violent and abusive, and it was plain that the women at the curato were afraid of him. More than one hundred and fifty years ago Padre Quintana, who was the mission priest at Juquila, translated the Doctrina into Mixe and wrote a Gramatica of the language, both of which were then printed. We wished to secure copies of these old and rare books, and asked the fiscal if there were any here. He promptly replied that he had one at his house, and invited us to go there with him to see it. We at once started, and on our way had to pass the drunken presidente and the musicians. As we drew near them the presidente, with drunken dignity, rose and said: "Where are you going, Señores?" The fiscal was for going directly onward without giving answer; we hesitated and began a reply. Our delay was fatal; staggering up to us, his Honor said: "I shall not permit you to go; this man is drunk; he will be dangerous. I am responsible for your safety." The fiscal, standing at a little distance, cried: "Señores! shall we go?" We started toward him; the presidente interfered: "No, Señores, you shall not go to-night; the man is drunk; return to your house." "Vámonos," (Let us go) hiccoughed the fiscal. "Mañana," (to-morrow) hiccoughed the presidente. The fiscal stormed; the presidente threatened him with jail, ordered him home, and with a body-guard for our protection led us to our room. Scarcely able to totter, the presidente assured us that drunken men were dangerous and ought not to be trusted; at the same time he produced his bottle and offered us a drop to warm us. It required tact and time to get rid of him and his corps of protectors. Early the next morning both of these worthy officials, presidente and fiscal, still drunk, called upon us with the book—a Doctrina of 1729. With the presidente were two stalwart fellows, intended, as he whispered to us audibly, to handle the fiscal in case he became dangerous. The audience ended, and the party dismissed, the presidente stood in the road until the fiscal had started for home, when he left for the town-house. The fiscal's home-going, however, was mere pretense. No sooner was the presidente gone than he came staggering into the patio of the curato. The women ran into our room, in terror: "The fiscal comes; bar the door; do not let him in." A moment later a feeble rap at the door, a call and a mournful request for admission; the barricaded door gave no encouragement. At intervals through the morning there came the flying maids: "He comes! don't let him in." Again and again the barricade; again and again, the vain appeal for entrance. We left Ayutla at noon. We had scarcely well started when we heard some one calling behind us. Turning, we saw the fiscal, running unsteadily toward us. We waited; he came up out of breath. "Ya se va?" (Now you are leaving?) "Si, señor," (Yes, sir.) With a look of despair he removed his hat, and fumbling in its depths produced two cigarettes; presenting one to each of us, he waved his hand as we rode away and cried: "Adios! señores."
For some distance our road led up a cañon. Reaching its head, we gained the pass at two o'clock. A wonderful sight here presented itself. Above us was a brilliant blue sky—cloudless; every detail of the rock crest upon which we stood was clear. Forested to its summit, the ridge formed the half of a magnificent amphitheatre, whose slopes had been vertically furrowed at a hundred points by torrents; to the left a spur projected, the crest of which sloped gently downward, forming an enclosing wall upon that side. Before us, beyond the valley, was a boundary line of mountain masses, sharply outlined against the sky. Lower ridges, nearer to us, paralleled this distant rampart. The only apparent outlet from this valley was around the spur to our left. Looking down upon this magnificent valley, we saw it occupied by a sea of clouds, the level surface of which looked like a lake of water flecked here and there with whitecaps. The higher hills within the valley rose like islands from the water; to the left a mighty river seemed to flow around the spur, out into a boundless sea of cloud beyond. The level surface of this lake, river, and sea of clouds was hundreds of feet below us.
From this summit, our trail plunged downward into this sea of mists. When we reached its upper surface, which was plainly defined, little wisps of mist or cloud were streaming up along the furrowed channels of the mountain walls. As we entered the lake of cloud the sunlight became fainter, uprushes of cold mists struck us, gloom settled, denser and denser grew the fog, drops of condensed vapor dripped from the trees under which we passed. At the bottom of the valley, we could scarcely see a dozen yards in any direction. We were passing along meadows, like those of New England, with brakes, sunflowers, and huckleberries; here and there were little fields of wheat or peas. The fog was too dense for us to know whether we lost fine scenery. We saw nothing of the little villages through which we passed. On and on we plunged along the trail, until it began an ascent of a ridge, almost like a knife-edge, with steep slopes on both sides. When we had reached the summit of this ridge, we found the trail level, through a growth of oak trees which were loaded with bromelias and orchids. Though still dim, the light had brightened as we rose to higher levels. Graceful ferns and sprays of terrestrial orchids overhung our trail at every cutting or slope. One spray, which I plucked as I rode under it, was more than a yard in length, and its curiously colored brown and yellow flowers were strangely like insects in form. At one level summit of our ridge, we came upon a little whitewashed building of adobe, dome-topped, with no windows and but one little door. Pushing this open, I entered through a doorway so narrow that I had to remove my hat, and so low that I was forced to bend, and found myself in a little shrine with a cross and pictures of two or three saints, before which were plain vases filled with fresh flowers, the offerings of travelers. We added our spray of orchids before we resumed our journey.
For three hours, during which no distant view had delighted our eyes, we had traveled in the mists; we had almost forgotten that the sun could shine. At the end of a long, narrow ridge, where it joined the greater mountain mass, we found a rest-house. Here the trail turned abruptly onto the larger ridge, mounted sharply through a dugway, and then to our complete surprise emerged into the fair sunlight. The clear, blue sky was over us, and directly below us, at our horses' feet, was the flat top of the sea of clouds. A moment more and we rose to a point of view from which the grandest view of a lifetime burst upon our vision. Opposite, the evening sun was nearing the horizon, before and below us lay the valley; we were upon the very edge of a great mountain slope. To our right lay the cloud mass, which was all in movement, precipitating itself down the slope into the profound valley. It was a river of vapors, more than two miles, perhaps, in width, plunging, perhaps, two thousand feet into the abyss. Niagara, which I have often seen, is a pigmy cataract in comparison. The cloud mass tossed and heaved, whirled and poured in one enormous sheet over the precipice, breaking into spray as it struck against projecting rock masses. Every movement of whirling and plunging water was there; the rapid above the fall, the plunge, the whirlpool, the wild rush of whirlpool rapids, all were there, but all silent, fearfully and impressively silent. We could have stood there gazing for hours, but night was coming and a stretch of unknown road still lay before us. At the other end of the valley, in the dusk of early evening, we saw a second cataract pouring in. From both ends the cloud rivers were rushing in to fill the valley, along the edge of which we crept. And presently we plunged down again into the mists; night fell; our trail was barely visible, and we had to trust to our horses to find it; the air was cold and penetrating. Long after dark, we rode into Juquila.
CLOUD CATARACT; NEAR JUQUILA
DANCERS IN THE DANZA DE LA CONQUISTA; JUQUILA
The cura had gone to bed; the meson had no room for us and no food for our horses; our case seemed desperate. We heard, however, noisy laughter and the loud voices of men drinking. So I begged Ernst to seek the presidente and tell him our needs while I looked after the animals. The official was at the tienda, drinking with his friends. Ernst made known our wishes, producing our letter from the governor. At this, the presidente became furious: "Who is this with orders from the governor? Let me kill him," and with that he drew his machete and made at Ernst. Some of his less-intoxicated friends restrained him, and Ernst, concluding that the moment was not propitious, returned to me. After other fruitless efforts to get food for ourselves and animals we resigned ourselves to our fate, and lay down upon the stone floor of the corridor outside the meson, with a crowd of sleeping indians