Mexico, picturesque, political, progressive. Mary Elizabeth Blake

are the only ones of any note in the country, are the boast of the town, and really of great interest from the odd combination of business and beauty, of peaceful employment and martial law, which their walled territory offers. The most notable remembrance they have left with us, however, is that of the young heir of the house, as he came riding across the plain from the town, at sunset, on a beautiful Arabian horse, with ​saddle and bridle so richly wrought in silver that it scarce belonged to every-day life, and an embarrassment of luxury in the way of trappings that would have weighed upon a less noble-spirited animal. The boy himself, in silver trimmed sombrero, yellow buckskin costume with its precious tassels and fringes of shining metal, impassive, handsome face, olive skin, great dark eyes, and small foot high arched as a girl's, looked like some young prince riding through a fairy tale in search of adventure. The dagger-hilt in his silken sash, and the swarthy groom with his belt thrust full of pistols and cartridges riding behind, gave glimpses of some other happenings which, thank Heaven, are rare as fairy tales in our quiet lives, and well nigh as possible. But, if tradition can be believed, they have been only too common here.

      But chief of all interests to us in Queretaro was the fact of its having been the scene of one of the saddest pages in Mexican history, — the death of Maximilian. A heavy rain which had fallen the night before made the roads almost impassable with deep, clinging mud on the morning of the day we drove out to the sad little hillside of Las

      ​

      Campanas. Half way up the stony slope, facing the lovely city which lies on the opposite side of the valley, rich in brilliantly colored domes and towers, with sunny fields and shaded avenues stretching about the course of the small Rio, and the pale, shadowy mountains filling the blue distance, stand the three stone crosses marking the scene of the tragedy whose shadow rests yet on many hearts. On the quiet plain between, in that June dawning, the Mexican army was drawn up to see the last act of the short drama. Even now, twenty years after, one cannot look upon the spot without feeling some faint throb of the intense anguish which must have filled the heart of the chief actor, looking for the last time upon the fair land which had lured him to death. This is neither the time nor the place to enter upon any discussion of the intention or character of Maximilian. He paid for his mistake, if mistake it really were, with his life, as became a man who had the courage of his convictions, and a king who feared dishonor rather than death. But any one who reads the torn leaves of Mexican history from his day to ours; any one who sees the present condition of the timid, patient,

      ​

      long-suffering people; the present status of the revolution-tossed, dispirited country, unconscious of its own resources, ignorant of its own strength, must acknowledge that the problem of right and wrong is more easily stated than answered. The simple earnestness of purpose which he brought to the solution of Mexican politics, his wise foresight, his overwhelming desire for the good of the people and advancement of the country, and above all his love for the work to which he believed himself called by that

       vox populi

      , which becomes under such circumstances the

       vox Dei

      , should claim for him lenient judgment and profound pity, even from those at variance with his political creed. With him, beneath the thin veil of imperial power, Mexico would have been likely to feel the protecting warmth of a wise and kind father's love, supplemented by the best counsel which modern science and wisdom can lend to government; as it is, under the title of a republic, she is become the battle-ground for a host of needy partisans, greedy for gain, ambitious for power, and openly parading the worst vices of a military despotism under the stolen name of liberty.

      ​The great advance which has been made during the last few years in the principles and policy of the ruling party, especially since the accession of President Diaz, seems to possess elements of staying power as well as of good judgment; but one cannot help feeling that such an honorable solution of the problem of self-government would have been possible much sooner if the people had known some earlier training in self-respect and the authority of well-meaning rulers.

      According to the advice of friends, who warned not wisely but too well, we came into this country armed at all points with munitions of war in the shape of insect-powder, pain-killer, and extract of pennyroyal. We expected every thing, from fleas to scorpions, from mosquitoes to tarantulas; our thoughts by day and our dreams by night were filled with unknown species of Lepidoptera and Coleoptera seeking what they might devour, and usually finding it. But, so far, not a stopple has been touched in any of the bottles provided with such admirable foresight. We have not met more than a fly. We have found absolutely no more vermin than at home, and only a reasonable share of dust; but by way of compensation we have

      ​

      discovered more smells of rare and distinct species than we dreamed this round world could hold. The smells of Mexico are massive and infinitive: they are the only one of her resources which has been worked for all it is worth. According to the principle in natural law, which makes one more readily cognizant of vice than of virtue, we notice the bad odors most now; but by means of that divine system of compensation which makes the memory of evil fade, while that of good lives forever, it is the scent of her rose-gardens, the sweet, evanescent perfumes of her tangled flower-hedges, and thickets of fragrant shrubs, that we will remember during the long Northern days when all this changeful experience shall seem but a midsummer night's dream.