The White Chief | Page 3

meet
the robed priest of the morning, and stake your dollar or doubloon
against his, if you feel so inclined.
"San Juan" is one of the "fiestas principales"--one of the most noted of
Mexican ceremonials. On this day--particularly in a New Mexican
village--the houses are completely deserted. All people turn out, and
proceed to some well-known locality, usually a neighbouring plain, to
witness the sports--which consist of horse-racing, "tailing the bull,"
"running the cock," and the like. The intervals are filled up by
gambling, smoking, and flirtation.
There is much of republican equality exhibited on these occasions.
Rich and poor, high and low, mingle in the throng, and take part in the
amusements of the day.
It is the day of San Juan. A broad grassy plain lies just outside the town
of San Ildefonso, and upon this the citizens are assembled. It is the
scene of the festival, and the sports will soon begin. Before they do, let
us stroll through the crowd, and note its component parts. All classes of
the community--in fact, all the community--appear to be present. There
go the two stout padres of the mission, bustling about in their long
gowns of coarse serge, with bead-string and crucifix dangling to their
knees, and scalp-lock close shaven. The Apache will find no trophy on
their crowns.
There is the cura of the town church, conspicuous in his long black
cloak, shovel hat, black silk stockings, pumps, and buckles. Now
smiling benignly upon the crowd, now darting quick Jesuitical glance
from his dark ill-meaning eyes, and now playing off his white jewelled

fingers, as he assists some newly-arrived "senora" to climb to her seat.
Great "ladies' men" are these same black-gowned bachelor-churchmen
of Mexico.
We have arrived in front of several rows of seats raised above one
another. Let us observe who occupy them. At a glance it is apparent
they are in possession of the "familias principales," the aristocracy of
the settlement. Yes--there is the rich "comerciante," Don Jose Rincon,
his fat wife, and four fat sleepy-looking daughters. There, too, is the
wife and family of the "Alcalde," and this magistrate himself with
tasselled official staff; and the Echevarrias--pretty creatures that they
think themselves--under care of their brother, the beau, who has
discarded the national costume for the mode de Paris! There is the rich
"hacendado," Senor Gomez del Monte, the owner of countless flocks
and broad acres in the valley; and there are others of his class with their
senoras and senoritas. And there, too, observed of all, is the lovely
Catalina de Cruces, the daughter of Don Ambrosio, the wealthy miner.
He will be a lucky fellow who wins the smiles of Catalina, or rather
perhaps the good graces of her father--for Don Ambrosio will have
much to say in the matter of her marriage. Indeed, it is rumoured that
that matter is already arranged; and that Captain Roblado, second in
command at the Presidio, is the successful suitor. There stands he, in
full moustache, covered with gold-lace, back and front, and frowning
fiercely on every one who dares to rest eye for a moment upon the fair
Catalina. With all his gold-lace and gallant strut, Catalina displays no
great taste in her choice;--but is he her choice? Maybe not--maybe he is
the choice of Don Ambrosio; who, himself of plebeian origin, is
ambitious that his blood should be mingled with that of the military
hidalgo. The soldier has no money--beyond his pay; and that is
mortgaged for months in advance; but he is a true Gachupino, of "blue
blood," a genuine "hijo de algo." Not a singular ambition of the old
miser, nor uncommon among parvenus.
Vizcarra, the Comandante, is on the ground--a tall colonel of forty--
laced and plumed like a peacock. A lively bachelor is he; and while
chatting with padre, cura, or alcalde, his eye wanders to the faces of the
pretty poblanas that are passing the spot. These regard his splendid

uniform with astonishment, which he, fancying himself "Don Juan
Tenorio," mistakes for admiration, and repays with a bland smile.
There, too, is the third officer--there are but the three--the teniente,
Garcia by name. He is better looking, and consequently more of a
favourite with both poblanas and rich senoritas, than either of his
superiors. I wonder the fair Catalina does not give her preference to
him. Who can tell that she does not? A Mexican dame does not carry
her soul upon her sleeve, nor upon her tongue neither.
It would be a task to tell of whom Catalina is thinking just now. It is
not likely at her age--she is twenty--that her heart is still her own; but
whose? Roblado's? I would wager, no. Garcia's? That would be a fairer
bet. After all, there are many others--young "hacendados," employes