ITÚRBIDE
The fatal blow came from its champions. In 1820 a revolution in Spain revived the liberal constitution that had been adopted eight years before and then had been abolished by Ferdinand VII; and Apodaca, now viceroy of Mexico, felt compelled to proclaim the new law. The troops and the people began to dread another civil war; and the oligarchy, especially the Church dignitaries, concluding at once that only separation from the mother-country could save their privileges, looked about for an instrument. One was easily found. Itúrbide’s greed had finally driven him from his post, his fortune had been wasted in self-indulgence, and he was now desperate. Long since, his active mind had seen that if the Creole troops could be seduced, they—supported by the revolutionary sentiment of the people—could overmatch about half their number of Spanish regiments; and he agreed readily to become the champion of autocracy in order to betray it. Cleverly deceiving the government, he obtained a command through the aid of his backers, and, in order to clear the field, attacked Guerrero. To dispose of that wary foe proved, however, no easy task; so he negotiated privately with a public enemy, described himself as “destitute of ambition and self-interest,” and finally inveigled the insurgent leader into joining the conspiracy. Victoria followed that example. Santa Anna, though recently made a lieutenant colonel by the viceroy, came over with his men. Other leaders did the same; and on February 24, 1821, Itúrbide felt strong enough to announce a programme, the famous Plan of Iguala.[2]
This declared for independence, a limited monarchy under a Bourbon king, the Roman Catholic church as the sole form of religion, the old fueros, the right of office-holders to retain their posts, the fraternal union and political equality of Gachupines, Creoles and Indians, and the appointment of a committee (junta) to govern Mexico provisionally. No scheme could have seemed more inviting, and none could have been more delusive, for it ignored insurmountable difficulties and promised incompatible advantages. In all probability Itúrbide knew this; but prelates, troops, officials and people took the shining bait; O’Donojú, the new Spanish general, deciding it would be useless to fight, made a treaty with the revolutionary chief; and on September 27, 1821, Itúrbide carried the tricolor through the gate of the capital, stopped his gallant black charger at the convent of San Francisco, and received the golden keys of the city. Obedience, the sole basis of Mexican society, had been swept away; treachery and perjury had triumphed; and yet the unthinking multitude hurrahed.[2]
The generalísimo, violating the principle of popular sovereignty, now appointed the junta himself, excluding all the old revolutionists; that body in turn elected him and four associates to exercise the executive power as regents; and a Constituent Congress was prematurely summoned to draw up an organic law. The situation soon proved to be extremely difficult. Resentments needed to be healed, jealousies appeased, commerce and the industries put in motion, and the whole edifice of society and politics rebuilt on new foundations out of incongruous elements. Peculiarly urgent was the demand for money—the more so as some of the taxes were abolished in order to sweeten the revolution, while the expenses grew. On entering Mexico Itúrbide had proclaimed, “You see me in the most opulent of capitals;” and every one expected the new government—an independent, Mexican, popular government—to bear an open purse. In October, 1821, some fourteen thousand claims were presented to it.[3]
Itúrbide, whatever his aims and whatever his faults, was the sole Mexican of recognized preëminence, the sole possible rallying point; and patriotism called upon all to support his prestige and patiently correct his errors until society could take shape. Nothing of the sort occurred, however. The army idolized him; the civil officials counted on him; the prelates feared him less than they did his enemies; and the masses, ignorant of what went on below the surface, revered him as the Father of Independence; but the cheated absolutists, disappointed borbonistas, cajoled insurgents, distanced comrades, eclipsed leaders and unsuccessful claimants, the patriots, indignant that a cruel royalist should be the heir of the revolution, the republicans, few in number but increasingly influential, the friends of those he had massacred or plundered, and behind all the Scottish Rite Freemasons, who were liberals yet partisans of Spain—all these hated and dogged him. Honors and emoluments were heaped upon him to excite envy and odium; his weaknesses were baited; his strength was provoked; his administrative blundering was stimulated instead of corrected. When financial necessities compelled him to decree a forced loan, paper money and other arbitrary measures, many began to denounce him as a tyrant. Plausibly enough he was accused of disloyalty to his pledges and of aiming to be king. Finally his enemies, making the most of certain indiscretions that he committed, undertook to remove him from the command of the army. Whatever had been his purpose, he now found it necessary to strike; and a mutiny of the troops—endorsed later by the Congress under military and mob pressure—declared him emperor.[3]
Expenses then increased still more. Jealousies and enmities were embittered. Public sentiment veered sharply. Time, strength and funds were swallowed up in pomps that created no more illusion than a college student in a toga. Encompassed with flatterers, foes and traitors, financially and politically incompetent himself and guided by incompetent advisers, well enough aware that after deceiving everybody he could expect no one to be true, Itúrbide lost his head, sometimes wavered and sometimes tyrannized. Finally he thought it necessary to deprive Santa Anna of an authority that had no doubt been abused; and this interesting young man, who had recently proclaimed that he welcomed Itúrbide’s elevation with a positively uncontrollable exuberance of joy, “pronounced” for a republic, knowing scarcely anything about that system, but knowing a great deal about the Emperor’s unpopularity. This precipitated a revolution; and the movement, soon taken up by Victoria, Guerrero and Bravo, spread rapidly. Itúrbide’s most intimate and trusted general was despatched against the insurgents, but betrayed him. The army went over. The people, who revered the Liberator but not the Emperor, concurred. With bad faith and gratuitous outrages his enemies crowded savagely upon him. Early in 1823 he abdicated; and in May, forsaken by every one of the many he had benefited, the discredited hero sailed for Europe, leaving behind him examples and suggestions of the most demoralizing kind.[3]
The junta, meanwhile, had disgusted the nation with its frivolities, political and fiscal incompetence and usurpation of powers, and there was a feeling of relief when it dissolved in February, 1822, the next day after Congress met. Congress, however, did no better and fared even worse, for it earned much contempt by sanctioning under pressure the elevation of Itúrbide; and then Itúrbide made Congress, and made all popular government, quite ridiculous in the eyes of the people and the army by forcibly sending the members home. When at his wit’s end, he recalled it as if inviting the coup de grace, and soon it not only earned more contempt by pronouncing his elevation illegal and punishing every mark of condolence for the fallen chief, but undertook to outrank omnipotence by pretending that no empire had existed. Soon, too, all the selfish ambitions that had combined against Itúrbide in this body showed themselves so clearly as to add further discredit; and worse yet the Congress, though chosen merely to frame a constitution under the Plan of Iguala, held on after the refusal of Spain to coöperate had put an end to that scheme.[3]
The republicans, who were gaining ground because evidently no other Mexican could stand where Itúrbide had fallen, and the Iturbidistas, who desired to create anarchy in order to force the recall of their hero, clamored for new elections. Five provinces demanded them formally; and at length, despised by every one, Congress, the firstfruit of popular government, fell to the ground. Almost every institution that should have enjoyed respect was now discredited—even the Church, for it had crowned the emperor and shed its benedictions liberally on Congress. The army, however, stood, for it had shown its power both to elevate and to overthrow.[3]
The next Congress, which met November 7, 1823, had a more democratic basis; but the members were personally inferior, intrigue and self-seeking again prevailed, and the young orators—convinced that winning applause from the galleries was the true object of speaking—launched forth on all occasions with that fatal fluency which their intoxicating idiom encouraged. After centuries of enforced silence, men to whom liberty could only mean license were called upon to decide the gravest questions of statesmanship. Naturally they were eager to build before laying foundations; and naturally, too, where nine tenths of the people could not read, it seemed like genuine statesmanship to flourish the novel vocabulary of independence.[3]
Frivolous, fickle, now torpid and now running amuck, Congress found itself compelled eventually to frame a constitution. Under Spanish rule the provinces, each governed by an intendant, had known little and cared less about one another; and now, stimulated by the centrifugal tendency of the Iberian character and the dread of a tyrant, inflamed by transcendental doctrines of liberty, disgusted with the proceedings of the national authorities, and captivated by the thought of offices for all, they began to claim sovereignty; and something had to be done at once. A republic, though alien to all the habits and feelings of the nation, seemed evidently necessary, because no possible monarch existed, and because no other system could make it the interest of a sufficient number of persons to maintain the government; but this did not end the difficulties. The centralized type of republic was ardently desired by the oligarchy as likely to prove controllable, and by all the monarchists as a sloping path toward their goal; but the friends of Itúrbide and the enemies of privilege—strongest at a distance from the capital—fought against it, and at length, as the federal system, about which only the vaguest notions were entertained, promised more offices and seemed more likely to hold the country together, it was decided upon.[3]