The streets of Ario, including every alleyway, are paved with sharp, flat stones, set on edge, wedged fast, the pavement running from wall to wall with a low stone gutter in the middle, into which open all the drains from the houses on either side. Along these central gutters are turned streams of ceaselessly flowing water, keeping the city constantly clean. This same sort of street paving and drainage prevails wherever possible in every Mexican city. To every town of consideration, water is carried, anciently, by substantial and often costly aqueducts; modernly, through pipe lines carefully laid. During the centuries of Spanish dominion these towns and cities have enjoyed a supply of water, pure, abundant and free to the poorest inhabitant. There are no water rates in Mexico. Water is regarded as one of the gifts of God to which every man and beast has an inalienable right. To charge for it, would be regarded as indecent and criminal. At the Rancho Tejemanil, I offered a boy a _centavo_ for bringing me a cup of cold water. He refused to take the coin and let it drop upon the ground, rather than disgrace himself by so much as touching it. He turned away, the coin lying where it fell. I apologized to the master of the house for having done such a thing as offer money for a drink of water. He answered, saying, “_Si, Si Señor!_” “Water is indeed a gift of God, for which no man should be asked to pay.”
Although Ario is in the neighborhood of extensive forests of pine and oak, yet all the buildings are constructed of stone and cement, mortar and adoby sun-dried brick. Indeed, I have seen no wooden buildings in Mexico. Consequently, there pervades Mexican cities, towns and even villages an air of substantial solidity, quite lacking in American wooden towns.
[Illustration: THE AUTHOR--PLAZA GRANDE--ARIO]
We brought letters to the Jefe Politico, _Señor Don_ Louis Salchaga, the despot of the county and governor of the iron hand. He was of large physique; tall, broad-shouldered, firmly knit, with strong, square chin and commanding eye. His hair was gray almost to whiteness; and a sweeping mustache, re-enforced the general impressiveness of his countenance. He was clad in a linen undress military uniform. He greeted us with courtly Spanish graciousness. He lives in a two-storied stone house at the intersection of two streets, one of which leads from the _plaza_. Entering through a narrow doorway, at the side, we found ourselves in a small, cement-paved room, whose stone walls perhaps, in years gone by, were white with lime. Don Louis sat at a table scrutinizing papers handed him by a dark-faced youth, who stood at his side. As we entered he hastily signed them, pushed them toward the clerk and rose to greet us. We learned afterwards what the documents were, one of them a decree settling a lawsuit, the other an order that a prisoner be transferred from one jail to another some miles distant. Such an order is equivalent to a death warrant in this land of the iron hand. On the way, the prisoner is said to have “tried to escape.” Necessarily they have been forced to shoot him. He is buried where he falls.