A PAINTER IN MEXICO.* READERS of the Century will be
glad to make a fuller acquaintance with Mr. Hopkinson Smith, whose contribution to that magazine at the end of last year, under the quaint title of"A White Umbrella in Mexico," gave them such a pleasant foretaste of his literary qualities, while the reproductions of his sketches were sufficient to show that he has a fine artistic taste, and a thorough love of the picturesque. No "processes," however, can convey the real merits of pictures, especially when reduced in size to suit a small-octavo volume ; but no such drawback affects movable types artistically employed; on the contrary, elegant printing adds a grace even to refined composition, as a tasteful costume sets off a beautiful figure. Whatever may be the intrinsic value of the painter's original sketches, the charm of his writing speaks for itself. Devoid of all pretension, lucid as crystal, sometimes eloquent, and never dull, permeated throughout by a rare feeling of humanity, and pleasantly tinged with a light and delicate humour, the book is grateful, refreshing, and in the best sense recreative, and none could wish for a pleasanter companion with whom to pass an hour snatched from the press and stress of exacting toil. "My probe," says the author, "has not gone very far
below the surface I have preferred rather to present what would appeal to the painter and the idler." It is precisely that which makes his work so agreeable ; nevertheless, he does suggest or indicate, by distinct, airy touches, much that under- lies the glowing surface upon which he revels, so that the idler is perforce obliged to feel the grim realities lurking beneath the varied and attractive phenomena of a country long ago characterised as the land of the picturesque. But, when all is said, one likes to get away for once from "useful knowledge," and look upon a country and a people through the keen and loving eyes of a painter and idler whose art has enlarged his understanding. His frame of mind is indicated at the outset. He says he delighted in "the swaying of the lilies in the sun- light, the rash of the roses crowding over mouldy walls," and in the tall palms, without "searching for the lizard and the mole crawling at their roots." He does not try to solve problems, but he does not overlook them ; and evidently the native Indian folk, what he calls the remnant of the Aztec civilisation, made on him a deep impression. He even declares that they are a race capable of the highest culture, and worthy of the deepest study :—
" A distinct and peculiar people," he goes on. "An unselfish, patient, tender-hearted people, of great personal beauty, courage, and refinement. A people maintaining in their daily life an etiquette phenomenal [!] in a down-trodden race; offering instantly to the stranger and wayfarer on the very threshold of their adobe huts a hospitality so generous, and accompanied by a courtesy so exquisite, that one stops at the next doorway to re-enjoy the luxury."
The picture may be too highly coloured, but as it is drawn • A. White Umbrella in Mexico. By F. Hopkinson Smith. With Illustrations by the Author. London: Longman' and Co.
by one who "lived in the streets," lingered in the churches, loitered in the gardens, and chatted with the common people in their own tongue, it is worth recording. Have they a future P It is doubtful on the evidence. "They have inherited nothing in the past," he says, "but poverty and suffering, and expect nothing in the future." They live "without hope and without ambition ;" and he ascribes their hopeless state to the "social isolation, which cuts them off from every influence that makes the white man their superior." Yet they have produced one President of the Republic, and surely the recognised improvidence and pleasure-loving nature of this gifted race must count for something in prolonging their relative degradation. How really thoughtful and humane the peons, as he calls them, can be, may be inferred from a touching incident which occurred under his eyes in Zacatecas, a mob looking on at the rare penitential ceremony :—
" In the middle of the street, upon their knees on the rough stones, walked or rather crawled two native Indian girls, dressed in white, their heads bare, their black hair streaming down their backs, their eyes aflame with excitement. Both clasped to their breasts a small crucifix. Surrounding them were a dozen half- crazed devotees, whose frenzied cries swelled the chant of the youngest penitent. Suddenly from out a pulque shop on the opposite corner darted three men, evidently peons. With a quick movement they divided the pressing crowd, sprang ahead of the girls, and tearing their own zarapes from their shoulders, threw them in turn in front of the penitents. As the girls crawled across them, the first peon would again seize his zarape, run ahead, and respread it.'
A Spanish bystander said, "But for those drunken peons, they would leave a bloody track," a characteristic comment full of pride of race. Had the actors been Spaniards, the courtesy, if not the humanity, of their graceful action would have been promptly recognised. The flavour of seriousness, so perceptible here and there, increases the charm of pages brimming with joyous and buoyant sketches of things and persons, or happy phrases. The author has a natural horror
of the restorer, and, we fear, also of the sanitary authority,—
at least, he hates whitewash. "I often think," he prettily says, "what a shock it must be to the good taste of Nature when one whitewashes an old fence ;" and he is equally indignant when he sees a cathedral interior reft of its ancient glory by whitewash, crude, flaring colours, and a new equip- ment. It is the rain wrought in the cathedral of Queretaro that calls up his playful wrath. The city is famous for two things,—the violent death of Maximilian, and opals. He would not visit the scene of the execution ; he would not buy opals, which nobody wears and everybody has for sale; but he gives us this expressive picture of the place and people :—
"If one has absolutely nothing to do, Queretaro is the place in which to do it. If he suffers from the constitutional disease of being born tired, here is the place for him to rest. The grass grows in the middle of the streets ; at every corner there is a small open square full of trees ; under each tree is a bench ; on every bench a wayfarer : they are all resting."
Sleepy as it is, the city has many delights for a lover of quiet and strange beauty,—streets garnished with semi-tropical plants, scores of fountains, Indian women sitting under arching palms, selling water from great red earthen jars ; and outside the place, a garden embowered in roses, where "the flowers are free to whoever will gather." The one personage in the book besides the author is a countryman, long a denizen in Mexico, who hailed from New Orleans, and was connected with railroads. This original was encountered accidentally in a cloister at Guadaloupe, near Zacatecas, and he is thus graphically set before us :—
" He was about thirty years of age, with a bronzed face, curling mustachios, and arching eyebrows that shaded a pair of twinkling brown eyes. A sort of devil-may-care air seemed to pervade him, coupled with a certain recklessness discernible even in the way he neglected his upper vest buttons, and tossed one end of his cravat over his shoulder. He wore a large, comfortable, easily adjusted slouch hat, which he kept constantly in motion, using it as some men do their hands, to emphasise their sentences. If the announcement was somewhat startling, the hat would be flattened out against the back of his head, the broad brim standing out in a circle, and framing the face which changed with every thought behind it. If of a confidential nature, it was pulled down on the side next to you, like the pirate's in the play. If his communica- tion might offend ears polite, he used one edge of it as a lady would a fan, and from behind it, gave you a morsel of scandal with such point and pith that you forgave its raciness because of the crisp and breezy way with which it was imparted."
The Southerner, though so quaint and careless, was a generous fellow, and he saved the painter from ill-usage, perhaps from death, on one memorable occasion. It is rather astonishing to hear that in the middle of Mexico, near the town of Pitzeuaro, hidden away amid the ruins of a once magnificent ecclesiastical foundation, there is a large and superb Titian, representing the Entombment, "80 fresh, pure, and rich in colour," that it looks as if painted yesterday. Mr. Smith had heard of this treasure, was able to penetrate the wild country where it is, saw, and unluckily touched the figure of Christ, so entranced was he, and so eager to examine the picture. The Indians present, unknown to him, were enraged at the sacrilege, and nothing but the ingenuity and wit of his humorous and eccentric Southern friend, saved both from the roused passions of the fanatical peons. Whether the picture is a Titian—and there is no reason why it should not be—our author's account of his visit to the village where it rests, and of the great work itself, is worth reading ; yet not more so than every page of this light, sparkling, and, whatever the airy writer may say, delightfully instructive volume.
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