Part 4

This is their general character, as far as I have seen them, and such was the commodious dwelling to which we were now hospitably invited. It bore the air of tattered grandeur--in its dimensions and in its ruined state showing marks of pristine elegance. It was partially fortified, as were most of them, during the revolution, for protection from lawless depredation, and from the numerous bands of banditti who then roamed through the country, and were royalists or republicans, as was most expedient to accomplish their designs. Even at this time, these defences are esteemed necessary to ensure safety from the robbers who have escaped the vigilance of government by concealing themselves in the adjacent mountains.

On the day of our arrival nothing occurred particularly to attract our notice, except that, after the conclusion of dinner, the tall Indian waiter fell upon his knees in the middle of the room and gave thanks--a custom common, I am told, in the country. To our surprise, this was not repeated. He was either told that we were heretics, (as all foreigners are designated) or was deterred because some of our Catholic friends were less devout on the occasion than was to be expected from them.

It may not be amiss here to mention, that the dinner table of the Mexicans is of indefinite length, always standing in the eating room. One end only is {12} commonly used. The seat of honor is at the head, where the most distinguished and most honored guest is always placed; the rest arrange themselves according to their rank and consequence; the dependants occupying the lowest seats.

After a cup of chocolate at six o'clock the next morning, we went in pursuit of game, and roamed through the hills and mountains which are contiguous, meeting with very little success. At about twelve we partook of our breakfast, which was brought to us more than two leagues from the _hacienda_--after which we prosecuted our hunt. Our sole reward was a heavy shower of rain--and between four and five we returned to the _hacienda_, well wearied, having walked at least twelve miles over steep mountains.

On the following day we set out with our mules, &c. to try our fortune higher up the mountains, and after a ride of between three and four hours, reached a herdsman's hut, where we were to lodge at night. We were unsuccessful in finding game in the evening, and after a laborious search for deer, sought our hut--a log building, about fifteen feet square, in which twelve of us, men, women and children, stowed ourselves. Annoyed by fleas, and almost frozen by the chill mountain air, within two leagues of the snow-crowned _Iztaccihuatl_, we passed a sleepless night.

Early next morning, whilst others of the party engaged in hunting for deer, with two companions I ascended the highest peak of this range, (except those covered with snow,) with great labor and fatigue; but we were compensated amply by the grand view beneath and around us. The adjoining peak to the south of us was the _Iztaccihuatl_, about a league distant. We felt very sensibly the influence of its snow. Beyond this, the _Popocatepetl_ raised its lofty cone, while far in the southeast appeared _Orizaba_, around whose crest the clouds were just then gathering. The plains of _Puebla_ and _Mexico_ are on opposite sides of this seemingly interminable ridge on which we stood. From the latter, the clouds, which we had been long admiring far beneath us, hiding the world from our view, were gradually curling, and disclosed the distant capital with its adjoining lakes and isolated hills. The chilling wind drove us from our height, but in descending we often rested to enjoy a scene which the eyes never tire in beholding.

In the evening, we left the mountain for the _hacienda_, where we spent another day. Our friends were extremely kind to us, and regretted more than ourselves our ill success in quest of game. Being little of a sportsman, to me it was a trifling disappointment. I enjoyed abundant gratification in seeing the country, its people and manner of living. Whatever may be said of the bad blood of the Mexicans, I cannot but view them as a mild and amiable people--nature has bestowed her bounties liberally upon them: for their state of degradation and ignorance they are indebted not to any natural deficiencies of their own, but to the miserable and timid policy of their former Spanish masters. They are superstitious, but this arises from their education; they are jealous of strangers--the policy of Spain made them so; and they are ignorant, for in ignorance alone could they be retained in blind subjection to the mother country. If they are vicious, their vices arise from their ignorance of what is virtuous--of what is ennobling. They are indolent because they are not permitted to enjoy the fruits of industry, and nature supplies their wants so bountifully, they are compelled to exert themselves but little.

These are in fact serious defects, but the improvement of the Mexican people is daily taking place. They are beginning to be enlightened with the rays of the rising sun of liberty; and after the present generation has passed away, the succeeding one will exhibit those political and moral virtues, which are the offspring of freedom. The effects of a daily increasing intercourse with foreigners are even now perceptible, and lead me to believe, that, before many years roll over, a wonderful change must take place. Society, too, will improve: ladies will no longer gormandize or smoke--will discover that it is vulgar to attend cock-fights, and will bestow, with increased regard for their personal appearance, greater attention upon the cultivation of their minds.

In Mexico, there are few parties, either at dinner, or in the evening. None will suit but great balls, and these must occur seldom, else none but the wealthy can attend them, so expensive are the decorations and dresses of the ladies. They esteem it extremely vulgar to wear the same ball-dress more than once. Society is cut up into small _tertulias_ or parties of intimate acquaintances, who meet invariably at the same house, and talk, play the piano, sing, dance, and smoke at their ease and pleasure.

Sometimes I attend the Theatre. This is divided into boxes, which families hire for a year. If the play be uninteresting, they visit each other's box, and pass the evening in conversation. It is diverting to observe the gentlemen take from their pockets a flint and steel for the purpose of lighting their cigars, and then to extend the favor of a light to the ladies; and sometimes the whole theatre seems as if filled with fire-flies.

Immediately on rising, a Mexican takes a small cup of chocolate with a little bread and a glass of water. At ten, they take what they call breakfast--it is in fact equivalent to a dinner, consisting not of tea or coffee, but of meats, sweetmeats and wine. At about three, dinner is served. At six or seven, they again take chocolate; and at ten, an enormous supper is laid of hot meats, &c. equal to a third dinner. At these meals, three or four dishes of meats, with very few vegetables, are brought on in various courses--the _olla podrida_, a mixture of meats, fruits, and vegetables boiled together--always constitutes a part of the first course--_frijoles_--beans boiled--invariably precede the sweetmeats, of which the Mexicans are extremely fond. Perhaps this is the reason why good teeth are seldom seen in Mexico.

* * * * *

23d November, 1825. I have stated that few parties are given in Mexico. Balls are sometimes held by the American and English Legations. If, on these occasions, fifty ladies attend, it is considered a prodigious number to assemble together. The expenses of preparation which they incur are enormous, and deter many, however devoted they may be to pleasure, from partaking in frequent diversions of this kind. Society, too, has not acquired that equilibrium which the democratical institutions of the country must produce eventually. A powerful aristocracy, as may reasonably be supposed, still exists in the capital--time alone will level this--it will die with the present generation, taking for granted {13} that the republicanism of Mexico will be permanent. Aristocracy, of course, reduces the highest class of society to a limited number, so that a large assemblage of ladies here would be thought small in the United States.

At whatever hour you invite company, it will not collect before nine, and the most fashionable appear between ten and eleven. The music soon invites them to the waltz, or to the Spanish country-dance, both of which are graceful, and perhaps voluptuous, when danced, as in Mexico, to the music of guitars or of bandolines. They dance upon brick floors--there are none other in Mexican houses--generally bare, but foreigners have introduced the more comfortable fashion of covering them with canvass; and as the steps are simple, without the hopping and restlessness of our cotillons or quadrilles, it is not so unpleasant as would be supposed; they glide over the pavement without much exertion. The dancing continues, not uninterruptedly as with us, but at intervals, until twelve o'clock, when the ladies are conducted to the supper table, which must be loaded with substantial as well as sweet things. After supper, dancing is continued, and the company begins to disperse between one and two in the morning, and sometimes not until near daybreak.

None of the wealthy families have followed the example set them by foreigners. They give no balls or dinners. Although I have now been here six months, I have never dined in a Mexican house in the city. Their hospitality consists in this: they place their houses and all they possess at your disposal, and are the better pleased the oftener you visit them, but they rarely, if ever, offer you refreshments of any kind. It is said that they are gratified if you will dine with them unceremoniously, but they never invite you.

31st December, 1825. I can scarcely persuade myself that to-morrow will be New-Year's day. The weather is most delightful. We are now sitting with our windows open--at night too. About a fortnight ago the mornings were uncomfortably cool; but the sun at mid-day is always hot. What a delightful climate! And we are now eating the fruits of a northern mid-summer. We have always had fresh oranges since our arrival. A week since we had green peas; and to-day five different kinds of fruit appeared upon our table--oranges, apples, walnuts, _granadites de China_, and _chirimoyas_--the last, _la reina de los frutos_, (the queen of fruit,) tasting like strawberries and cream. The markets contain numerous other sorts. Our friends at home are now gathering around the glowing coals, or treading the snow without. We see the former in the kitchen only--the latter on the valcanoes which tower in the distance.

* * * * *

7th December, 1827. A letter from home affords me the satisfaction of knowing that our friends generally continue to enjoy good health, and are subject to none other than the ordinary ills of life, such as cut-throat weather, squalling brats, or a twinge or two of gout or rheumatism. These are evils which humanity is decreed to suffer throughout the world; but in Mexico we are more exempt from most of them than elsewhere. The sun now _shines_ twelve hours of every day, and either the moon or stars give light to the other twelve. Such will the weather continue to be until May or June, when the rains fall with such regularity and certainty, that very slight observation enables us to know when to go out, or to shelter ourselves. The mornings now are only a little cool, although we are in mid-winter; and our tables are supplied with fruit as bountifully as in the months of July and August. Our other ills are in like manner trivial. We are sometimes _ennuyés_ for want of society, but books, and sometimes a game of chess, enable us to live without being driven to the commission of suicide. And as a _dernier resort_, we throw ourselves into the arms of Morpheus, this being the peculiar delightful climate for sleep--no mosquitos, nor extremes of heat or cold. The thermometer ordinarily ranges at about 70° of Fahrenheit.

SCENES FROM AN UNPUBLISHED DRAMA,

BY EDGAR A. POE.

I.

ROME. A Lady's apartment, with a window open and looking into a garden. Lalage, in deep mourning, reading at a table on which lie some books and a hand mirror. In the back ground Jacinta (a servant maid) leans carelessly upon a chair.

_Lalage_. Jacinta! is it thou?

_Jacinta_ (_pertly_.) Yes, Ma'am, I'm here.

_Lalage_. I did not know, Jacinta, you were in waiting. Sit down!--let not my presence trouble you-- Sit down!--for I am humble, most humble.

_Jacinta_ (_aside_.) 'Tis time.

(_Jacinta seats herself in a side-long manner upon the chair, resting her elbows upon the back, and regarding her mistress with a contemptuous look. Lalage continues to read._)

_Lalage_. "It in another climate, so he said, Bore a bright golden flower, but not i' this soil!"

(_pauses--turns over some leaves, and resumes_.)

"No lingering winters there, nor snow, nor shower-- But Ocean ever to refresh mankind Breathes the shrill spirit of the western wind." Oh, beautiful!--most beautiful!--how like To what my fevered soul doth dream of Heaven! O happy land! (_pauses_.) She died!--the maiden died! O still more happy maiden who could'st die! Jacinta!

(_Jacinta returns no answer, and Lalage presently resumes._)

Again!--a similar tale Told of a beauteous dame beyond the sea! Thus speaketh one Ferdinand in the words of the play-- "She died full young"--one Bossola answers him-- "I think not so!--her infelicity Seem'd to have years too many"--Ah luckless lady! Jacinta! (_still no answer_.) Here's a far sterner story But like--oh! very like in its despair-- Of that Egyptian queen, winning so easily A thousand hearts--losing at length her own. She died. Thus endeth the history--and her maids Lean over her and weep--two gentle maids With gentle names--Eiros and Charmion! Rainbow and Dove!----Jacinta!

_Jacinta_ (_pettishly_.) Madam, what _is_ it?

_Lalage_. Wilt thou, my good Jacinta, be so kind As go down in the library and bring me The Holy Evangelists.

_Jacinta_. Pshaw! (_exit_.)

_Lalage_. If there be balm For the wounded spirit in Gilead it is there! {14} Dew in the night time of my bitter trouble Will there be found--"dew sweeter far than that Which hangs like chains of pearl on Hermon hill."

(_re-enter Jacinta, and throws a volume on the table_.)

There, ma'am's, the book. Indeed she is very troublesome. (_aside_.)

_Lalage_ (astonished.) What didst thou say Jacinta? Have I done aught To grieve thee or to vex thee?--I am sorry. For thou hast served me long and ever been Trust-worthy and respectful. (_resumes her reading_.)

_Jacinta_. I can't believe She has any more jewels--no--no--she gave me all. (_aside_.)

_Lalage_. What didst thou say, Jacinta? Now I bethink me Thou hast not spoken lately of thy wedding. How fares good Ugo?--and when is it to be? Can I do aught?--is there no farther aid Thou needest, Jacinta?

_Jacinta_. Is there no _farther_ aid? That's meant for me. (_aside_.) I'm sure, Madam, you need not Be always throwing those jewels in my teeth.

_Lalage_. Jewels! Jacinta,--now indeed, Jacinta, I thought not of the jewels.

_Jacinta_. Oh! perhaps not! But then I might have sworn it. After all, There's Ugo says the ring is only paste, For he's sure the Count Castiglione never Would have given a real diamond to such as you; And at the best I'm certain, Madam, you cannot Have use for jewels _now_. But I might have sworn it. (_exit_.)

(_Lalage bursts into tears and leans her head upon the table--after a short pause raises it_.)

_Lalage_. Poor Lalage!--and is it come to this? Thy servant maid!--but courage!--'tis but a viper Whom thou hast cherished to sting thee to the soul! (_taking up the mirror_.) Ha! here at least's a friend--too much a friend In earlier days--a friend will not deceive thee. Fair mirror and true! now tell me (for thou canst) A tale--a pretty tale--and heed thou not Though it be rife with woe. It answers me. It speaks of sunken eyes, and wasted cheeks, And Beauty long deceased--remembers me Of Joy departed--Hope, the Seraph Hope, Inurned and entombed!--now, in a tone Low, sad, and solemn, but most audible, Whispers of early grave untimely yawning For ruin'd maid. Fair mirror and true!--thou liest not! _Thou_ hast no end to gain--no heart to break-- Castiglione lied who said he loved---- Thou true--he false!--false!--false!

(_while she speaks a monk enters her apartment, and approaches unobserved_.)

_Monk_. Refuge thou hast Sweet daughter! in Heaven. Think of eternal things! Give up thy soul to penitence, and pray!

_Lalage_ (_arising hurriedly_.) I _cannot_ pray!--My soul is at war with God! The frightful sounds of merriment below Disturb my senses--go! I cannot pray-- The sweet airs from the garden worry me! Thy presence grieves me--go!--thy priestly raiment Fills me with dread--thy ebony crucifix With horror and awe!

_Monk_. Think of thy precious soul!

_Lalage_. Think of my early days!--think of my father And mother in Heaven! think of our quiet home, And the rivulet that ran before the door! Think of my little sisters!--think of them! And think of me!--think of my trusting love And confidence--his vows--my ruin--think! think! Of my unspeakable misery!----begone! Yet stay! yet stay!--what was it thou saidst of prayer And penitence? Didst thou not speak of faith And vows before the throne?

_Monk_. I did.

_Lalage_. 'Tis well. There _is_ a vow were fitting should be made-- A sacred vow, imperative, and urgent, A solemn vow!

_Monk_. Daughter, this zeal is well!

_Lalage_. Father, this zeal is any thing but well! Hast thou a crucifix fit for this thing? A crucifix whereon to register A vow--a vow. (_he hands her his own_.) Not that--Oh! no!--no!--no! (_shuddering_.) Not that! Not that!--I tell thee, holy man, Thy raiments and thy ebony cross affright me! Stand back! I have a crucifix myself,-- _I_ have a crucifix! Methinks 'twere fitting The deed--the vow--the symbol of the deed-- And the deed's register should tally, father! (_draws a cross-handled dagger and raises it on high_.) Behold the cross wherewith a vow like mine Is written in Heaven!

_Monk_. Thy words are madness, daughter! And speak a purpose unholy--thy lips are livid-- Thine eyes are wild--tempt not the wrath divine-- Pause ere too late--oh be not--be not rash! Swear not the oath--oh swear it not!

_Lalage_. 'Tis sworn!

II.

ROME. An apartment in a palace. Politian and Baldazzar, his friend.

_Baldazzar_.----Arouse thee now, Politian! Thou must not--nay indeed, indeed, thou shalt not Give way unto these humors. Be thyself! Shake off the idle fancies that beset thee, And live, for now thou diest!

_Politian_. Not so, Baldazzar, I live--I live.

_Baldazzar_. Politian, it doth grieve me To see thee thus.

_Politian_. Baldazzar, it doth grieve me To give thee cause for grief, my honored friend. Command me, sir, what wouldst thou have me do? At thy behest I will shake off that nature Which from my forefathers I did inherit, Which with my mother's milk I did imbibe, And be no more Politian, but some other. Command me, sir.

_Baldazzar_. To the field then--to the field, To the senate or the field.

_Politian_. Alas! Alas! {15} There is an imp would follow me even there! There is an imp _hath_ followed me even there! There is----what voice was that?

_Baldazzar_. I heard it not. I heard not any voice except thine own, And the echo of thine own.

_Politian_. Then I but dreamed.

_Baldazzar_. Give not thy soul to dreams: the camp--the court Befit thee--Fame awaits thee--Glory calls-- And her the trumpet-tongued thou wilt not hear In hearkening to imaginary sounds And phantom voices.

_Politian_. It _is_ a phantom voice, Didst thou not hear it _then_?

_Baldazzar_. I heard it not.

_Politian_. Thou heardst it not!----Baldazzar, speak no more To me, Politian, of thy camps and courts. Oh! I am sick, sick, sick, even unto death, Of the hollow and high sounding vanities Of the populous Earth! Bear with me yet awhile! We have been boys together--school-fellows-- And now are friends--yet shall not be so long. For in the eternal city thou shalt do me A kind and gentle office, and a Power-- A Power august, benignant, and supreme-- Shall then absolve thee of all farther duties Unto thy friend.

_Baldazzar_. Thou speakest a fearful riddle I _will_ not understand.

_Politian_. Yet now as Fate Approaches, and the hours are breathing low, The sands of Time are changed to golden grains, And dazzle me, Baldazzar. Alas! Alas! I _cannot_ die, having within my heart So keen a relish for the beautiful As hath been kindled within it. Methinks the air Is balmier now than it was wont to be-- Rich melodies are floating in the winds-- A rarer loveliness bedecks the earth-- And with a holier lustre the quiet moon Sitteth in Heaven.--Hist! hist! thou canst not say Thou hearest not _now_, Baldazzar!

_Baldazzar_. Indeed I hear not.

_Politian_. Not hear it!--listen now,--listen!--the faintest sound And yet the sweetest that ear ever heard! A lady's voice!--and sorrow in the tone! Baldazzar, it oppresses me like a spell! Again!--again!--how solemnly it falls Into my heart of hearts! that voice--that voice I surely never heard--yet it were well Had I but heard it with its thrilling tones In earlier days!

_Baldazzar_. I myself hear it now. Be still!--the voice, if I mistake not greatly, Proceeds from yonder lattice--which you may see Very plainly through the window--that lattice belongs, Does it not? unto this palace of the Duke. The singer is undoubtedly beneath The roof of his Excellency--and perhaps Is even that Alessandra of whom he spoke As the betrothed of Castiglione, His son and heir.

_Politian_. Be still!--it comes again!

_Voice_ (_very faintly_.) And is thy heart so strong As for to leave me thus Who hath loved thee so long In wealth and wo among? And is thy heart so strong As for to leave me thus? Say nay--say nay!

_Baldazzar_. The song is English, and I oft have heard it In merry England--never so plaintively-- Hist--hist! it comes again!

_Voice_ (_more loudly_.) Is it so strong As for to leave me thus, Who hath loved thee so long In wealth and wo among? And is thy heart so strong As for to leave me thus? Say nay--say nay!

_Baldazzar_. 'Tis hush'd and all is still!

_Politian_. All is _not_ still.

_Baldazzar_. Let us go down.

_Politian_. Go down, Baldazzar! go!

_Baldazzar_. The hour is growing late--the Duke awaits us,-- Thy presence is expected in the hall Below. What ails thee, Earl Politian?

_Voice_ (_distinctly_.) Who hath loved thee so long, In wealth and wo among, And is thy heart so strong? Say nay!--say nay!

_Baldazzar_. Let us descend!--'tis time. Politian, give These fancies to the wind. Remember, pray, Your bearing lately savored much of rudeness Unto the Duke. Arouse thee! and remember!