ndians
of pure blood, speaking their old language, keeping alive much of the
ancient life and thought. In some parts of Mexico, it almost seems as if
what white-blood once existed is now breeding out. The indian of Mexico
is conservative; he does not want contact with a larger world; his
village suffices for his needs; he is ready to pay taxes for the sake of
being let alone, to live in peace, after the way his fathers lived. In
his bosom there is still hatred of the white man and the _mestizo_, and
distrust of every stranger. The Chamula outbreak in 1868, and the Maya
war just ended, are examples of this smouldering hatred. Mexico has a
serious problem in its Indians; the solution of the problem has been
attempted in various ways, according to whether the population dealt
with was Totonac, Yaqui, Maya: it is no small task, to build a nation
out of an indian population.

Soon after the publication of my "Indians of Southern Mexico," I had
the pleasure of presenting a copy of the book to President Diaz, and of
looking through its pictures with him. When we came to the general view
of Yodocono, and its little lake, tears stood in the old man's eyes as
he said, "Sir, that was my mother's birthplace, and in her honor I have
established, at my own expense, two schools, one for boys, and one for
girls." Looking at the round huts of Chicahuastla, he shivered, and
remarked: "Ah, sir, but it is cold in Chicahuastla." I replied, "Your
Excellency, I see that you have been in Chicahuastla." When he saw the
Zapotec types, from the District of Tehuantepec, he said: "They are fine
large fellows; they make good soldiers; when I was Governor of Oaxaca, I
had a body-guard of them." He then told me of the six orphan boys who,
in memory of his body-guard, he had adopted and educated; he told me
with pride of the success which the five who still live had made, and
of the positions they were filling. When he reached the portrait of the
little Mixtec, carrying a sack of corn, who, with pride, had told me, in
answer to my question, that his name was Porfirio Diaz, the President
of the Republic looked long and earnestly at the picture, and I noticed
that, when we turned the pages, his finger marked the spot where the
likeness of his name-sake was, and, when the book was finished, before
closing it, he turned back again, and looked at the little fellow's
face. At the first Otomi portrait, he had said: "Ah, sir, but my schools
will change the Oto