across the bridge from
El Paso, and you are in a new atmosphere. El Paso is like a New England
town, after all; a little rough here and there, a little strange it may
be, like the strangeness of the city pets, the alligators, who sleep in
luxurious laziness in the public square; but yet it all was in our
ways, and we were at home. But in Juarez all is different. As we drive
along, two men by the roadside making adobe looked as if they might
have been with the Israelites in Egypt at the same business. With their
naked legs they were kneading up the black muck, which, when of the
proper consistency, they deftly moulded into form for the great master
workman, the sun, to dry at his leisure and pleasure. The streets of
the town seemed bare. The shops were in most cases without windows or
exterior openings, save the entrance door. The booths and stalls in the
streets for cheap eatables, vegetables, pottery, and odds and ends had
a wild, gypsy grace about them, all water-colors, ready to be painted,
just as they were.

We saw the post-office where Juarez kept up the government and
existence of the Republic of Mexico during the whole of the Maximilian
invasion. It was a close point to the United States for escape and
liberty if he was molested. When Maximilian received his death-shot,
Juarez went on with his presidency, taking no notice whatever of the
usurpation as if it never had place. This man, of pure Indian blood,
was certainly of heroic mould, and a stanch lover of light and liberty.

We looked into the church, a most interesting old adobe building, with
walls of immense thickness. The interior was a well-proportioned
parallelogram of good height, with a grand wooden roof of carved beams
of a dark hue, possibly black with age. We were told that the work had
been all done by native workmen in ages past. Part of the doors in the
same style, like Aztec work, had been ripped away and thrown outside to
make way for a jimcrack gallery for singers. We longed to bring those
old doorposts with us, and looked up with gratification at the roof as
yet safe in its distance and old magnificence. The church walls had
been all done up in whitewash, and the altar was adorned with saints
and a Madonna decked out in real laces, satins, velvets, and jewelry,
possibly real also. The effect of it all was bizarre and a trifle
depressing.

We saw the arena for the Sunday and _fete_-day bull fights, and also
the square behind the church whe