A cable came from Prince Festetics, whom we had congratulated on the occasion of his new title. But it all seems a far dream of a far past.
Luncheon here yesterday—to the Horigutchis, the Norwegians, Mr. Wilson, of course, and Mr. Bird from New York. Mr. Bird brought a letter to us, and is down here in connection with a mining claim that has been on the Embassy files for nearly twenty years to one of the richest mines in Mexico. He is accompanied by a white-bearded, magnetic old gentleman of some ninety years.
September 13th.
Last night a huge banquet in honor of the ambassador given by the leading male American citizens. The consuls all over Mexico sent telegrams of congratulation, and Mr. Wilson made one of his accustomed polished and trenchant speeches. Mr. Hudson's toast (he is the clever editor of the Mexican Herald, that no breakfast is complete without) was to "Mexico present and future." It was not more optimistic than the occasion required, but certainly more so than the actual situation warrants. He did touch on the most vital question, as to whether the results of the election will be peaceably accepted by the people, and hoped they would recognize the necessity of abiding by the result of the polls next month. All sorts of political shades are appearing. It isn't just one solid Madero color, as it was four months ago.
September 15th, morning.
This is Independence Day here, and Heaven alone knows how Mexico will celebrate it. To-night at the palace, which I have not yet seen officially, is held the famous ceremony of the "Grito de Dolores."
September 16th.
Everything quiet in Calle Humboldt. N. has gone to the Embassy for late work, servants are invisible, the infant is in the "first sweet dreams of night," and I can have an hour with you about the celebration last night, which was most interesting.
I went rather contre gré. The heavens had been more than usually lavish with their water-gifts during the afternoon, and the house was damp and chilly. But I got into the black velvet with the gray and jet design, so easy to don, as any black dress should be, and we were ready when the ambassador came for us.
We passed through the brilliantly lighted and beflagged Avenida San Francisco to the Zócalo, where an immense crowd was already assembling. Mounted police were dashing to and fro as we passed under the "Puerta de Honor," through which the Corps Diplomatique enters on official occasions. The huge bronze statue of Benito Juarez, still and shining, caught the patio lights. I suppose the real Benito was watching the proceedings also from some angle, up or down, I can't say.