University of Virginia Library

INTRODUCTION.

Nature, and the memory of strange deeds of renown,
have flung over the valley of Mexico a charm more romantic
than is attached to many of the vales of the olden world;
for though historic association and the spell of poetry have
consecrated the borders of Leman and the laurel groves of
Tempe, and Providence has touched both with the finger
of beauty, yet does our fancy, in either, dwell upon objects
which are not so much the adjuvants of romance as of sentiment;
in both, we gather food rather for feeling than
imagination,—we live over thoughts which are generated
by memory, and our conceptions are the reproductions of
experience. But poetry has added no plenary charm, history
has cast no over-sufficient light on the haunts of Montezuma;
on the Valley of Lakes, though filled with the
hum of life, the mysteries of backward years are yet brooding;
and the marvels of human destiny are whispered to
our ears, in the sigh of every breeze,—in the rustling of
every tree which it stirs on the shore, and in the sound of
every ripple it curls up on the lake. One chapter only of its
history (and that how full of marvels!) has been written,
or preserved; the rest is a blank: a single chain of vicissitudes,—a
few consecutive links in the concatenation of
events,—have escaped; the rest is a secret, strange, captivating,
and pregnant of possibilities. This is the proper
field for romantic musings.

So, at least, thought a traveller,—or, to speak more
strictly, a rambler, whose idle wanderings from place to

place, directed by ennui or whim, did not deserve the name
of travels,—who sat, one pleasant evening of October, 183—,
on the hill of Chapoltepec, regarding the spectacle which is
disclosed from the summit of that fair promontory.

The hum of the city came faintly to his ear; the church-towers
flung their long shadows over the gardened roofs;
the wildfowl flapped the white wing over the distant sheets
of water, which stretched, in a chain, from Chalco to San
Cristobal; the shouts of Indian boatmen were heard, at a
distance, on the canal of La Viga, and the dark forms of
others, trotting along the causeway that borders it, were
seen returning to their huts among the Chinampas. Quiet
stole over the valley; the lizard crept to his hole; the bat
woke up in the ruined chambers of the viceroy's palace,
that crowns the hill of Chapoltepec, or started away from
his den among the leaves of those mossy, majestic, and
indeed colossal, cypresses, which, at its base, overshadow
the graves of Aztec kings and sultanas. At last, the vesper-bells
sounded in the city, and the sun stooped under the
western hills, leaving his rays still glittering, with such
hues as are only seen in a land of mountains, on the grand
peaks of Popocatepetl and the White Woman, the farthest
but yet the noblest summits of all in that girdle of mountain
magnificence, which seems to shut out Mexico from
the rest of the world.

As these bright tints faded into a mellow and harmonious
lustre, casting a sort of radiant obscurity over vale and
mountain, lake and steeple, the thoughts of the wanderer,
(for the romance of the spectacle and the hour had pervaded
his imagination,) crept back to the ages of antiquity,
and to those mystic races of men, the earliest of the land,
who had built their cities and dug their graves in this
Alpine paradise, now possessed by a race of whom their
world had not dreamed. He gazed and mused, until fancy
peopled the scene around him with spectral life, and his
spirit's eye was opened on spectacles never more to be

revealed to the corporeal organ. It opened on the day
when the land was a wilderness, shaking for the first time
under the foot of a stranger; and he beheld, as in a vision,
the various emigrations and irruptions into the vale, of men
born in other climates. They came like the tides of ocean,
and, as such, passed away,—like shadows, and so departed;
the history of ages was compressed into the representation
of a moment, and an hundred generations, assembled
together as one people, rushed by in successive apparitions.

First, over the distant ridges of Nochistongo, there stole,
or seemed to steal, a multitude of men, worn with travel,
yet bearing idols on their backs, in whose honour, for now
they had reached their land of promise, they built huge
pyramids, to outlive their gods and themselves; and, scattering
over the whole plain, covered it at once with cornfields
and cities. The historian (for this unknown race
brought with it science as well as religion,) sat him in the
grove, to trace the pictured annals of his age; the astronomer
ascended to the tower, to observe the heavens, and
calculate the seasons, of the new land; while the multitude,
forgetting the austere climes of their nativity, sat
down in peace and joy, under the vines and fruit-trees that
made their place of habitation so beautiful. Thus they
rested and multiplied, until the barbarians of the hills,—
the earlier races, and perhaps the aborigines of the land,—
descended to take counsel of their wisdom, and follow in
the ways of civilization. Then came a cloud, bringing a
pestilence, in whose hot breath the rivers vanished, the
lakes turned to dust and the mountains to volcanoes, the
trees crackled and fell as before a conflagration, and men
lay scorched with the leaves, as thick and as dead, on the
plain; and the few who had strength to fly, betook themselves
to the hills and the seaside, to forget their miseries
and their arts, and become barbarians.—Thus began, and
thus ended, in Mexico, the race of Toltecs, the first and the
most civilized of which Mexican hieroglyphics,—the legacy

of this buried people to their successors,—have preserved
the memory.

But the rains fell at last, the lakes filled, the forests
grew; and other tribes,—the Chechemecs and Acolhuacans,
with others, many in number and strangers to each other,—
coming from the same distant North, but bringing not the
civilization of the first pilgrims, sat in their seats, and mingling
together into one people, began, at last, after long
seasons of barbarism, to emerge from the gloom of ignorance,
and acquire the arts, and understand the destinies of
man.

To these came, by the same trodden path, a herd of men,
ruder than any who had yet visited the southern valleys,—
Aztecs in family, but called by their neighbours and foes,
Nahuatlacas, or People of the Lakes,—consisting of many
tribes, the chief of which was that which bore upon a throne
of bulrushes an image of the god Mexitli, the Destroyer,
from whom, in its days of grandeur, it took its name. From
this crew of savages, the most benighted and blood-thirsty,
and, at first, the feeblest of all,—so base that history presents
them as the only nation of bondmen known to the
region of Anahuac, and so sordid that, in the festivals of
religion, they could provide for their deity only the poor
offering of a knife and flower,—fated now to fight the battles
of their task-masters, and now condemned to knead the
bread of independence from the fetid plants and foul reptiles
of the lake;—from this herd of barbarians, grew, as
it seemed, in a moment's space, the vast, the powerful, and,
in many respects, the magnificent empire of the Montezumas.
In his mind's eye, the stranger could perceive the
salt Tezcuco, restored to its ancient limits, beating again
upon the porphyry hill on which he sat, and the City of the
Island, with her hundred temples and her thousand towers,
rising from the shadows, and heaving again with the impulses
of nascent civilization. It was at this moment, when
the travail of centuries was about to be recompensed, when

the carved statue, the work of many successive Pygmalions,
was beginning to breathe the breath, and feel the instincts
of moral animation, that a mysterious destiny trampled
upon the little spark, and crushed to atoms the body it was
warming. From the eastern hills came the voice of the
Old World—the sound of the battle-trumpet; the smoke of
artillery rolled over the lake; and, in a moment more, the
shout of conquest and glory was answered by the groan
of a dying nation.

As this revery ended in the brain of the stranger, and
the conqueror and the captive of the vision vanished away
together, he began to contrast in his mind the past condition
of the new world with the present, and particularly of those
two portions, which, at the time of their invasion, had out-lived
the barbarism of nature, and were teeming with the
evidences of incipient greatness. As for this fair valley of
Mexico, there was scarcely an object either of beauty or
utility, the creation of Christian wants or Christian taste,
to be seen, for which his memory could not trace a rival, or
superior, which existed in the day of paganism. The maize
fields, the maguey plantations, the orchards and flower-gardens,
that beautify the plains and sweeping slopes,—
these were here, long ages ago, with the many villages that
glisten among them,—all indeed but the white church and
steeple; the lakes which are now noisome pools,—were
they not lovelier when they covered the pestilential fens,
and when the rose-garden floated over their blue surface?
The long rows of trees marking the line of the great Calzadas,
or causeways, the approaches to Mezico, but poorly
supply the place of aboriginal groves, the haunts of the doe
and the centzontli, while the calzadas themselves, stretching
along over bog and morass, have entirely lost the charm
they possessed, when washed, on either side, by rolling
surges; even the aqueducts, though they sprang not from
arch to arch, over the valley, as at the present time, were
not wanting; and where the church spires of the metropolis

pierce the heaven, the sacred tabernacles of the gods rose
from the summits of pyramids. The changes in the physical
spectacle among the valleys of Peru were perhaps not
much greater; but what happy mutations in the character
and condition of man, what advance of knowledge and
virtue, had repaid the havoc and horror which were let
loose, three hundred years ago, on the lands of Montezuma
and the Incas? The question was one to which the rambler
could not conceive an answer without pain.

`The ways of Providence,' he murmured, `are indeed
inscrutable; the designs of Him who layeth the cornerstone
and buildeth up the fabric of destiny, unfathomable.
Two mighty empires,—the only states which seemed to be
leading the new world to civilization,—were broken, and at
an expense of millions of lives, barbarously destroyed; and
for what purpose? to what good end? How much better or
happier are the present races of Peru and Mexico, than the
past? Hope speaks in the breath of fancy—time may, perhaps,
teach us the lesson of mystery; and these magnificent
climates, now given up, a second time, to the sway of
man in his darkest mood,—to civilized savages and Christian
pagans,—may be made the seats of peace and wisdom;
and perhaps, if mankind should again descend into the
gloom of the middle ages, their inhabitants will preserve,
as did the more barbarous nations in all previous retrogressions,
the brands from which to rekindle the torches of
knowledge, and thus be made the engines of the reclamation
of a world.'

The traveller muttered the conclusion of his speculations
aloud, and, insensibly to himself, in the Spanish tongue,
totally unconscious of the presence of a second person,
until made aware of it by a voice exclaiming suddenly, as
if in answer, and in the same language—

“Right! very right! pecador de mi! sinner that I am,
that I should not have thought it, for the honour of God
and my country!”

The voice was sharp, abrupt, and eager, but very quavering.
The stranger turned, and perceived that the words
came from a man dressed in a long loose surtout or gown
of black texture, none of the newest, with a hat of Manilla
grass, umbrageous as an oak-top. He looked old and infirm;
his person was very meager; his cheeks were of a
mahogany hue, and hollow, and the little hair that stirred
over them in the evening breeze, was of a sable silvered:
his eyes were large, restless, exceedingly bright, and irascible.
He carried swinging in his hand, without seeming to
use it much, (for, in truth, his gait was too irregular and
capricious to admit such support,) a staff, to the head of
which was tied a bunch of flowers; and he bore under his
arm, as they seemed to the unpractised eye of the observer,
a bundle of books, a cluster of veritable quartos, so antique
and worn, that the string knotted round each, seemed
necessary to keep together its dilapidated pages. The
whole air of the man was unique, but not mean; and the
traveller did not doubt, at the first glance, that he belonged
to some inferior order of ecclesiastics, and was perhaps the
curate of a neighbouring village.

“Right! you have said the truth!” he continued, regarding
the traveller eagerly, and, as the latter thought, with
profound veneration; “I must speak with you, very learned
stranger, for I perceive you are a philosopher. Very great
thanks to you! may you live a thousand years! In a single
word, you have revealed the secret that has been the enigma
of a long life, made good the justice of heaven, and defended
the fame of my country. God be thanked! I am
grateful to your wisdom: you speak like a saint: you are
a philosopher!”

The traveller stared with surprise on the speaker; but
though thus moved by the abruptness of the address, and
somewhat inclined to doubt its seriousness, there was something
so unusual in the mode and quality of the compliment
as to mollify any indignation which he might have felt rising
in his breast.

“Father,” said he, “reverend father—for I perceive you
are one of the clergy—”

“The poor licentiate, Cristobal Johualicahuatzin, curate
of the parish of San Pablo de Chinchaluca,” interrupted the
ecclesiastic meekly, and in fact with the greatest humility.

“Then, indeed, very excellent and worthy father Cristobal,”
resumed the stranger, courteously, “though I do not
pretend to understand you—”

The padre raised his head; his meekness vanished; he
eyed the traveller with a sharp and indignant frown:

“Gachupin!” he cried; “you are a man with two
souls: you are wise and you are foolish, and you speak
bad Spanish!—Why do you insult me?”

The stranger stared at his new acquaintance with fresh
amazement.

“Insult you, father!” he exclaimed. “I declare to you,
I have, this moment, woke out of a revery; and I scarcely
know what you have said or what I have answered, or what
you are saying and what I am answering. If I have offended
you, I ask your pardon.”

“Enough! right!” said the curate, with an air of satisfaction;
“you are a philosopher; you are right. You were
in a revery; you have done me no wrong. I have intruded
upon your musings,—I beg your pardon. I thank
you very heartily. You have instructed my ignorance, and
appeased my repining; you have taught me the answer to
a vast and painful riddle; and now I perceive why Providence
hath given over my native land to seeming ruin, and
permitted it to become a place of dust and sand, of dry-rot
and death. The day of darkness shall come again,—it is
coming; man merges again into gloom, and now we fall
into the age of stone, when the hearts of men shall be as
flint. This then shall be the valley of resuscitation, after
it is first plenus ossibus, full of skeletons, an ossuary—a
place of moral ossification. Here, then, shall the wind blow,
the voice sound, the spirit move, the bone unite to his bone,

the sinew come with the flesh, and light and knowledge,
animating the mass into an army, send it forth to conquer
the world;—not as an army of flesh, with drum and trump,
sword and spear, banner and cannon, to kill and destroy, to
ravage and depopulate; but as a phalanx of angels, with
healing on their wings, to harmonize and enlighten, to
pacify and adorn. Yes, you have taught me this, excellent
sage! and you shall know my gratitude: for great joy is it
to the child of Moteuczoma, to know there shall be an end
to this desolation, this anarchy, this horror!

Came I into the world to watch in sorrow and fear for ever?
Hijo mio! give me thy hand; I love thee. The vale of
Anahuac is not deformed for nothing; Christian man has
ruined it, but not for a long season!”

The Cura delivered this rhapsody with extreme animation;
his eye kindled, he spoke with a rapid and confused
vehemence; and the stranger began to doubt the stability
of his understanding. He flung his bundle to the earth,
and grasped the hand of the philosopher, who, until this
moment, was ignorant of the depth of his own wisdom.
While still in perplexity, unable to comprehend the strange
character, or indeed the strange fancies to which he had
given tongue, the padre looked around him with complacency
on the scene, over which a tropical moon was rising to
replace the luminary of day, and continued, with a gravity
which puzzled as much as did his late vivacity,—

“It is very true; I regret it no longer, but it cannot be
denied: The cutting through yonder hill of Nochistongo
has given the last blow in a system of devastation; the
canal of Huehuetoca has emptied the golden pitcher of
Moteuczoma. It has converted the valley into a desert, and
will depopulate it.—Men cannot live upon salt.”

“A desert, father!”

“Hijo mio! do you pretend to deny it?” cried the Cura,

picking up his bundle, and thumping it with energy. “I
aver, and I will prove it to your satisfaction, out of these
books, which—But hold! Are you a spy? will you betray
me? No; you are not of Mexico: the cameo on your
breast bears the device of stars, the symbol of intellectual
as well as political independence. I reverence that flag; I
saw it, when your envoy, attacked by an infuriated mob, in
his house in yonder very city, (I stole there in spite of
them!) sprang upon the balcony, and waved it abroad in
the street. Frenzy vanished at the sight: it was the banner
of man's friend!—No! you are no fool with a free arm,
a licentious tongue, and a soul in chains. Therefore, you
shall look into these pages, concealed for years from the
jealousy of misconstruction, and the penal fires of intolerance;
and they shall convince you, that this hollow of the
mountain, as it came from the hands of God, and as it was
occupied by the children of nature, was the loveliest of all
the vales of the earth; and that, since Christian man has
laid upon it his innovating finger, its beauty has vanished,
its charm decayed; and it has become a place fitting only
for a den of thieves, a refuge for the snake and the water-newt,
the wild-hog and the vulture!”

“To my mind, father,” said the American, no longer
amazed at the extravagant expressions of the ecclesiastic,
for he was persuaded his wits were disordered, “to my mind,
it is still the most charming of valleys; and were it not that
the folly and madness of its inhabitants, the contemptible
ambition of its rulers, and the servile supineness of its people,—in
fine, the general disorganization of all its elements,
both social and political, have made it a sort of Pandemonium,—a
spot wherein splendour and grandeur (at least the
possibilities and rudiments of grandeur,) are mixed with all
the causes of decline and perdition, I should be fain to dream
away my life on the borders of its blue lakes, and under the
shadow of its volcanic barriers.”

“True, true, true! you have said it!” replied the curate,

eagerly; “the ambition of public men; the feverish servility
of the people, forgetful of themselves, of their own rights
and interests, and ever anxious to yoke themselves to the
cars of demagogues, to the wires wherewith they may be
worked as puppets, and giving their blood to aggrandize
these—the natural enemies of order and justice, of reason
and tranquillity; is not this enough to demoralize and
destroy? What people is like mine? Wo for us! The
bondmen of the old world wake from sleep and live, while
we, in the blessed light of sunshine, wrap the mantle round
our eyes, sleep, and perish! Revolution after revolution,
frenzy after frenzy! and what do we gain? By revolution,
other nations are liberated, but we, by revolution, are enslaved.
`Nil medium est'—is there no happy mean?”

“It is true,” said the American. “But let us not speak
of this: it is galling to be able to inveigh against folly,
without possessing the medicament for its cure.”

“Thou art an American of the North,” said the Cura;
“thy people are wise, thy rulers are servants, and you are
happy! Why, then, art thou here? I thought thee a sage,
but, I perceive, thou hast the rashness of youth. Art thou
here to learn to despise thine own institutions? Why dost
thou remain? the death-wind comes from the southern
lakes”—(in fact, at this moment, the breeze from the south,
rising with the moon, brought with it a mephitic odour, the
effluvium of a bog, famous, even in Aztec days, as the
breath of pestilence;) “the death-wind breathes on thee:
even as this will infect thy blood, when it has entered into
thy nostrils, disordering thy body, until thou learnest to
loathe all that seems to thee now, in this scenery, to be so
goodly and fair; so will the gusts of anarchy, rising from
a distempered republic, disease thy imagination, until thou
comest to be disgusted with the yet untainted excellence of
thine own institutions, because thou perceivest the evils of
their perversion. Arise, and begone; remain no longer
with us; leave this land, and bear with thee to thine own,

these volumes,—the poor remnants of another Sibylline
library,—which will teach thee to appreciate and preserve,
even as thy soul's ransom, the pure and admirable frame
of government, which a beneficent power has suffered you
to enjoy.”

“And what, then, are these?” demanded the traveller,
curiously, laying his hand on the bundle, “which can teach
Americans to admire the beauty of a republic, and yet are
not given to thine own countrymen?”

“They are,” said the curate, “the fruits of years of reflection
and toil, of deep research and profound speculation.
They contain a history of Mexico, which, when they were
perfect, that is, before my countrymen,” (and here the Cura
began to whisper, and look about him in alarm, as if dreading
the approach of listeners,)—“before my countrymen
were taught to fear them and to destroy, contained the
chronicles of the land, from the time that the Toltecas were
exiled from Huehuetapallan, more than twelve hundred
years ago, down to the moment when Augustin climbed up
to the throne, which Hidalgo tore from the Gachupins. A
history wherein,” continued the padre, with great complacency,
“I flatter myself, though Mexicans have found much
to detest, Americans will discover somewhat to approve.”

“What is it,” said the rambler, “which your people have
found so objectionable?”

“Listen,” said the padre, “and you shall be informed.
In me,”—here he paused, and surveyed his acquaintance
with as much majesty as he could infuse into his wasted
figure and hollow countenance,—“in me you behold a
descendant of Moteuczoma Xocojotzin.”

“Moteuczoma what?” exclaimed the traveller.

“Are you so ignorant, then?” demanded the padre, in a
heat, “that you must be told who was Moteuczoma Xocojotzin,
that is, the younger,—the second of that name who
reigned over Mexico?—the very magnificent and unfortunate
emperor so basely decoyed into captivity, so ruthlessly
oppressed, and, as I may say, by a figure of speech, (for, literally,

it is not true) so truculently slain, by the illustrious
Don Hernan Cortes, the conqueror of Mexico? Perhaps you
are also ignorant of the great names of Tizoc, of Xocotzin,
and of Ixtlilxochitl?”

“I have no doubt,” replied the American, with courteous
humility, “that in the histories of Mexico, which I have
ever delighted to read,—in the books of De Solis, of Clavigero,
of Bernal Diaz del Castillo, and especially in that of
Dr. Robertson,—I have met these illustrious names; but
you must allow, that, to one ignorant of the language, and
of the mode of pronouncing such conglomerated grunts, it
must be extremely difficult, if not wholly impossible, to
rivet them in the memory.”

The curate snatched up his bundle, and surveyed the
stranger with a look in which it was hard to tell whether
anger or contempt bore the greater sway.

“De Solis! Diaz! Clavigero! Robertson!” he at last exclaimed,
irefully. “Basta! demasiado! enough—too much!
What a niño, a little child, a pobre Yankee, have I fallen
upon! That I should waste my words on a man who studies
Mexican history out of the books of these jolterheads!”

The padre was about to depart, without bestowing another
word on the offender. The American was amused
at the ready transition of the curate from deep reverence to
the most unbounded contempt. He was persuaded the wits
of the poor father were unsettled, and felt there was the
greater need to humour and appease him: and, besides, he
was curious to discover what would be the end of the adventure.

“Father,” said he, with composure, “before you condemn
me for acquiring my little knowledge from these
books, you should put it in my power to read better.”—
The padre looked back.—“What information should be
expected from incompetent writers? from jolterheads?
When I have perused the histories of father Cristobal, it
will then be my fault, if I am found ignorant of the names
of his imperial ancestors.”

“Ay de mi!” said the curate, striking his forehead;
“why did I not think of that before? Santos santisimos!
I am not so quick-witted as I was before. I could forgive
you more readily, had you not named to me that infidel
Scotchman, who calls the superb Moteuczoma a savage, and
all the Tlatoam, the great princes, and princesses, the people
and all, barbarians! But what more could you expect
of a heretic? I forgive you, my son—you are a Christian?”

“A Christian, father; but not of the Catholic faith.”

“You will be damned!” said the curate, hastily.

“A point of mere creed, perhaps I should say, mere form—”

“Say nothing about it; form or creed, ceremony or canon,
you are in the way to be lost. Open your ears, unbind
your eyes—hear, see, and believe!—Poor, miserable darkened
creature! how can your heretical understanding be
made to conceive and profit by the great principles of philosophy,
when it is blind to the truths of religion?”

“Reverend padre,” said the traveller, drily, “my people
are a people of heretics, and yours of Catholic believers.
Which has better understood, or better practised, the principles
of the philosophy you affect to admire?”

The padre smote his forehead a second time: “The sneer
is, in this case, just! The sin of the enlightened is greater
than the crime of the ignorant, and so is the punishment:
the chosen people of God were chastised with frequent
bondage, and finally with expatriation and entire dispersion,
for crimes, which, in heathen nations, were punished only
with wars and famine. But let us not waste time in argument:
as babes may be made the organs of wisdom, so
may heretics be suffered as the instruments of worldly benefaction.
What thou sayest, is true; unbelievers as ye are,
ye will comprehend and be instructed by truths, which, in
this land, would be misconceived and opposed; and from
you may the knowledge you gain, be reflected back on my
own people. In these books, which I commit to you for a
great purpose, you will learn who were those worthies of
whom I spoke. You will perceive how Ixtlilxochitl, the

king of Tezcuco, was descended from the house that gave
birth to Moteuczoma. This illustrious name inherit I from
my mother. With its glory, it has conferred the penalty to
be suspected, opposed, and trampled. Three historians of
the name, my ancestors, have already written in vain;
jealousy has locked up their works in darkness, in the veil
of manuscript; the privilege of chronicling and perverting
the history of the land is permitted only to Spaniards, to
strangers, to Gachupins. Twenty years since, and more,
the books I composed, wherein the truth was told, and the
injustice of Spanish writers made manifest, were condemned
by ignorance and bigotry to such flames as consumed, at
Tezcuco, all the native chronicles of Anahuac. But what
was written in my books, was also recorded in the brain;
fire could not be put to my memory. Twenty years of
secret labour have repaired the loss. Behold! here is my
history; I give it to you.—My enemies must be content
with the ashes!”

The padre rubbed his hands with exultation, as the
traveller surveyed the bundle.

“Why should you fear a similar fate for these volumes,
now?” said the latter. “Times are changed.”

“The times, but not the people. Hide them, let no man
see them; or the pile will be kindled again; all will be lost
—I cannot repair the loss a second time, for now I am old!
Five years have I borne them with me, night and day, seeking
for some one cunning and faithful, wise like thyself, to
whom to commit them. I have found thee; thou art the
man; I am satisfied: buen provecho, much good may they
do you,—not you only, but your people,—not your people
alone, but the world! Affection for country is love of mankind;
true patriotism is philanthropy.—Five years have I
borne them with me, by night and by day.”

“Really, I think that this betokened no great fear for
their safety.”

The padre laughed. “Though the Gachupin and the

bigot would rob me of a Spanish dissertation, yet neither
would envy me the possession of a few rolls of hieroglyphics.”

As he spoke, he knelt upon the ground, untied the string
that secured one of the apparent volumes, and, beginning to
unfold the MS., as one would a very nicely secured traveller's
map, displayed, in the moonlight, a huge sheet of maguey
paper, emblazoned in gaudy colours with all kinds of
inexplicable devices. As he exhibited his treasure, he looked
up for approbation to the American. The `pobre Yankee'
surveyed him with a humorous look:

“Father,” said he, “you have succeeded to admiration,
under this goodly disguise, not only in concealing your wisdom
from the penetration of your countrymen, but, as I
think, the whole world.”

The padre raised his finger to his nose very significantly,
saying, with a chuckle of delight,—the delight of a diseased
brain in the success of its cunning,—

“This time, I knew I should throw dust in their eyes,
even though they might demand, for their satisfaction, to
look into my work. You perceive, that this volume, done
up after the true manner of ancient Mexican books, unrols
from either end. The first pages, and the last, of each
volume, contain duplicates of the first and the last chapters,
done in Mexican characters: the rest is in Spanish, and, I
flatter myself, in very choice Spanish. Hoc ego rectè—I
knew what I was about.—One does not smuggle diamonds
in sausages, without stuffing in some of the minced meat.—
Here is the jewel!”

So saying, and spreading the sheet at its full length, so
as to discover his hidden records, the padre rose to his feet,
and began to dance about with exultation.

“And what am I to do with these volumes?” said the
traveller, after pondering awhile over the manuscripts.

“What are you to do with them? Dios mio! are you
so stupid? Take them, hide them in your bosom, as you
would the soul of some friend you were smuggling into

paradise. Leave this land forthwith, on any pretence; bear
them with you; translate them into your own tongue, and
let them be given to the world. If they do not, after they
have received the seal of your approbation, make their way
back to this land, they will, at least, serve some few of the
many objects, for which they were written: they will set
the character of my great ancestors in its true light, and
teach the world to think justly of the unfortunate people
from whom I have the honour to be descended; and, in
addition, they will open the eyes of men to some of the
specks of barbarism which yet sully their own foreheads.
As for my countrymen, were it even possible they could be
persuaded to spare these pages, and to read them, they
would read them in vain. They are a thousand years
removed from civilization, and the wisdom of this book
would be to them as folly. The barbaric romance which
loiters about the brains even of European nations, is the
pith and medulla of a Mexican head. The poetry of bloodshed,
the sentiment of renown,—the first and last passion,
and the true test, of the savage state,—are not yet removed
from us. We are not yet civilized up to the point of seeing
that reason reprobates, human happiness denounces, and
God abhors, the splendour of contention. Your own people
—the happiest and most favoured of modern days,—are,
perhaps, not so backward.”

The heretic sighed.—The padre went on, and with the
smile of generosity,—tying, at the same time, the string
that secured the volume, and knotting it again into the bundle.

“The profits which may accrue from the publication,
I freely make over to you, as some recompense for the
trouble of translation, and the danger you run in assuming
the custody. Danger, I say,—heaven forbid I should not
acquaint you, that the discovery of these volumes on your
person, besides insuring their speedy and irretrievable destruction,
will expose you to punishment, perhaps to the
flames which will be kindled for them; and this the more
readily, that you are an unbeliever,—Pray, my son, listen

to me; suffer me to convert you. Alas! you shake your
head!—What a pity, I am compelled to entrust this great
commission to a man who refuses to be a Christian!”

“Buen padre, let us say nothing about that: judge me
not by the creed I profess, but by the acts I perform. Let
us despatch this business: the moon is bright, but the air is
raw and unwholesome. I would willingly do your bidding,
not doubting that the world will be greatly advantaged
thereby. But, father, here is the difficulty:—To do justice
to your composition, I should, myself, possess the skill of
an author; but, really, I feel my incompetency—I am no
bookmaker.”

“And am I?” said the descendant of Moteuczoma, indignantly;
“I am an historian!”

“I crave your pardon;—but I am not.”

“And who said you were?” demanded the historian, with
contempt. “Do I expect of you the qualifications or the
labours of an historian? Do I ask you to write a book? to
rake for records in dusty closets and wormy shelves? to
decypher crabbed hands and mouldered prints? to wade
through the fathers of stupidity, until your brain turns to
dough, and your eyes to pots of glue? to gather materials
with the labour of a pearl-diver, and then to digest and arrange,
to methodise and elucidate, with the patient martyrdom
of an almanac-maker? Who asks you this? Do I look
for a long head, an inspired brain? a wit, a genius? Ni por
sueño,—by no means. I ask you to read and render,—to
translate;—to do the tailor's office, and make my work a
new coat! Any one can do this!”

“Father,” said the traveller, “your arguments are unanswerable;
do me the favour to send, or to bring, your
production to the city, to the Calle—”

“Send! bring! Se burla vm.?” cried the padre, looking
aghast. “Do you want to ruin me? Know, that by the
sentence of the archbishop and the command of the viceroy,
I am interdicted from the city: and know that I would
sooner put my soul into the keeping of a parrot, than my
books into the hands of a messenger!”

“A viceroy, did you say, father? It has been many long
years since a king's ape has played his delegated antics in
Mexico. To please you, however, I will bear the sacred treasure
in my own hands; earnestly desiring you, notwithstanding
your fears, which are now groundless, and the prohibition,
which must be at this period invalid, to do me the favour of a
visit, in person, as soon as may suit your conveniency; inasmuch
as there are many things I esteem needful to be—”

The padre had seized on the hands of the speaker, in
testimony of his delight; but before the latter had concluded
his discourse, he was interrupted by a voice at a distance,
calling, as it seemed, on the Cura; for this worthy,
starting with fear, and listening a moment, suddenly took
to his heels, and before the traveller could give vent to his
surprise, was hidden among the shadows of the cypress
trees.

“May I die,” said the philosopher, in no little embarrassment,
“but this lunatic Cura has left me to lug away his
lucubrations,—his hieroglyphical infants, for which I am to
make new coats,—on my own shoulders! Well! I can but
carry them to the city, and seek some means of restoring
them to his friends, or commit them to a more fitting
depository. Pray heaven I meet no drunken Indian, or
debauched soldado on my way.”—

By great good fortune, he was able, in a few days, with
the assistance of a friendly Mexican, to solve the secret of
the padre's confidence.

“You have seen him then?” said the excellent Señor
Don Andres Santa-Maria de Arcaboba, laughing heartily at
the grave earnestness with which his heretical friend inquired
after the eccentric padre. “He offered you his hieroglyphics?
Ah, I perceive! No man passes scot-free the
crazy Cura. Ever his books in his hand, much praise with
the offer, and seven times seven maledictions when you
refuse his bantlings.”

“He is crazy, then?”

“Demonios! were you long finding it out? Ever since

the old archbishop burned his first heathenish volumes, he
has done naught but—”

“I beg your pardon.—Burn his books?—the old archbishop?—Pray
enlighten me a little on the subject of the
good father's history.

“'Tis done in a moment,” said Don Andres; “the only
wonder is that he did not himself give you the story; that
being, commonly, the prelude to his petition. The mother
of Don Cristobal was an Indian damisela, delighting in the
euphonical cognomen of Ixtlilxochitl; a name, which, I am
told, belonged to some old pagan king or other, the Lord
knows who—as for myself, I know nothing about it. But
this set the padre mad, or, what's the same thing, it made
him an historian.—'Tis a silly thing to trouble one's noddle
about the concerns of our granddads: let them sleep! rest
to their bones—Asi sea!—They made him a licenciado,
and then Cura of some hacienda or other, out among the
hills—I know nothing about it. He wrote a book, in which
he proved that the old heathen Montezuma, the great Cacique,
was a saint, and Hernan Cortes, who conquered the land, a
sinner. It may be so—Quien sabe? who knows? who
cares? This was before the revolution—that is, before the
first: (we have had five hundred since;—I never counted
them.) Somehow, the viceroy Vanegas took a dislike to
the book, and so did the archbishop. They set their heads
together, got the good old fathers of the Brotherhood—
(We have no Brotherhood now,—neither religious nor social:
every man is his own brother, as the king says in the English
play.—Did you ever read Calderon?) They got the
old fathers to vote it dangerous,—I suppose, because they
did not understand it. So they burned it, and commanded
Johualicahuatzin—(that's another Indian king—so he calls
himself.—His father was the Señor Marhojo, a creole, a
lieutenant in the viceroy's horse, a very worthy Christian,
who was hanged somewhere, for sedition. But Cristobal
writes after his mother's name, as being more royal.)—
What was I saying? Oh, yes!—They ordered the licentiate

back to his hacienda. Then, what became of him, the
lord knows; I don't.—Then came Hidalgo, the valiant
priest of Dolores, with his raggamuffin patriots,—(I don't
mean any reflection, being a patriot myself, though no fighter;
but Hidalgo had a horrid crew about him!) Where
was I? Oh, ay,—Hidalgo came to knock the city about
our ears; and Cristobal, being seized with a fit of bloodthirstiness,
joins me the gang. They say, he came with an
old sabre of flint—I don't know the name; it belonged to
some king in the family. Then Calleja, whom they made
viceroy—the devil confound him! (He cut my uncle's throat,
with some fourteen thousand others, at Guanaxuato, one day,
to save powder.)—Calleja chased Hidalgo to Aculco, and,
there, he beat him. Cristobal's brother (he had a brother,
a very fine young fellow, a patriot major;) was killed at
Cristobal's side; Cristobal was knocked on the head,—
somebody said, with his own royal weapon:—I don't know,
—where's the difference? They broke his skull, and took
him prisoner. Y pues? what then? Being a notorious
crazy man, and very savagely mauled, they did not hang
him. Ever since, he has been madder than ever. He
writes histories, and, to save them from viceroys, (he takes
all our presidents for viceroys: to my mind, they are; but
that's nothing. You know Bustamente? a mighty great
man: Santa Aña will beat him—but don't say so!) Well,
to save his books from the president-viceroys, or viceroy-presidents,
Cristobal offers them to every body he meets,
with a petition to take them over the seas and publish them.
—That's all!—The Indians at the hacienda love him, and
take care of him.—Ha, ha! he caught you, did he? What
did he say?

“He gave me his books,” said the traveller.

“Fuego! you took them? Ha, ha! now will the poor
padre die happy!”

“I will return them to his relations.”

“Relations! they are all in heaven; he is the last of the
Ixtlilxochitls! Ha, ha! I beg your pardon, amigo mio! I

beg your pardon; but if you offer them to any body, never
believe me, but folks will take you for Cristobal the Second,
el segundo maniatico, or some one he has hired to do the
work of donation. Ha, ha! cielo mio, pity me! say nothing
about it;—burn them.”

“At least, let us look over them.”

“Olla podrida! look over a beggar's back! a pedler's
sack! or a dictionary!—Any thing reasonable. Burn them;
or take them to America, to your North, and deposit them
in a museum, as the commonplace books of Montezuma.
Vamos; que me manda vm.? will you ride to the Alameda?
—Pobre Cristobal! he will die happy.”—

The traveller returned to his own land: he bore with him
the books of Cristobal. Twenty times did he essay to make
examination of their contents, and twenty times did he yawn,
in mental abandonment, over their chaotic pages,—not, indeed,
that they seemed so very incoherent in style and manner,
but because the cautious historian, as it seemed, with a
madman's subtlety, had hit upon the device of so scattering
and confusing the pages, that it was next to impossible that
any one, after reading the first, should discover the clue to
the second. Each volume, as has been hinted, consisted of
a single great sheet, folded up in the manner of a pocket
map; both sides were very carefully written over, the paragraphs
clustered in masses or pages, but without numbers;
and, but for the occurrence, here and there, of pages of hideous
hieroglyphics, such as were never seen in a Christian
book, the whole did not seem unlike to a printed sheet, before
it is carried to the binder. The task of collating and
methodising the disjointed portions, required, in the words
of the padre himself, the devotedness which he had figured
as `the patient martyrdom of an almanac-maker;' it was
entirely too much for the traveller. He laid the riddle aside
for future investigation: but Cristobal was not forgotten.

A year afterwards, in reading a Mexican gazette, which
had fallen into his hands, his eye wandered to the little corner
which appeals so placidly to the feelings of the contemplative,—the

place of obituaries. His attention was instantly
captivated by a name in larger characters than the others.
Was it? could it be? Pobre Cristobal!—`El Licenciado
Cristobal Santiago Marhojo y Ixtlilxochitl, Cura de la Hacienda
de Chinchaluca, ordinariamente llamado El Maniatico
Historiador'—. The same! But what is this? the
common immortality of a long paragraph?—The heretic
rubbed his eyes. “Several MSS., historical memoirs,
relating to the earlier ages of the Aztec monarchy, the
work of his own hand, have been discovered; and a lucky
accident revealing the expedient which he adopted to render
them illegible, or at least inexplicable to common readers,
they have been found to be in all respects sane and coherent,
the work less of a madman than an eccentric but profound
scholar. The pages are arranged like those in the form of
the printer; and, being cut by a knife without unfolding—”
The heretic started up, and drew forth the long-neglected
tomes.—“It is said that a North American, a year ago,
received, and carried away, many of the volumes, which
the eccentric clergyman was accustomed to offer to strangers.
It is hoped, if this should meet his eye—” `Enough!
if thy work be at all readable, departed padre, it shall have
the new coat!'

Great was the surprise of the philosopher, when having,
at the suggestion of the gazetteer, cut the folded sheet of a
volume, he beheld the chaos of history reduced to order.
There they were, the annals of Aztecs and Toltecs, of Chechemecs
and Chiapanecs, and a thousand other Ecs, from
the death of Nezahualcojotl, the imperial poet, up to the
confusion of tongues. “Here's a nut for the philosophers,”
quoth the traveller; “but now for a peep at Montezuma!—
Poor Cristobal! what a wonderful big book you have made
of it!”

How many days and nights were given to the examination
of the history, we do not think fit to record. It is
enough, that the inheritor of this treasure discovered with

satisfaction, that, if Cristobal had been mad, he had
been mad after a rule,—dramatically so: he was sane in
the right places. A thousand eccentricities were, indeed,
imbodied in his work, the result, doubtless, of a single
aberration, in which he persuaded himself that men were
yet barbarians, and that civilization, even to the foremost
of nations, was yet unknown. Under the influence of this
conceit, he was constantly betrayed, for he was a philanthropist,
into sharp animadversion upon popular morals; and
he stigmatized as vices of the most brutal character, many
of those human peculiarities which the world has consented
to esteem the highest virtues. In other respects, he was
sane, somewhat judicious, and, as far as could be expected
in an historian, a teller of the truth.

His work consisted of several divisions; it was, in fact,
a series of annals, relating to different epochs. Of these,
that volume which treated of the Conquest of Mexico, had
the most charms for the traveller; and he thought it would
possess the most interest for the world. It was this which
he determined to introduce to the public. It differed greatly
from common histories in one particular; it descended to
minutiæ of personal adventure, and was, indeed, as much
a general memoir of the great Conquistadores as a history
of the fall of Tenochtitlan. Of this the writer was himself
sensible; the running title of the division, as recorded in his
own hand, being, “Una Cronica de la Conquista de Megico,
y Historia verdadera de los Conquistadores, particularmente
de esos Caballeros á quienes descuidaron celebrar
los Escritores Antiguos. Por Cristobal Johualicahuatzin
Santiago Marhojo y Ixtlilxochitl;”—that is to say, `A
Chronicle of the Conquest of Mexico, and true History of
the Conquerors, especially of those Cavaliers who were
neglected by the ancient authors.'

The first portion of this,—for there were several,—treated
of those events which occurred between the departure of
the first army of invasion from Cuba, and its expulsion from

Mexico, and this portion the executor of Cristobal resolved
to present to the world.

In pursuance of this resolution, he instituted a long and
laborious comparison of the MS. with the most authentic
printed histories; the result of which was a conviction,
(which we beg the reader constantly to bear in mind,)
that, although the good padre had introduced, and upon
authority which his editor could not discover, the characters
of certain worthy cavaliers, of whom he had never heard,
the relation, in all other particulars, corresponded precisely
with the narratives of the most esteemed writers. The
events—the great and the minute alike—of the whole campaign
were, in point of fact, identical with those chronicled
by the best authors; and in no way did this history
differ from others, except in the introduction of the above-mentioned
forgotten or neglected cavaliers, such as the
knight of Calavar and his faithful esquire, and in the
recital of events strictly personal to them. It is true, the
narrative was more diffuse, perhaps we should say, verbose;
but Cristobal lived in an age of amplification. It was here
alone that the traveller felt himself bound to take liberties
with the original; for though the march of mind and the
general augmentation of ideas, have made prolixity a common
characteristic of each man in his own person, they
have not made him more tolerant of it in another. He
shaved, therefore, and he cut, he amputated and he compressed;
and he felt the joy of an editor, when exercising
the hydraulic press of the mind.

This will be excused in him. He expunged as much of
the philosophy as he could. The few principles at variance
with worldly propensities, which he left in the book, must
be referred to another responsibility.—The hallucinations
of philanthropy are, at the worst, harmless.

For the title adopted in this, the initial chronicle, he confesses
himself answerable. The peculiar appetites of the
literary community, the result of intellectual dyspepsia,

require and justify empiricism in nomenclature. A good
name is sugar and sweetmeats to a bad book. If it should
be objected, that he has called the Historia Verdadera a
romance, let it be remembered, that the world likes romance
better than truth, as the booksellers can testify; and that
the history of Mexico, under all aspects but that of fiction,
is itself—a romance.

Note.—It was said by the learned Scaliger, of the Basque language,
`that those who spoke it were thought to understand one another,—a thing
which he did not himself believe.' For fear that the reader, from the
specimens of Mexican words he will meet in this history, should imagine
that the Mexican tongue was not meant even to be spoken, we think fit to
apprise him, that all such words are to be pronounced as they would be
uttered by a Spaniard. In his language, for example, the G, when before
the vowels E and I, the J always, and, in certain cases, the X, have the
value of the aspirate. Thus, the name of the city, the chief scene of our
history, has been spelled, at different times, Mexico, Mejico, and Megico; yet
is always pronounced May-he-co. The sound of our W he represents by
HU,—as Huascar, for Wascar; and, indeed, JU has nearly the same sound,
as in Juan. The names Johualicahuatzin, Anahuac, Xocojotzin, Mexitli,
and Chihuahua, pronounced Howalicawatzin, Anawac, Hocohotzin, Meheetlee,
and Chewawa, will serve for examples. But this is a thing not to
be insisted on, so much as the degree of belief which should be accorded
to the relation.

Esto importa poco á nuestro cuento: basta que en la narracion de él, no
se salga un punto de la verdad.—Don Quijote.