The next thing that you notice is that every block on the same street has a different name, and when you start out on foot to make a visit you become bewildered at once, and have to call a carriage. Take the chief street, for example, which begins at the Grand Plaza, where the Palace stands, and runs to the statue of Charles IV. of Spain. Each of the seventeen blocks has a name of its own, and the names that are used are quite as striking as this perplexing custom. Here is a list of some of the principal blocks or streets translated into English: “Crown of Thorns Street,” “Fifth of May Street,” “Holy Ghost Street,” “Blood of Christ Street,” “Body of Christ Street,” “Mother of Sorrows Street,” “Street of the Sacred Heart,” “The Heart of Jesus Street,” “Street of the Love of God,” “Jesus Street,” and “John the Baptist Street.” Nearly every saint in the calendar has a street named after him or her, and nine-tenths of the city has the religion of the people thus illustrated.

Another thing that surprises you greatly is that nearly every man you meet makes you a present of a residence. He grasps your hand with ardent cordiality when he leaves you, and says, “My house is yours; it stands numero tres—Calle,” and so on, “and is at your service.” The next man tells you that your house is such and such a number, and he shall be angry if you do not occupy it. As neither of them has enjoyed the honor of your acquaintance for more than five minutes, and both are only casually introduced, this excessive generosity is quite embarrassing. An English lord told me he met fourteen men at the Jockey Club one evening, and was presented with thirteen houses. The other man lived in Cuba. But it is only the Mexican way of saying, “I’m pleased to meet you.” It often leads to comical adventures, however, for the gentleman who tenders such profuse hospitality seldom remembers you the next morning. People have accepted these ardent invitations and been met with a cold welcome. Another amusing and puzzling peculiarity is that everybody lives over a shop. Even the millionaires rent out the first floor of their residences for purposes of business, and live in the third story. The handsomest house in all Mexico has a railway ticket-office on one side of the entrance and a cigar shop on the other. Everybody smokes: women as well as men. They smoke in the street-cars, in the shops, at the opera, everywhere. I have often seen a man upon his knees in a chapel muttering his prayers with a lighted cigar in his hand.

The street-cars run in groups. Instead of starting a car every ten minutes from the terminus, three are started together every half hour. One car is never seen alone, nor two together, but always three in a row, less than half a block apart. It requires two conductors to run a car. One approaches a passenger and sells him a ticket; the second one then comes in and takes it up. In some respects it is an improvement on the bell-punch system. There are first-class cars and second-class cars. The former are of New York manufacture, and similar to those used in that city; the latter are of domestic construction, have but few windows, and look like the cabooses used on railroad freight trains. First-class fares are sometimes as high as twenty-five cents, but are more often a medio (six and a quarter cents), being governed by the distance. Second-class fares are always one-half the amount of first-class fares. Street-car drivers carry horns, and blow them when they approach street crossings. The conductors usually carry revolvers. Nearly everybody, in truth, carries a revolver.

Horseback riding is the national amusement, and the streets are full of horsemen, particularly in the cooler hours of the morning and evening. The proper thing to wear is a wide sombrero, very tight trousers of leather or cassimere, with rows of silver buttons up and down the outer seam, a handsomely embroidered velvet jacket, a scarlet sash, a sword, and two revolvers, not to mention spurs of marvellous size and design, and a saddle of surpassing magnificence. A Mexican caballero often spends one thousand dollars for an equestrian outfit. His saddle costs from fifty dollars to five hundred dollars, his sword fifty dollars, his silver-mounted bridle twenty-five dollars, his silver spurs as much more, the solid silver buttons on his trousers one hundred dollars, his hat fifty dollars, and the rest of his rig in proportion. The Mexican small boy, if he has wealthy parents, is mounted after a similar fashion, even to the revolver and sword. An equestrian costume for a boy of ten years can be purchased for about fifty dollars, not including saddle and bridle.

The Mexican ladies do not ride any more than their sisters in the United States. Social etiquette prohibits this recreation, unless they have brothers to go with them. The señoras and señoritas take their exercise in closed carriages. You never see a phaeton or wagon in Mexico. When they go shopping they sit in their carriages and have the goods brought out to them. It is a common thing to see a row of carriages before a fashionable store with a clerk at the door of each one exhibiting silks or gloves or ribbons. In some of the stores are parlors in which a señora can sit if she likes and have the goods brought to her. None but foreigners and the common people stand at the counters and buy. Mexican merchants never classify their goods. They have no system in arranging them. Silks and cottons are indiscriminately mixed on the shelves. There is no place for anything, and nothing is ever in place. Hence shopping requires the exercise of a vast deal of patience. I went to buy a pair of gloves one day. The clerk pulled open a drawer in which were shoes, corsets, and ribbons. He found some gloves, but there being none in the box to fit, he hunted around on the shelves and in the drawers until he discovered another lot. Nor are goods ever delivered at the residences of purchasers. If your package is too bulky to carry in your hands or in your carriage it is sent to your house by a licensed carrier, similar to the district messenger boy of New York, to whom you pay a fee. Each carrier has a brass badge like a policeman’s, bearing a number, and if he does not deliver the goods promptly and in good order you report him at police headquarters, where he is heavily fined. On the other hand, if he cannot find your residence, or there is a mistake in the directions, he takes the goods to police headquarters, and you can find them there, and discover the reasons why they were not delivered.

On pleasant afternoons—and except in the rainy season all afternoons are pleasant here—everybody who owns a carriage, or is able to hire one, drives on the boulevard which Maximilian made from the city to the Castle of Chapultepec, a distance of two and a half miles. As most of the carriages are closed, the scene is not so interesting as it might be, but you can occasionally catch a glimpse of a beautiful face through the carriage windows. The horses are indifferent. Some of the handsomest equipages are drawn by mules.

There are more public hacks and carriages in Mexico than in any other city in the world in proportion to its population, and few cities have worse pavements. Most of the vehicles are coupés, but there are a few victorias. There are no hansoms. The public carriages are all under police regulation, and the rates are fixed by law, according to the condition of the vehicle and the horses. Each carriage has a small tin flag attached to the top. A green flag means that you have to pay a dollar and a half an hour, for the carriage is new, the horses are good, and the harness is handsomely trimmed. A blue flag means a dollar an hour, with a little less style; a white flag, seventy-five cents. The latter class are about the toughest-looking outfits that can be found anywhere.

Each of the other sort of carriages has a footman as well as a coachman, without additional price, although generous people give him a tip to the extent of a real (twelve and a half cents). The footman is called a mozo, and acts as a sort of apprentice or private secretary to the cochero, or driver. When you hire a hack the mozo rushes off to the nearest store, looks at the clock, and brings you back a card upon which the hour is written. When you finish your ride he hands you the card again, and you pay from the time you started. On feast-days charges are doubled, and as feast-days are frequent, when all the stores are closed, the hackmen make a good thing of it. They drive in a most reckless manner, and as the pavements are rough the passengers are bounced about.

The Spaniards drink cognac and sour wines. Whiskey is not a safe beverage for the climate. American mixed drinks are not popular, and the scarcity of ice makes juleps and that sort of thing expensive. The stranger in Mexico is always very thirsty; the rapid evaporation makes the mouth and throat dry, and water furnishes only temporary relief. The most refreshing drink is lime-juice in Apollinaris water.

Pulque (pronounced poolkee) is the national drink, and is

the fermented milk of the cactus. Eighty thousand gallons are said to be sold in Mexico every day, and double that amount on Sundays and saints’ days. It is a sort of combination of starch and alcohol, looks like well-watered skim-milk, and tastes like yeast. It costs but a penny a glass, or three cents a quart, so that it is within the reach of the humblest citizen, and he drinks vast quantities of it. Five cents’ worth will make a peon (as all the natives are called) as happy as a lord, and ten cents’ worth will send him reeling into the arms of a policeman, who secures him an engagement to work for the Government for ten days without compensation. But it leaves no headache in the morning, and is said to be very healthful. In the moist climates one might drink large quantities without injury, but all the usual intoxicants are harmful in this altitude.

The police system of Mexico is admirable. At every street corner there is a patrolman night and day—not a patrolman either, for he never moves. He stands like a statue during the day, occasionally leaning against a lamp-post, and answers inquiries with the greatest urbanity. Whenever there is a row two or three policemen are instantly present, and if their clubs cannot suppress it they use revolvers. At night the policeman brings a lantern and a blanket. He sets the lantern in the middle of the street, and all carriages are compelled to keep to the right of the row of lanterns, which can be seen glimmering from one end of the street to the other. As long as people are passing he stands at the corner, but when things quiet down he leaves his lantern in the road, retires to a neighboring door-way, wraps his blanket around him, and lies down to pleasant dreams. As all the windows in the city of Mexico have heavy prison-like gratings before them, and all the doors are great oaken affairs that could not be knocked in without a catapult; as there are never any fires, and everybody goes to bed early, the policeman’s lot is usually a happy one. He is numerous because of revolutions, and because the Government always wants to know what is going on. There is a popular belief in Mexico that no stranger ever comes to town without having his past history and future plans recorded at police headquarters. One never reads of robberies or pocket-picking, or assault and battery cases, in the city of Mexico. Common thieves have no chance there. The only disturbances are political revolutions, and the Government alone is robbed.

All the ice that is used in Mexico comes from the top of Popocatepetl. It is brought down the mountain on the backs of the natives, and then sixty miles on the cars to the city, where it is sold at wholesale for ten cents a pound. At the bar-rooms iced drinks are very expensive, and ice is seldom seen anywhere else. The people all use a jug of porous earthenware made by the Indians in which water is kept cool by rapid evaporation. The stranger should always squeeze a little lime-juice into his glass before he drinks water, to get a pleasant flavor, and escape evil effects from alkaline properties.

From the top of the cathedral spire you can see the entire city, and the most striking feature of the view is the absence of chimneys. There is not a chimney in all Mexico; not a stove, nor a grate, nor a furnace. All the cooking is done with charcoal in Dutch ovens, and, while the gas is sometimes offensive, one soon becomes used to it. Coal costs sixteen dollars a ton, and wood sixteen dollars a cord. All the coal was formerly imported from England, but now comes from Cohahuila, and the wood is all brought from the mountains.

As formerly, bull-fighting is at present the most popular amusement in Mexico, and a matador is more distinguished in the eyes of the common people than a prima donna or a president. The Mexican Government has of late years become humanized to the extent of prohibiting these brutal spectacles within the city limits, and they now take place at what is called the “Plaza de Toros,” or Bull Park, on the plains five or six miles from the city. Here the people gather on every Sunday and saint-day to witness the butchery of three or four bulls and twice as many horses, under the official patronage of the Governor of the State, who always is present with his family and official staff, and from a decorated platform directs the entertainment, giving his orders through a trumpeter.

Back of the Castle of Chapultepec is the battle-field of Molino del Rey (The Mill of the King), where General Scott met stubborn resistance when he attempted to enter Mexico, but drove the Mexicans up the hill. The old earthworks erected by the latter still stand as they were at the time of the battle, and are usually visited by tourists. On the plain beyond the battle-field stands an amphitheatre enclosed within a massive wall of adobe—the mud bricks which are used for building material in all the rainless region of this continent. The amphitheatre is arranged in the usual form, except that the shady side is divided up into boxes to be occupied by the grandees, while the sunny side has plain board benches for the barefooted Castilians whose mild eyes and pathetic deference give no key to the cruelty of which their race has been guilty. The centre of the amphitheatre is enclosed by a board wall, perhaps eight feet in height, surmounted at a point two feet higher by a heavy cable strung through stalwart iron rods. The top of this fence appeared to be the favorite eyrie from which to survey the field, and upon it for the entire length sat a row of urchins, with here and there a bearded man, all poised upon the edge, with their legs hanging over into the bull-ring, and their arms clinging to the rope.

The Governor, a tall, swarthy man, with a wide sombrero, mustache and goatee, the very picture of the “haughty Don,” sat in a decorated box, with the flag of his country profusely draped around him. He had two aides-de-camp, his three children, and an orderly, who with a trumpet sounded a blast now and then to convey his excellency’s desires. We happened luckily to have the adjoining box, from which we could watch him closely and hear his comments upon the performances.

The audience was very large, and composed of all classes, from the proud Castilian who came behind his four-in-hand, with a retinue of outriders, to the poor peon who had been saving his scanty earnings for a week, and walked five miles to witness the ghastly spectacle. There were perhaps ten thousand people, and one-fifth of them were women in silks and satins, in jewels and rare laces, who hid their eyes behind their fans when the spectacle was too repulsive, but encouraged the matadors with applause at the end of each act.

A band of music played lively airs, and played them well, to entertain the people until the Governor came, whose presence being recognized, the people gave a cordial cheer by way of welcome. Then the herald in the Governor’s box blew a signal which sounded like the “water call” of the United

States Cavalry, the doors of the pit were opened, and in marched a dozen or so of matadors, in the same sort of jackets and breeches which they wear in the pictures of Spanish life so familiar to all. Each wore a plumed hat, a scarlet sash, a poniard, and the gold lace upon the black velvet showed their lithe and supple forms to advantage. They looked as Don Juan looks in the opera, while the leader, Bernardo Cavino, “del decano de los toreros,” I was a veritable Figaro, in appearance at least. Each carried a scarlet cloak upon his arm, and in the other hand a pikestaff. Behind them came a troop of eight horsemen upon gayly caparisoned steeds, with the usual amount of silver and leather trappings in which the Mexicans delight. The procession tailed up with a team of four mules hitched abreast, dragging a whiffletree and a long rope. These, we are told, were for the purpose of dragging out the dead. The cavalcade made a circuit of the amphitheatre, like the grand entrée at a circus, and upon reaching the Governor’s box stopped, saluted him, and received a short address in Spanish, which probably was simply one of approval and congratulation at their fine appearance. There was a rack in front of the Governor’s box upon which hung several rows of darts, gayly decorated with paper rosettes and paper fringes of gold and other brilliant tints. Upon these racks the matadors hung their plumed hats, and stood a while to give the ladies and gentlemen of the audience an opportunity to see and admire.

The gay horsemen then rode out, and were followed by the mules, but the horsemen soon returned upon an entirely different style of animals—poor, broken-down, lean, lame, and mangy hacks, which looked as if they had been turned out of some street-car stable as bait for vultures. They were covered with a sort of leathern armor, and this concealed their fleshless ribs; but nothing could disguise the shambling and uncertain gait with which they painfully ambled across the arena under the savage spurring of their riders. They managed to get across, and that was all. The first set of horses were intended for show, and the second for slaughter. Public opinion appears to demand that something besides a bull be sacrificed, and the matadors not being amiable enough to afford this gratification, a pair of animated clothes-racks are turned in to be gored. The poor beasts are blindfolded, which is about the only humane feature of the show.

The Governor’s herald gave another blast, at which the entire audience, who were on the qui vive, arose and shouted. A door across the pit opened, and a large, clumsy, long-horned bull poked his head out into the arena. The crowd yelled, and matadors posed at different parts of the ring—ten of them—and the two horsemen pretended to get ready for the fray. The bull looked up, the only frightened being in the entire multitude. The posters described him as “a valiant and arrogant animal.” He was a fine piece of beef, but he didn’t want to fight. Somebody behind spurred him, and he ran into the ring. The doors were closed behind him, and there was no way of escape. He plunged one way, but was met by three matadors, who flapped their cloaks in his eyes; he turned in the other direction, but was met by three more; then he made a bolt between them, and darting towards the other side of the ring, gave a great leap, as if he would go over the eight-foot wall. Of course he failed, but he struck the planks with tremendous force, tumbling forty or fifty fellows who were perched on the top into a heap on the other side. It was the only amusing feature of the whole show. There was a grand crash, a loud howl, forty or fifty pairs of legs were in the air, and the audience shouted with laughter. The bull turned around frightened at the noise, ran to the other side of the ring, and sought in vain for a place to get out. Then one of the horsemen rode up in front of the animal and jammed a spear into his face. The bull plunged at his assailant, bellowing with pain, lifted the poor horse upon his horns, raised him from the ground, and threw him with great force against the side of the arena.

The rider, expecting the attack, was prepared for it, and leaped with great agility from the saddle just as the two animals came in contact. There was very little left of the horse. There was not much of him when he was dragged into the ring, but the long horns of the bull penetrated his bowels and tore them out. The bull jams the horse against the planks, two, three, four times, and then withdraws. The horse lies a bleeding, disembowelled mass, and the crowd cheers the dreadful spectacle.

The bull having given up all idea of escape, plunges at everything he sees, and the second horse is ridden up before him. No attempt is made to get the animal out of the way. He was brought there to be slaughtered, and took his turn. Both horses having been disposed of, and the bull being completely exhausted, the bugle gives the signal, the matadors enter the arena, and tease him with their scarlet cloaks. At frequent intervals around the ring are placed heavy planks, behind which the matadors run for protection when they were pursued. The bull had no chance at all; he was there simply to be teased and killed by slow degrees. One matador more agile than the rest baits the animal with his lance, and when the bull turns upon him, vaults over the down-turned horns by resting his lance upon the ground. Then they bring out the ornamented darts, and thrust them into the bull’s hide. The animal jumps and plunges with pain, and tries to shake them off, but the barbs cling to the hide, and the more he struggles the farther they penetrate the flesh. His shoulders are covered with them, and the crimson blood trickles down his sides. He stands panting with distress, his tongue hanging out, and is thoroughly exhausted.

The Governor’s trumpet sounds the bull’s death-warrant. It means that the cruel sport has lasted long enough, and the chief matador comes forward with a red blanket and a sword. He approaches the bull, and flaps the blanket in his eyes; the animal plunges at him, and with great dexterity the matador whirls and thrusts the sword into the animal’s heart. The bull plunges with pain, and throws the sword out of his body into the air. He staggers and falls upon the ground, the chief matador runs up, pierces his brain with a poniard, and the mules are brought in to drag the dead animals out. The band plays, the crowd cheers, and the first act is over. The matadors bow to the Governor, bow to the crowd, and rest, while a clown dances in the ring to amuse the people in the interim. Pretty soon the trumpet blows again, two more old crow-baits are ridden in, and another bull is brought from the corral. The same scenes recur; the horses are always killed, but the men are seldom injured. Four bulls are usually disposed of each Sunday afternoon before the appetite for blood is satiated.

This cruel sport in Mexico is in its decadence. It grew out of the lack of other entertainment. Until two years ago there was no horse-racing in Mexico, and this class of sport is unknown outside of the capital. The young men are not allowed to visit the girls, are not permitted to walk with them in the parks, and have, in short, no amusements but billiards, cock-fighting, and bull-baiting. The exodus of foreigners into the Republic will break many of the barriers down. While the “Gringos,” as foreigners are called, generally conform to the customs of the country, they refuse to accept all of them, and the Mexican people are gradually tending towards a more modern civilization.

The ancient volcano, Popocatepetl, has got into the courts. Not that it has been bodily transported into the halls of litigation, but it is the subject of a novel suit at law. For many years General Ochoa has been the owner of the volcano, the highest point of land in North America, together with all its appurtenances. The crater contains a fine quality of sulphur, which the general has been extracting, giving employment to Indians who cared to stay down in the vaporous old crater. The property was at one time fairly profitable; the volcano was, some time ago, mortgaged to Mr. Carlos Recamier, who brings suit of foreclosure. The papers have been joking about the matter, some asking what Mr. Recamier intends to do with his volcano when he gets legal possession. He has been solemnly warned that the law forbids the carrying out of the country ancient monuments and objects of historical interest.

Good-Friday is observed as a sort of May festival. The Paseo de las Flores (Flower Promenade) is held along the Viga, the picturesque canal which stretches away between willows and poplars to the far-famed Floating Gardens of the ancient Aztecs. The scene along the historic causeway is astonishing to foreigners, and as charmingly peculiar as it is typical of a poetic and pleasure-loving people. For miles along the tree-lined avenue a constant procession of vehicles, horsemen, and pedestrians pack the space between green booths on either side, while the canal is crowded with canoes and Venetian-like gondolas. Everything imaginable on wheels is seen—the stately closed carriage of the Mexican millionaire, open barouches, coupés, victorias, dog-carts, wagonettes, even velocipedes and tricycles, while thousands of horsemen gallop gayly between.

The festivities are kept up, though in diminishing scale, until late Sunday night. During all these days the shrill, discordant rattle of ten thousand matracas rises above the babel of human voices. These little instruments of torture are made of tin, iron, ivory, wood, even of gold and silver, and in all imaginable shapes. Some are in the form of humming-birds, birds-of-paradise, chickens, parrots; others are like gridirons, frying-pans, musical instruments, fruits, flowers, or reptiles. Everybody must have one, from the dignified grandparent to the baby in arms, and by twirling them rapidly a most unearthly, rasping, grinding sound is produced by wooden springs inside. The noise is intended to typify and ridicule the cries of the Jews, “Crucify him! crucify him!” as they followed Christ to His death.

On Easter-Sunday the strangest of all Mexican ceremonies takes place in the burning of the traitor. During all Holy-week men are continually perambulating the streets, holding high above the heads of the multitude long poles encircled by hoops, upon which are suspended the most grotesque figures, in every conceivable color, shape, and degree of deformity, and all with horns and crooked backs and twisted limbs. These are filled with fire-crackers, the mustache forming the fuse, and millions of them are annually exploded. Many are life-size, some having faces to represent politicians who are unpopular at the time. Some are hung by the neck to wires stretched across the streets, or to the balconies of houses. Every horse-car and railroad engine and donkey-cart is decked with one, and even every mule-driver has one or more tied on his breast. At ten o’clock on Easter-Sunday, when the cathedral bells peal forth in commemoration of Christ’s resurrection, they are all touched off at once, and the air is filled with flying traitors everywhere over the length and breadth of Mexico.

An American who is married in Mexico finds that he must be three times married: twice in Spanish and once more in Spanish or English, as he prefers, besides having a public notice of his intention of marriage placed on a bulletin-board for twenty days before the ceremony. This is the law. The public notice can be avoided by the payment of a sum of money, but a residence of one month is necessary. The three ceremonies are the contract of marriage, the civil marriage—the only marriage recognized by law since 1858—and the usual, but not obligatory, Church service. The first two must take place before a judge, and in the presence of at least four witnesses and the American consul. The contract of marriage is a statement of names, ages, lineage, business, and residence of contracting parties. The civil marriage is the legal form of marriage. These ceremonies are necessarily in Spanish. Most weddings are confirmed by a church-service.

At a Mexican church wedding it is the custom for the groom to pass coins through the hand of the bride, as typical of the fact that she is to keep the money of the household. A very pretty feature, as the couple kneel at the altar with lighted candles in their hands—an emblem of the light of the Christian faith—is the placing of a silken scarf around the shoulders of the bridal couple, and then the binding them together with a yoke of silver cord placed around the necks of both. That “thy people shall be my people” is an accepted fact, for it is a common thing for members of the bride’s family to take up their permanent residence with the husband, and make it their home.

One of the most singular, and, to the foreigner, most interesting of the institutions of Mexico is the Monte de Piedad. The phrase means “The Mountain of Mercy.” It is the name given to what is in reality a great national pawnshop, which has branches in all the cities of the country, is exclusively under Government control, and is not managed, as in the United States, by guileless Hebrew children. The central office of the Monte de Piedad occupies the building known as the Palace of Cortez, which stands on the site of the ancient Palace of Montezuma, on the Plaza Mayor. It was founded in 1775 by Conde de Regla, the owner of very rich

mines, who endowed it in the sum of three hundred thousand dollars. His charitable purpose was to enable the poor of the city of Mexico to obtain loans on pledges of all kinds of articles, and for very low rates of interest. He thus relieved the poorer classes from usurious rates of interest which had been previously charged them by rapacious private pawnbrokers. At first no interest was charged, the borrower only being asked, when he redeemed his pledge, to give something for the carrying on of the charitable work which the institution had in hand. But as this benevolence was greatly abused, it was found necessary to charge a rate of interest which was very low, and yet sufficient to yield a revenue equal to necessary expenses. The affairs of this institution have been wisely managed, and it has been kept true to the purpose of its benevolent founder. When pledges come to be sold, if they bring a price greater than the original valuation, the difference is given back to the original owners. The Monte de Piedad has survived all revolutions, and its ministry of relief to the sufferers by these revolutions and other misfortunes has been incalculably great and blessed. Its average general loans on pledges amount to nearly a million dollars, and the borrowers whom it yearly accommodates number from forty to fifty thousand. From the time when it was founded, in 1775, down to 1886—a little more than the first century of its existence—it made loans to 2,232,611 persons, amounting in the aggregate to nearly $32,000,000, and during the same period it gave away nearly $150,000 in charity.

There is nothing in which the Mexican character appears to better advantage than in the provisions made for the sick and unfortunate. There are in the city of Mexico alone ten or a dozen hospitals, some of which are large, well endowed and equipped, and managed in a way to compare favorably with the best appointed hospitals in any country. This for a city of three hundred thousand inhabitants is a more liberal provision than many larger cities in our own country have. A lying-in hospital was founded by the Empress Carlotta, who, after her return to Europe, sent the sum of six thousand dollars for its support. Besides the hospitals there is a foundling asylum capable of accommodating two hundred inmates: an asylum for the poor, which is a very large and important charity; a correctional school; an industrial school for orphans, having thirteen hundred scholars; an industrial school for women; another for men; schools for deaf-mutes and for the blind; and an asylum for beggars.

The Church of England has been established in Mexico for twelve or fifteen years, having been induced to hold services there by the large number of English residents in the city; but no missionary work has been done by that denomination. The Presbyterian Board of Foreign Missions several years ago commenced to labor in the Republic under the patronage of Diaz, who was then President, and who gave them substantial

encouragement. Among other things, he presented the American Board with an old Catholic church, where the school is now held daily, and a printing-office, for the purpose of the publication of a weekly newspaper and religious literature, is carried on. There are now at work in Mexico six Protestant clergymen and two lady missionaries from the United States, twenty-four regularly ordained Mexican ministers, six native licentiates, and three native helpers. Seventy-five congregations have been organized, and meet for worship every Sunday, and the number of native members is about three thousand. There is also a Theological Seminary, with two professors from the United States and one native instructor, having a total attendance of twenty-seven young men preparing for the ministry. Fourteen of these are studying theology, and thirteen are in the preparatory department. There is also a school for girls, with two American and one native lady teacher, which has a large attendance. A missionary paper called El Faro (The Light-house) is conducted at the Theological Seminary. The work is rapidly increasing, seven churches having been organized in 1885 and as many more in 1886.

The missionaries are very often interfered with by the country people, instigated by the priests, and several of the native preachers have been shot or injured. These attacks have usually been attributed to highwaymen, but after investigation have proven to be the work of assassins employed by the priests. One white missionary was murdered some two years ago while passing along the road at night, but his assassins were brought to speedy justice, and wholesome examples made of them.

In July, 1885, the Romanists of a small town in the interior entered a Protestant church, carried off all of the valuables, smashed the organ into fragments, emptied kerosene oil upon the benches, and set the place on fire. The furniture of the interior was destroyed, but the walls of the building, being of adobe, and the roof of tiles, the house was not destroyed. For some weeks afterwards several shots were fired at people who were on their way to evening service, and a missionary was attacked in the dark by armed assassins who would have been murdered but for the courageous use of his revolver. Subsequently all the other churches in the neighborhood were similarly treated, and when appeals were made to the local authorities for protection, and for the punishment of those who had committed the outrages, it was decided that it was the work of highwaymen, and a reward was offered for the arrest of the perpetrators. This opinion was thought to be a subterfuge, and it is believed that the authorities were in sympathy with the acts.

The matter was carried to President Diaz, who ordered an investigation, and promised an effectual protection to the missionaries wherever there was need of it. Several days after he issued a proclamation which was addressed to the commandants of the several departments of the Republic, and ordered that it should be read before the troops on parade, and kept posted in conspicuous places for the information of the public. In this proclamation, among other things, President Diaz said: “These acts of intolerance, apart from their injustice, are the data by which people of other lands judge of the nature and degree of our civilization, and for this reason especially I command that you give especial attention to prevent such outrages, and to secure to all believers in any religion the liberty which the constitution and laws concede to them. Catholics shall be protected in the same way as Protestants, and those who attempt to interfere with the exercise of any religious ceremony shall be punished severely. If troops are needed to carry this order into effect, they will be supplied upon request.”

GUATEMALA CITY.

THE CAPITAL OF GUATEMALA.

Guatemala City is not favorably situated for commerce, as it is a considerable distance from both seas, and is shut out from the most productive portions of the country by walls of mountains. The city is laid out in quadrilateral form, and formerly was surrounded by a great wall through which it was entered by gates opening in various directions. It covers a vast area of territory for a place of its population, as the houses, like those of other Central American cities, are very

large, and enclose attractive gardens. During the last twelve years, under the presidency of General Barrios, Guatemala has made rapid progress, and but for the low and commonplace appearance of the houses would resemble the more modern cities of Europe. All the streets are paved, with gutters in the centre, and have broad paths of flag-stones on each side for foot-passengers.

Antigua Guatemala, the old capital, thirty miles to the westward of the new, is still a place of considerable importance, and in its time was far superior to the present capital in size and appearance. Previous to its destruction in 1773 there were but two cities on the American hemisphere which compared with it in population, wealth, and magnificence. These were the City of Mexico, and Lima, Peru. New York was then a commercial infant, Boston a mere village, and Chicago yet unknown. But here was a city in which were centred the ecclesiastical and political interests of the Central American colonies, where millions of dollars were spent in erecting churches, convents, and monasteries, which covered acres of ground, and beautiful residences whose shattered portals still bear the escutcheons of the noble families who ruled the city and cultivated the plantations of coffee, sugar, and cochineal.

Antigua, as it is now called (properly old Guatemala), was not only the scene of wealth and influence, and the commercial metropolis of the country, but the home of the most learned men of all Spanish America, the seat of great schools of theology, science, and art, for two hundred years the Athens and Rome of the New World, the residence of the university, as well as the Inquisition, and the headquarters of those untiring apostles of evil, the Jesuits. The population is said to have been about one hundred and fifty thousand. It is not known that a census was ever taken, and this estimate is based upon the size of the city and number of inhabitants its ruined walls could have contained. It is situated in the centre of a great valley, between the twin volcanoes Agua and Fuego; and as the old Spanish chroniclers used to say, had Paradise on one side and the Inferno on the other. The beauty of its position and the richness of the adjacent country, the grandeur of the scenery that surrounds it, have called forth the most extravagant admiration from travellers, and have made it the theme of the native poets. Mr. Stephens, who wrote the most elaborate sketch of Central America we have, some forty years ago, says that Antigua Guatemala is surrounded by more natural beauty than any location he had ever seen during the whole course of his travels. The city is watered by a stream bearing the poetical name of El Rio Pensativo, which encircles the mountains and winds about through the plain in most graceful curves. It has for its tributaries many rivulets that water the plain, and finally falls over a cataract and flows through the valley below to the sea.

This valley was formerly famous for the culture of cochineal, and much wealth was derived from this source before aniline dyes drove it out of the market. The cochineal is a little insect which clings to the leaves of a species of the cactus, known as the nopal, and in the natural state the white hair upon its body causes the leaves to look as if they were covered with hoar-frost. Before the rainy season sets in the leaves of the nopal are cut close to the ground and hung up under a shed for protection. Then they are scraped with a dull knife, and the insects are killed by being baked in a hot oven or dipped into boiling water. If the first process is used, the insects become a brownish color, and furnish a scarlet or crimson dye. Those killed by baking are black, and are used for blue and purple dyes. They are then packed up in little casks, covered with hides to keep out the moisture, and sent to market, being valued at several dollars a pound. The great part of the expense is due to the time and trouble required to detach the insects from the nopal, two ounces being considered a fair result of a day’s labor; and it is said that it requires seventy thousand to make a pound. When they are dried they look like coarse powder.

The first capital was founded by Alvarado, the Conqueror. The exploits of Cortez in Mexico had become known among