the builders are waiting the arrival of the column from New York, where, as I was informed, Italian artists are employed in completing it. It is intended to be worthy of the name of the distinguished man in whose honor it is reared, and of the event which it is designed to commemorate. How the two can be fitly blended in one inscription, it is difficult to conceive. The victory which Santa Anna achieved over the Spanish oppressors of the struggling province, may indeed have a claim to be recorded on the enduring marble; but, for the honor due to a name like that of the exiled hero of San Jacinto, a name so long associated with every species of tyranny and oppression, of treason to his country, and of treachery alike to friend and to foe—how shall it be appropriately expressed? In what terms of mingled eulogium and execration shall it be couched? "The name and the event!" It will doubtless be an easy matter to frame an inscription suitable to the event—but to illustrate the glory of the name—hoc opus, his labor est.

In a state of society like that which has existed in Mexico, for many years past, it would seem a difficult task to erect monuments to illustrate the services of their great men. Revolution succeeding revolution, and dynasty chasing dynasty, in rapid succession like the waves of the sea, a successful leader has scarcely time to reach the post his high ambition has aimed at, and procure a decree for a triumph and a monument, before a rival faction has obtained possession of all the outposts, and begins to thunder under the walls of the capital. One after another, they have risen, and fallen, and passed away, some of them for ever, and some only to rise again with more rapid strides, and then to experience a more ruinous fall, than before. The monument which was begun yesterday in honor of one successful hero, may, to-morrow, be consecrated to the victory won over him by his enemy; and then, perhaps, be thrown down to give place to another, which commemorates the overthrow of both.

How many times the government of Mexico is destined to be overturned and remodeled, before the completion of the Tampico monument, and what will be the position of the man for whose honor it was originally designed, when the column shall be ready to be placed on its pedestal, it would be hazardous to conjecture. It may not be unsafe, however, to predict, that neither this, nor any other column, or statue, erected in Mexico, will confer upon Santa Anna a greater notoriety than he now enjoys, or in any way alter the world's estimate of his true character. Impartial history has marred the beauty of many a monumental tablet, and converted that which was meant for glory, into a perpetual memorial of shame.

A few yards from the Market place is a bold bluff of rock, fronting the Panuco, from the top of which we have an extensive view of the surrounding country. Near this place, the River Tamissee, which drains the adjacent lagoons, forms its junction with the Panuco, which sweeps gracefully along from the southwest, broken and diversified by a number of low wooded islands, which disturb, but beautify its course.

On the opposite shore, at some distance, lies the lagoon of Pueblo Viejo, and beyond that, but within sight from this bluff, the ruins of the old town, situated on a beautiful plateau, or table land, flanked by the spires of the Cordilleras.

The low lands of the suburbs are filled with rude huts of the Indians, built chiefly of bamboo, and covered with the palm-leaf. A more squalid state of misery than is exhibited among this class, both here and in the town, it has never fallen to my lot to witness.

Not satisfied with this distant view of the ruins of the Pueblo Viejo, I determined to form a nearer acquaintance with them, by a personal visit. The American Consul, and his accomplished lady, very kindly accompanied me thither, in a canoe, under the guidance of an Indian. We descended the Panuco a short distance, and passed into a bayou communicating with one of the great lagoons, near which the old town is situated. The locale is decidedly agreeable and picturesque. Though in the uplands, it lies at the foot of a steep and thickly wooded hill, which affords a variety of romantic retreats, and commanding look-outs for the surrounding country. But, however much they might have been improved and valued in former times, they are now deserted, and forgotten. An almost death-like tranquillity reigns in the forsaken streets and environs, forming a melancholy contrast to the half European, and comparatively bustling aspect of its now more prosperous rival.

The houses are low-built, with flat roofs. The façades of some of them show, in the faded gaiety, and dubious taste of their coloring, what they were in the palmy days of the Pueblo Viejo's early glory. Many of them had court-yards and porticos. One group of old buildings, of Spanish architecture, situated near the humble church that consecrated the public square, shows many marks of its ancient grandeur, even in its present state of desolation and decay.

It is painful to stroll through the streets of a city of our own times, once full of life and bustle, but now falling into the decrepitude of a premature old age. It is like walking among the sepulchres of the living; and the few signs of life that remain, only serve to give intensity to the shadows of night that are deepening around it. Here, there was nothing to relieve the melancholy aspect of the scene. The people, both masters and slaves, were poor, listless and inactive; their dwellings were comfortless and uninviting, and their lands miserably neglected and unproductive. A death-like incubus seemed to hang on the whole place.