The first town of importance we reached, after leaving Acambaro, was Morelia, a city exceeding thirty thousand inhabitants, and the capital of the important state of Michoacan. The people gathered at the incoming of the train were rather darker in color than those in Mexico City, which seemed to indicate a greater infusion of Indian blood. Here we first beheld a number of priests garbed in cassock and shovel hat, a costume now forbidden by the laws.
At this station, too, we came upon a curious tuber which seemed to be cousin to the yam and the Irish potato. The Indians bake it and hand it to you bursting with mealy whiteness of a most palatable taste. The Mexican eats as opportunity occurs, and as opportunity is incessantly offered, he is always eating. At least, so it is with the Indian. Cooked food and fruits are sold at all times along the streets and highways everywhere. The hot tamale, and a dozen kindred peppered and scorching foods, are always to be had. Oranges and lemons, limes and pomegranates, figs and bananas, cocoanuts and sugar cane are sold at a price so low that the poorest can buy. Candied fruits are abundantly eaten, and delicious guava paste is handed up to the car windows on little trays.
Our sleeper went only as far as Morelia. After that we traveled in the day coach. Our traveling companions had been three or four Mexican gentlemen, who kept closely together, incessantly smoking cigarettes. In the day coach we were now traveling with people of the countryside. A tall, white-haired priest, in cassock and shovel hat, with bare feet thrust into black, leathern sandals, sat just in front of me. A large, brass crucifix, six or eight inches long, hanging about his neck, suspended by a heavy brass chain, was his only ornament. He was much interested in my kodak and watched me taking snap shots at the flying panorama. He indicated that he would like to have his own picture taken, arranging himself gravely for the ordeal. No sooner had I snapped the padre than several of his parishioners moved up and intimated that they also would be pleased to have me take their portraits. The film on which these pictures were taken was afterwards lost, or I should be able to present these friends to you.
LAKE PATZCUARO
As we drew near Patzcuaro, the car filled up, and among the incomers were a number of pretty señoritas of high-class Spanish type. Their skins were fair, their facial outlines were softly moulded and their large dark eyes were lustrous beneath their raven hair. Most of the ladies smoked cigarettes, for every car is a smoking car in this Spanish-Indian land. Very few Indians rode upon the train. The railway is too expensive a mode of traveling for them.
It was past the midday hour when we came to Patzcuaro, a city of perhaps ten thousand souls. For many miles we had followed the shores of the lake of that name. Far across the light green waters I noted many islands. Upon one of these stands the Mission Church, where is preserved the famous altar painting supposed to be by Titian—a picture so sacred that it has rarely been looked upon by white men, much less by a heretic gringo. I had hoped to be able to voyage across the lake and see the precious painting, despite the jealous care with which the Indians are said to guard it, but the hurry of travel has made this impossible.
A crowd of almost pure Indians was gathered to meet the train. They watched us closely, while we bargained for our trunks and bags to be carried upon the backs of eager cargadores two miles up the long hill to the town. We passengers entered an antique tram car, drawn by six mules. It was packed to suffocation, most of the occupants being ladies of the city, who had ridden down to see the train arrive and were now riding back again. Among them sat one whose cracking face, I was told, disclosed leprosy, a disease here not uncommon. Not many gringos visit Patzcuaro, and our strange foreign clothing and unknown speech were matters of curious comment. Our mules clambered up the hill at a gallop, urged by a merciless rawhide. We halted finally before a quaint and ancient inn, La Colonia. Through a big open doorway, into which a coach might drive, penetrating a high, white wall, we passed to an ill-paved interior courtyard, where our host, the landlord, greeted us with formal ceremony. He then led us up a flight of stone steps to a wide, stone-flagged piazza running round the interior of the court. We were there given rooms opening off this open corridor, each door being ponderously locked with a big iron key. I had scarcely reached my quarters before the cargadore brought in my trunk. He had carried it two miles upon his back in almost as quick time as we had traveled in the six-mule car. I paid him twenty-five cents (Mexican) for this service (ten cents in United States money). He bowed with gratitude at my liberal fee.
OUR DEPARTURE—FONDA DILIGENCIA