Life in Mexico — Edition Insights

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In Category - Places Peoples
Calderón de la Barca, Madame (Frances Erskine Inglis), 1804?-1882 Project Gutenberg 2005 Not confirmed
Mexico -- Description and travel; Mexico -- Social life and customs Readers of public-domain and historical texts
Project Gutenberg digital edition en

Edition facts

Words 228,638
Reading time 995 min
Text sections 19

This digital edition of Life in Mexico — Edition Insights is described by source-level measurements including 228,638 words, 16 hr 35 min estimated reading time, and 19 detected text sections.

The text analysis averages about 28.3 words per sentence, while the detected sections provide another way to judge how the source is divided.

Project Gutenberg metadata also associates the work with “Mexico -- Description and travel,” connecting these edition facts with the source record’s subject description.

Madame Calderón de la Barca's 1843 letters from Mexico blend sharp social observation with travelogue, revealing tensions between European expectations and Mexican realities through descriptions of a threatened robbery, a museum's disarray, and the repaired but unoccupied presidential palace.
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Editorial Edition Score 4.8/5

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in Mexico, we shall have no reason to complain. I hope I am not seeing the cream before the milk!

Some Mexican visits appear to me to surpass in duration all that one can imagine of a visit, rarely lasting less than one hour, and sometimes extending over a greater part of the day. And gentlemen, at least, arrive at no particular time. If you are going to breakfast, they go also--if to dinner, the same--if you are asleep, they wait till you awaken--if out, they call again. An indifferent sort of man, whose name I did not even hear, arrived yesterday, a little after breakfast, sat still, and walked in to a late dinner with us! These should not be called visits, but visitations,--though I trust they do not often occur to that extent. An open house and an open table for your friends, which includes every passing acquaintance; these are merely Spanish habits of hospitality transplanted.

Had a visit from Señor ----- and his wife, very civil and obliging people, always agreeing with each other, and with you, and with all the world, almost to the extent of Polonius to Hamlet. Our conversation reminded me of that the whole time they were here.

I have just brought from the garden a lapful of pink roses, clove-carnations, and sweet-peas. Rosetta could not sing here--

"For June and December will never agree."

The weather is lovely, the air fresh and clear, the sky one vast expanse of bright blue, without a single cloud. Early this morning it was cool, but now, by ten o'clock, the air is as soft and balmy as on a summer-day with us.

28th.--Day of the memorable serenade. After dinner some ladies paid me a visit, amongst others the wife and daughter of the Spanish consul, Señor M---y, who were accompanied by the sister of Count A---a. They and a few gentlemen arrived about six o'clock, and it was said that the serenade would not begin till twelve. It may be supposed that our conversation, however agreeable it might be, would scarcely hold out that time. In fact, by nine o'clock, we were all nearly overcome by sleep, and by ten I believe we were already in a refreshing slumber, when we were awakened by the sound of crowds assembling before the door, and of carriages arriving and stopping. Not knowing who the occupants might be, we could not invite them in, which seemed very inhospitable, as the night, though fine, was cold and chilly. About eleven the Count and Countess C---a arrived, and the Señora de G----, a remarkably handsome woman, a Spaniard, looking nearly as young as her daughters; also the pretty daughters of the proprietress of this house, who was a beauty, and is married to her third husband; and a lively little talkative person, the Señora de L---n, all Spanish; and who, some on that account, and others from their husbands having been former friends of C---n's have not waited for the ceremony of receiving cards. Gradually, however, several Mexican ladies, whom we had sent out to invite, came in. Others remained in their carriages, excusing themselves on the plea of their not being _en toilette_. We had men _à discrétion_, and the rooms were crowded.

About midnight arrived a troop of Mexican soldiers, carrying torches, and a multitude of musicians, both amateur and professional, chiefly the former, and men carrying music-stands, violins, violoncellos, French horns, etc., together with an immense crowd, mingled with numbers of léperos, so that the great space in front of the house as far as the aqueduct, and all beyond and along the street as far as we could see, was covered with people and carriages. We threw open the windows, which are on a level with the ground, with large balconies and wide iron gratings, and the scene by the torch-light was very curious. The Mexican troops holding lights for the musicians, and they of various countries, Spanish, German, and Mexican; the léperos, with their ragged blankets and wild eyes, that gleamed in the light of the torches; the ladies within, and the crowd without, all formed a very amusing _spectacle_.

At length the musicians struck up in full chorus, accompanied by the whole orchestra. The voices were very fine, and the instrumental music so good, I could hardly believe that almost all were amateur performers.

In a letter dated from Mexico, Madame Calderón de la Barca recounts a dinner party interrupted by a note warning of a planned robbery. The threat, discovered by a servant overhearing conspirators in a pulque-shop, is met with soldiers and precautions—yet nothing happens. This episode captures the author's recurring attention to the gap between visible calm and underlying instability. The palace, she notes, has 'got in its glass eyes again' and is externally repaired, but the president still holds court in a convent. Such details typify her method: she records surfaces while hinting at what lies beneath.

A Museum of Unfulfilled Promise

When Calderón visits the national museum, she finds a collection that 'improves upon acquaintance' but is fundamentally disorganized. The antiquities are 'crowded together' in university rooms; plans to move them to the old Inquisition building have stalled. She catalogs what is there—over two hundred historical manuscripts, colossal statues, vases from the Isle of Sacrifices, portraits of viceroys—yet concludes that the museum 'is not worthy of a country which seems destined by nature to be the great emporium of all natural science.' The judgment is precise: the raw material is rich, but arrangement and ambition lag. Her eye for institutional shortcomings mirrors her broader interest in how Mexico's potential is checked by incomplete projects.

The Texture of Daily Danger

The robbery warning is not an isolated incident. Calderón casually mentions that the household has 'procured two old soldiers as porters, in lieu of the two who were shot in the revolution.' Though not killed, those men are 'entirely disabled for the present.' The revolution is a recent, tangible presence, not an abstraction. Yet she also reports that 'Mexico appears particularly quiet just now; and whatever storms may be preparing, no symptoms are visible to the uninitiated eye.' This oscillation between alertness and calm defines her narrative stance. She is neither alarmist nor naive; she registers threats and repairs, violence and routine, without resolving the tension.

Freshness After Rain

Amid accounts of danger and institutional neglect, Calderón offers passages of pure sensory pleasure. Morning rides to Tacubaya and the environs reveal 'the most indescribable freshness, caused by the evening rains.' The Peruvian trees 'glitter with the heavy rain-drops,' and even the ancient cypresses of Chapultepec 'sparkle with water in all their gigantic branches.' These moments are not mere decoration; they provide a counterweight to the narrative's darker undercurrents. The same city that harbors robbers and houses a neglected museum also yields landscapes of startling beauty. Her prose shifts register easily, moving from bureaucratic frustration to lyrical observation, and this flexibility is one of the book's quiet strengths.

Calderón's letters resist easy categorization. They are neither a tourist's guide nor a political treatise, but a personal record that moves between the intimate and the institutional. Readers will find that the most revealing passages are often the most incidental: a note passed at dinner, a museum's dusty corner, the gleam of wet leaves. Pay attention to what she chooses to describe and what she leaves unexplained—the gaps are as instructive as the details.

Reading Madame Calderón’s letters, especially the empty presidential palace waiting for its master, I felt a quiet loneliness peculiar to places with grand histories. It reminded me of walking the moors near Whitby, where ruins and footprints linger without owners. That same patient, unfulfilled presence haunts Yorkshire—Coast and Moorland Scenes — Context and Discussion, whose landscapes seemed to hold their breath for a past that never quite returned.

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