It was a large concern, and many customers were passing in and out. A number of clerks, all men,—I have seen no woman clerks anywhere—were standing behind long tables, while the public moved up and down between. I repeated the word mantilla, and was shown to where were many shelves filled with flat pasteboard boxes. Several of these were taken down and the beautiful pieces of lace shown me. As I stood there, in a quandary what to select, a pleasant-faced, short, stout man with a dark-haired woman approached me. As they neared the table, she turned to him and said in good United States, “O, here are the mantillas we are looking for.” Her appearance attracted me, and so, turning to her and lifting my hat, I bowed and begged her aid. He and I then exchanged cards. He was a Dr. S., of Washington, for many years physician to Mrs. T., whose wedding I attended two years ago, making geological studies in Mexico, and soon going to Central America. We were at once friends. He was gathering information for the Smithsonian Institution. The lady was his wife. She aided me in selecting two lovely mantillas of black silk. Later, they accompanied me in my search for opals, and helped me choose several fine stones. Afterward, at their hotel, the Jardin, they showed me their collection of photographs, and many of the mementoes and curios they were collecting. In the afternoon we dined together at my Creole restaurant. At last, we parted, with mutual regret.
The train which bore me from the city left the station of the Mexican Railway (“The Queen’s Own”), about nine o’clock P. M. It is a standard gauge railroad. I had a comfortable lower berth in the Pullman. The car was crowded. Several young officers in their smartest uniforms were saying adios to a number of black-eyed señoritas and their mammas. The young men at parting, wrapped wide scarfs about their mouths, almost hiding their faces up to their eyes, a common practice used against pneumonia. The night air was cold. I wore my overcoat, and shivered where I stood upon the rear platform of the car watching through many miles the city’s receding lights. We traversed the valley toward the east, and then began to climb the lower slopes of the mountain range we must cross before we should finally descend to Vera Cruz.
VOLCANO DE ORIZABA
When I awoke in the morning we were yet three hours from the Gulf. We had crossed the mountains in the night; we had ascended three thousand feet, and come down eleven thousand feet, through wild and beautiful scenery; a journey never to be taken by night, unless necessity demands. We were more than two hours late, having been detained at Orizaba, while we slept. This was fortunate for me, for it gave me the daylight hours to view the lowlands through which the road passes from the mountains to the sea.
Back of us, high, high into the cloudless blue sky, glittered the snowy peak of Mexico’s greatest volcano, the lofty, mighty Orizaba, now known to be higher than Popocatepetl, and much like it in the contour of its cone; a most imposing sight as it shone in the light of the rising sun. Wherever we turned, wherever we went, mighty Orizaba followed us. We never lost sight of it, we could not escape its stupendous bulk. I am fortunate to have seen four of the chief snow-capped volcanoes of Mexico, and to have fine photographs of them all—Popocatepetl, Ixtaccihautl, Nevada de Toluca, and Orizaba.
The lowlands we were traversing are wholly tropical; we were among extensive plantations of bananas, palms of many sorts, coffee orchards, and impenetrable jungles. The sun was as hot as upon the llanos along the river Balsas in Michoacan.
It was half-past nine when the train pulled into the station at Vera Cruz. A big negro, black as night, dressed in immaculate white duck, collared me the very instant my feet touched the ground. He spoke in soft, smooth English, with marked British accent. He introduced himself as “Mr. Sam.” “I am a British subject from Jamaica,” he said, “and representative of the Hotel Metropolitán.” He offered to conduct me to that institution. He assured me it was “the finest establishment upon the coast.” As that was my predetermined destination, I permitted him to precede me there, carrying my bags. The sun was fierce, the atmosphere dull and heavy. We walked through filthy streets, streets never yet cleaned in all the four-centuries’ life of Vera Cruz. The ill-paved and stinking gutters were filled with slime. The streets were bordered with low-built stucco houses. We entered an ill-kept plaza where grew lank bananas and cocoanut palms, a low government building with a graceful tower bounding its eastern side. Here we came to the hotel, an old stone edifice two stories high, with a loggia overspreading the sidewalk, and a curtain hung between the pillars and the street to keep the hot sun from the footway which ran beneath. “Mr. Sam” instructed me in what I should have to do. First, I must follow him to the American doctor, and in the presence of the American Consul, procure a certificate of health. Then he would take me to the “Fumigation Office” of the Mexican government to have my baggage examined and certified as free from yellow fever and contagious disease. Then he would take me to the office of the Ward Line Steamship Company to have my ticket, which I had bought the day before in the office of the company in Mexico City, examined and certified, and then he would arrange that “The Express Company,” for a stiff fee, should convey my through baggage from the station of the railway to the steamer Monterey, lying at anchor out in the open Gulf, although the day previous it had all been checked through from Mexico City to Havana. Later, he himself would row me out to the vessel and put me in my stateroom, free from further molestation of red tape. “Mr. Sam” proved himself true, extracting from me, however, sundry centavos along the way. He did not intend me at any time to escape. Nevertheless, I did shake myself free from his superintendence for one short hour, and strolled alone about the ancient town. It is a city of filth, stinks, and squalor—just the home for the perpetual breeding of pestilence. It is no wonder that the plague of yellow fever has for centuries stalked remorselessly in its midst. But the Mexican Government, stimulated by the example of the scientific cleanliness of Cuba, is now laying a modern sewer system, and has employed English engineers to construct extensive dock facilities, and is transforming Vera Cruz into a clean and modern city. There is thus hope for both the health and the commerce of Vera Cruz.
THE MUNICIPAL PALACE—VERA CRUZ