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 SOLUTIONS TO “APPLIED CIRCUIT ANALYSIS”

CHAPTER 10

Prob. 10.1

 (0.8  0.6) 106 0.3  0.2

V N  300    0.03 V = 30 mV
t 2 103 2

Prob. 10.2


V N  250  2= 500 V
t

Prob. 10.3
 V 5
V N  N   10, 000 turns
t  / t (0.8  0.3)  103

Prob. 10.4
 (7  2)
V N  400   400  5 = 2 kV
t 1

Prob. 10.5


V N  60  40 103  240 103
t
V  0.24 V

Prob. 10.6

 500  20V
V N 
t 5 106
 2 104 106  20 109
 20 GV

Prob. 10.7

di di  1 10 
V L  0.25    mV , 0  t  2 
dt dt  4 2 
 1  10  
    mV , 2  t  4
4  2  
1.25mV , 0  t  2 
V 
 1.25mV , 2  t  4 
 V

125mV

0 2 4

-125mV

Prob. 10.8

 4  6, 0  t  1
di di 
v  L  4   0,1  t  2
dt dt 
4  (6), 2  t  3
v is as sketched below.

v(t)
24

0
1 2 3 t

-24

Prob. 10.9

N2A
L  L  N2

By doubling the value of N,
L = (2)240 = 160 mH
Prob. 10.10

i V 10mV
V L  L   0.2 H
t i / t 50mA / s

Prob. 10.11

i V 6
V L  L   30 H
t i / t 0.2

Prob. 10.12

i 4 A
(a)   4 AI s
t I s
i V 6.5
(b) V  L 
L   1.625H
t i 4
t

Prob. 10.13

i
V L  200 103  240 103
t
V  48 mV

Prob. 10.14
di
V (t )  L
dt
di i i2  i1
 
dt t t2  t1
i i i
0ms to 2ms 
  0 0  0  VL (t )  0
t (2  0)ms
i 5  10
2ms to 8ms    5  0.833  VL (t )   (20 103 )(0.833)
t (8  2)ms 6
 16.67 mV
8ms to  
0
 Vi(t)(mV) Deleted:

0 2 8 t
(ms)
-5

-10
-16.67
-15

-20

Prob. 10.15

i
V L
t
12 103
26 103  L
1.5 103
1.5
L  26  103  3.25 mH
12

Prob. 10.16

N2A L 800 106  8  102

L  N2    450,316.4
o  r A 7  (1.2)
2

4 10 10 4

4
N  671

Prob. 10.17

N2A L 50 106  4  102

L  N2    20, 264.24
o  r A 7  (2)
2

4  10  10 4

4
N  142
Prob. 10.18
L  N2 or L  kN 2
L 4mH
k 2 
N (500) 2
L 6mH
L1  kN12  N12  1  (500)  375, 000
k 4mH
N1  612.4

Prob. 10.19

A  3.5cm 2  3.5 104 m 2

l  54.2cm 2  0.542 m
  7.6  104 H/m
L  400 mH
N 2μA Ll
L  N2 
L μA
Ll (0.4)(0.542)
N 
μA (7.6  104 )(3.5 104 )
0.2168
N 
  910
26.6 108

Prob. 10.20

N 2 A
L
l
2 A2  1 A1
L2 N 22 l12 (3) 2 1
     18
L1 N12 l22 (1) 2 0.5
Therefore the second coil has 18 times the inductance of the first coil.

Prob. 10.21

di di V 2.5
V L ,    0.625 V/s
dt dt L 4
Prob. 10.22

1 2 1
W Li  10  (2) 2  20 J
2 2

Prob. 10.23

1 2 2W 2  0.25
W Li  i   1.25 A
2 L 0.4

Prob. 10.24
1 2 1
W Li   60  103  (2) 2  120 mJ
2 2

Prob. 10.25

At steady-state, each inductor acts like a short circuit, while the capacitor acts like
an open circuit. By voltage division,
3
v (16)  6 V
3  15
16
i1  i2  2A
53

Prob. 10.26
2
iL
+

4 vC
3A 

By current division,

4
iL  (3)  2A, vc = 0V
42

1 2 11 2
wL  L i L   (2)  1J
2 22
 1 1
wc  C v c2  (2)( v)  0J
2 2

Prob. 10.27

Under dc conditions, the circuit is as shown below:

4 iL1
+
iL2
+ vC2
+
30V vC1 

 6

30
i L1  i L 2   3A
46

v C1  6i L1  18V

v C 2  0V

Prob. 10.28

L = 5 x 80 mH = 400 mH

Prob. 10.29

200  800
L  200  800   160μH
200  800

Prob. 10.30

(a) L eq  5  6 1  4 4  5  6 3  7H

(b) L eq  12 1  6 6   12 4  3H
(c) L eq  4 2  3 6  4 4  2H

Prob. 10.31


L eq  10  5 4 12  3 6 
= 10 + 5||(3 + 2) = 10 + 2.5 = 12.5 mH

Prob. 10.32

1 1 1 1 1
    L = 10 mH
L 60 20 30 10

10 x 35
L eq  10 25  10  
45

= 7.778 mH

Prob. 10.33

3//2//6 = 1H, 4//12 = 3H

After the parallel combinations, the circuit becomes that shown below.
3H
a

1H

1H b

Lab = (3+1)//1 = (4x1)/5 = 0.8 H

Prob. 10.34

L eq  6  10  8 5 (8  12)  6 (8  4)

 16  8 (4  4)  16  4

Leq = 20 mH
Prob. 10.35

1 L
LLL 
3 3
L
Hence the given circuit is equivalent to that shown below:

L/3 L/3
L

5
Lx L
 2  3  5L
L eq  L L  L 
 3  5 8
L L
3

Prob. 10.36

1 2
(a) 1  2   0.67 H
1 2
11 0.67
6  5  11 H, 0.67  11   0.63 H
11.67
Leq  4  8  0.67  12.67 H
4 2 8
(b) 3  1  5H, 4  2=   1.33 H
6 6
Leq  4  1.33  5.33 H

Prob. 10.37

(a) e-15/1  e 5  0.006738

(b) e-101/2  e 5  0.006738
(c) e-52/5  e 2  0.1355
Prob. 10.38
L
i (t )  I o e  t / ,   4/2  2
R
i (t )  3e  t / 2  3e 0.5t
i (t  5)  3e 5/ 2  0.2463 A

Prob. 10.39

When t < 0, the switch is closed and the inductor acts like a short circuit to dc. The 4 
resistor is short-circuited so that the resulting circuit is as shown in Fig. (a).
3

+ i(0-)
12 V 4 2H


(a) (b)

12
i (0  ) 4A
3
Since the current through an inductor cannot change abruptly,
i(0)  i(0  )  i(0  )  4 A

When t > 0, the voltage source is cut off and we have the RL circuit in Fig. (b).
L 2
    0.5
R 4
Hence,
i( t )  i(0) e - t   4 e-2t A

Prob. 10.40

L

R th
where R th is the Thevenin resistance at the terminals of the inductor.

R th  70 || 30  80 || 20  21  16  37 
2  10 -3
  54.05 µs
37
Prob. 10.41

Converting the wye-subnetwork to delta gives

16 

R2

80mH R1

R3

30 

10 x 20  20 x50  50 x10 1700 1700

R1   1700 / 20  85, R2   34 , R3   170
20 50 10

30//170 = (30x170)/200 = 25.5  , 34//16=(34x16)/50 =10.88 

85 x36.38 L 80 x10 3
RTh  85 //( 25.5  10.88)   25.476,    3.14 ms
121.38 RTh 25.476

Prob. 10.42

L
(a) RTh  12  10 // 40  20,   5 / 20  0.25s
RTh
L
(b) RTh  40 // 160  8  40,   (20 x10 3 ) / 40  0.5 ms
RTh

Prob. 10.43

L 14 1
i( t )  i(0) e - t  ,   
R eq 4 16
i( t )  2 e -16t
di
vo ( t )  3i  L  6 e-16t  (1 4)(-16) 2 e-16t
dt
 vo ( t )  - 2 e -16t V

Prob. 10.44

If v( t )  0 , the circuit can be redrawn as shown below.

+
0.4 H
Req vo(t)
i(t) 

6 L 2 5 1
R eq  2 || 3  ,    
5 R 5 6 3
i( t )  i(0) e - t   e -3t
di - 2
v o ( t )  -L  (-3) e -3t  1.2 e-3t V
dt 5

Prob. 10.45

L 1
(a)   
 R  50L
R 50
di
-v L
dt
- 120 e - 50t  L(30)(-50) e - 50t 
 L  80 mH
R  50L  4 Ω
L 1
(b)    20 ms
R 50

Prob. 10.46

L
i( t )  i(0) e - t  , 
R eq
2
R eq  5 || 20  1  5  , 
5
i( t )  10 e -2.5t A

Using current division, the current through the 20 ohm resistor is

5 -i
io  (-i)   -2 e -2.5t
5  20 5
 v( t )  20 i o  -40 e-2.5t V

Prob. 10.47

Since the 2  resistor, 1/3 H inductor, and the (3+1)  resistor are in parallel,
they always have the same voltage.

2 2
-i    1 .5  i(0)  -1.5
2 3 1
The Thevenin resistance R th at the inductor’s terminals is
4 L 13 1
R th  2 || (3  1)  ,   
3 R th 4 3 4
i( t )  i(0) e - t   -1.5 e -4t , t  0
di
v L  v o  L  -1.5(-4)(1/3) e -4t
dt
v o  2 e-4t V, t  0
1
vx  v  0.5 e-4t V, t>0
31 L

Prob. 10.48

When the switch is in position A,

i= –6 = i(0)
When the switch is in position B,
i ( )  12 / 4  3,   L / R  1/ 8

i(t )  i ()  [i(0)  i ()]e  t /   3  9e 8t A

Prob. 10.49

We find RTh at the inductor terminals as shown below

220Ω RTh 180Ω

150Ω 100Ω

RTh  220  150  180  100

 89.19  64.29
 153.48
L 103
   6.52 s
R eq 153.48

Prob. 10.50

L
  5  5
R
5  50  103

2
 125 ms
Prob. 10.51

I does not depend on L

Vs 6
(a) I    50 mA
R 120
V
(b) i (t )  (1  e  ( R / L )t ), Multiply both sides by  R
R V
Ri Ri
  1  e ( R / L )t  1   e ( R / L )t
V V
Taking natural log of both sides to solve for L
 Rt 120  40  106 4.8 103
L  
In(1  iR ) In 1  (5 103 )(120  0.1054
V  6
L  45.6 mH
L 45.6  103
   380  s
R 120

Prob. 10.52

(a) - L
Vs

+ R
. i

Vs  iR  L di 0
dt
Constant current is established  di 0
dt
Vs 120
Vs  iR  0  L    0.3 A
R 400
i  0.3 A
Prob. 10.53

The schematic is shown above with initial current through the inductor set equal to IC =
10. Both i(t) and v(t) are shown below.
10A

5A

0A
0s 0.1s 0.2s 0.3s 0.4s 0.5s 0.6s 0.7s 0.8s 0.9s 1.0s
I(L1)
Time

40V

30V

20V

10V

0V
0s 0.1s 0.2s 0.3s 0.4s 0.5s 0.6s 0.7s 0.8s 0.9s 1.0s
V(R3:2) - V(R3:1)
Time

Prob. 10.54

The make-before-break switch is not available in PSpice. For t < 0, we can find the
initial inductor current as i(0) = -6A. For t >0, we use the schematic below with IC = -6.
The inductor current i(t) is shown below.
-3.0A

-4.0A

-5.0A

-6.0A
0s 0.1s 0.2s 0.3s 0.4s 0.5s 0.6s 0.7s 0.8s 0.9s 1.0s
I(L1)
Time

Prob. 10.55

The schematic is shown above, while the capacitor voltage v(t) is shown below.
 -12V

-16V

-20V

-24V
0s 1s 2s 3s 4s 5s 6s 7s 8s 9s 10s
V(C1:1) - V(C1:2)
Time

Prob. 10.56

For t < 0, we use the schematic below to find i(0) = 7.714 A.

For t > 0, we use the schematic below with initial inductor current IC = 7.714.

The inductor current is shown below.

 10A

0A

-10A

-20A
0s 1s 2s 3s 4s 5s 6s 7s 8s 9s 10s
I(L1)
Time

Prob. 10.57

We can obtain the initial current through the inductor when the switch is in position a.
We get io(0) = 12/3 = 4 A. For t > 0, we apply Multisim with IC = 4 on the inductor.
The circuit is shown below.

The inductor current io(t) is shown below.

Prob. 10.58

The circuit is shown above, while the output voltage vo(t) is shown below.
Prob. 10.59

The circuit is shown above, while vo(t) is shown below.

Prob. 10.60

Let Io be the final value of the current. Then

i( t )  I o (1  e  t /  ),   L / R  0.16 / 8  1 / 50

1 1
0.6I o  I o (1  e 50 t )  t ln  18.33 ms.
50 0.4

Prob. 10.61

Let i be the inductor current.

120
For t < 0, i (0  )   1 .2 A
100
 For t > 0, we have an RL circuit
L 50
   0.1 , i()  0
R 100  400
i( t )  i()   i(0)  i() e - t 
i( t )  1.2 e -10t

At t = 100 ms = 0.1 s,
i(0.1)  1.2 e -1  0.441 A
which is the same as the current through the resistor.

Prob. 10.62

Since   0.1 T  1 s
L
 1 s
R

L  R  10 -6  (200  10 3 )(1  10 -6 )

L<200 mH
Prob. 10.63

12
i o (0)   240 mA , i()  0
50
i( t )  i()   i(0)  i() e - t 
i( t )  240 e - t 

L 2
 
R R
i( t 0 )  10  240 e - t 0 

e t 0   24   t 0   ln (24)
t0 5 2
   1.573 
ln (24) ln (24) R
2
R  1.271 Ω
1.573
Exploring the Variety of Random
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halter are put on him without his knowing it. The rider gets down
gently on to his back from the wooden wall. Then when the
president gives the word "Turn him out!" a door swings free and out
plunges the horse. The cowboy beats him to the one side and to the
other with his felt hat, and spurs him forward, and the horse
behaves like a mad dromedary, makes double humps of his back,
leaps right in air, and turns about and about. When the cowboy has
been on for one minute the man in the brown shirt fires his revolver
in the air and five or six cowboys race to the rider to rescue him
from the bolting, careening horse. This is often the most exciting
part of the event. It may develop into a terrific race. Sometimes,
before the rider can be lifted from the wild horse to another
cowboy's horse, or safely dismounted, the bronco has crashed right
through the wooden inclosure. That was what happened to Buck
Thompson, on Orphan Boy, and the wild horse got rid of him on the
fence as it pounded right through it.
The little town of Las Vegas, meaning The Meadows, was crowded
with visitors, some of them of an outlandish type that seldom strays
from home. One dame in a restaurant, dressed in the style of the
early nineties, asked us what part we came from. When I said
"England" she turned to her husband with—
"Lord's sake, what do you know about that?"
Then she turned to me and asked—
"Did you come all the way by car?"
The Secretary of the Reunion undertook to house most people who
came, and he sat at a desk with a telephone and kept the town
awake asking all and sundry for hospitality for visitors. This
secretary, I discovered afterwards, was a poet.
My wife and I were happily accommodated in a house where beside
ourselves were three very eager cowboys, and in the corral at the
back were their horses. We naturally were deeply interested in their
fortunes. The first day was not so good for them, but on the second
morning with the roping and bull dogging they shone. I think all
three won prizes.
I was very eager to see the bull dogging, which is a unique western
sport. Jack Thorp and his wife and the artist Penhallow Henderson,
who were with us at the round-up, were glowing in their pride in it,
and told some amusing stories in connection with it. The cowboys,
when they joined the Army, commonly said they were off to "bull
dog the Kaiser." Bull dogging started in Texas, and a Negro named
Pickett is sometimes reputed as the originator of the sport. Pickett
one day entered the bull ring at Juarez on the other side of the
Mexican line and interrupted a bull fight by bull dogging the bull.
Juarez is on the other side of the Rio Grande from El Paso.
Americans go back and forth all the while, and on Sundays many are
not averse to seeing a bull fight there. It is a rough-and-tumble city;
the bull ring is just a stone amphitheater.
One Sunday some years ago Pickett bull dogged the bull. He was at
the entrance to the ring with his horse, and he had had enough to
drink. A number of white cowboys, Texans, were about him,
encouraging him, and they wagered him to ride into the ring in the
midst of the fight. Then the humorous and loquacious Pickett, who
was a famous character, spurred his horse across the arena, got the
bull a-running, and then, overtaking him at a gallop, leapt from his
saddle on to the bull's horns. The impetus of the gallop he imparted
to his wrists as he twisted the horns and laid the fierce animal with a
thud flat on his flanks on the arena sand—to the uproarious cheers
of the Americans present and the prolonged, angry hisses of the
Mexicans.
Well, that is bull dogging, the Wild West's substitute sport for the
Spanish corrida. I watched it and steer riding for hours in the cattle
ring of the cowboys, and I suppose it would be difficult to find a
sport with a greater thrill in it—to see a cowboy on a fine horse
going full tilt after a frightened steer that has got the start of him—
and how these clumsy animals can go it when once they think they
are being chased!—neck to neck, horse and bullock, dark mane and
long horn, dirt splashing upward as they go, cowboys looking on and
laughing and shouting, "Let go that horse—on'm, cowboy!" and then
the leap in air and the rider clutching the brown bovine neck or
actually sitting with one thigh across a madly plunging horn, and the
bullock going on with him, trailing him, wiping the ground with him
for fifty yards or more, if the cowboy has not been able to impart the
momentum of the galloping horse to the twist which he gives to the
horns to bring the animal down.
Each rider is timed, and the one who performs the feat in the
shortest time wins the prize. I saw it done in fifteen seconds—a
turning over of the bull with the rapidity of a pistol shot; the leap
from the horse and twist of horns and thud all consecutive. I saw it
also done in two minutes and thirty seconds, where the bull dogger,
holding on to the horns yet lying full length ahead of the bull, was
rushed part way round the arena like a toboggan.
And besides this risky thrilling fun there was steer riding, which is
also what might be called a part substitute for a bull fight. Riding at
full pace on a rushing steer is a violent sport—clown's fun after the
bull dogging. The bullocks are greatly enraged at being ridden, and
they flounder and blunder and toss imaginary bundles in air and
glare out of their eyes like searchlights while the wild boy above,
with chaps on his legs, waves his sombrero in air and gives forth
Indian war whoops all the while.
The great Western crowd laughs, so do the cowboys, so do the
judges, and even the many horses ranged on all sides seem to look
on with mirth. It hardly feels like this century—one thinks of
medieval jollity, but comparisons are misleading. Such fun is of all
time. The Athenians would have loved it. And bull dogging would
have been a greater diversion in the Roman Coliseum than the
Christians and the lions.
After the bull dogging there was roping of wild horses, saddling
them and riding them. The horses were let loose in the arena and
each cowboy had to catch his. As these had never been broken the
excitement can be imagined, excitement of the horses, of the would-
be riders, and of the crowd looking on. It was fully twenty minutes
before even one cowboy had saddled and bridled a horse—and he
could not make the animal go round the course.
Then we had a chuck-wagon race, wagons blundering round the
course to given points where they had to stop, horses had to be
taken out of shafts and put in imaginary corrals, rear flap of wagon
to be let down, a fire lit on the ground and a pot of coffee boiled.
Then a Roman race and a relay race. And Idaho Bill in his alligator
hide boots chewed his cigar all the while as if to him all the horses
belonged, and the president of the reunion galloped from point to
point of the arena judging the competitors in each race. And all the
while a brass band played "I'm Nobody's Darling" and kindred airs.
In the evenings after all these doings there were cowboy dances and
a rolling up and down Las Vegas' streets of a vaunting, leather-lined
crowd. Some still rode about on their horses, but most had taken
their steeds to their "corrals" and thrown them out their armfuls of
green alfalfa for the night. The legless cowboy in his crimson shirt
still rode his ebony horse and had evidently found liquor, for he rode
into the main entrance of Las Vegas' only fine hotel, clattered round
the stone hall and stood with his horse in the doorway of the main
dining room, asking in a stentorian voice for a roast beef sandwich.
The pallor in the faces of some Easterners who had "stopped off" on
the way to California was most apparent. "Why don't they phone the
police?" said one old man, mopping his brow with his handkerchief.
But the cowboy kept quite calm and, unloosing his rope, made a
pass to rope the old man and roped a young girl with chestnut hair
instead. She laughed, but was not a little alarmed, so the cowboy
unloosed her and lassoed the cashier at the desk instead, and then
the hotel manager. Then they brought him his beef sandwich, and
with a splutter of hoofs he rode out of the hotel into the gay streets
again.
 CHAPTER IX
INDIANS

The story of the Indians in America is the story of the weak in the
presence of the strong. Despite the ideals which reign in capitals and
cultural centers it is always the same with the main body of the
human race—the strong may pity the weak but they will not forbear
to use the advantage of their strength. There is little to choose
between Spaniards and English. There is little to choose between
any of the races; Belgians in the Congo, Portuguese in Brazil,
Russians in Turkestan; they have dispossessed, enslaved, expelled,
destroyed, without a mist upon their conscience. And it is difficult to
think that mankind has improved. If a new world were discovered
to-day, if the ocean delivered up a new continent, the first thought
would be—Is there gold there? If we found people living on it,
specimens would be brought to be shown to prime ministers and
exhibited in places of amusement. And there would be a rush to that
new world of gold seekers, pirates, adventurers, and Imperial
administrators.
So it may be pardoned if at this stage in American history one
refuses to wax indignant over how Spaniards and Anglo-Saxon
forefathers of present Americans behaved toward the natural
possessors of the soil.
The justification for the rapine of America—or at least of North
America—is that it has been made into a "going concern." We
believe in our curious self-complacence that an American humanity
with factories, gilded by millionaires and mighty banks, towering
heavenward in mighty cities, is a greater glory to God than the life of
Hiawatha and his friends. We must confess that it seems so, and it is
difficult to hear the ancient whisper—Where is thy brother Abel?
The Indians, however, are not forgotten. They are more
remembered now that they are few. There comes a moment when
the old race is mostly underground, or tucked safely away in
wildernesses, remote from human ken, that the new race of
conquerors becomes sentimental. It has destroyed all that it adored,
and now it adores all that it has destroyed. It is so now in the United
States, where the Indians have become the pets of tourists and the
theme of poets.
You have to travel far to meet the Indians, so the railway companies
have used the Indian as an advertisement, not only pictured but
living. For at Las Vegas station or at Albuquerque, and many others,
do you not see station Indians all bedizened, walking up and down
before the delighted traveler's eyes. The Indian has become part of
the romance of far travel.
The United States have left their own primitive past behind, and
emerged from the mud and the smells and the roughness of pioneer
days. All America treads paved sidewalks. All America goes in cars.
All America is in clean linen and good clothes. There is electric light,
sanitation. Baths have become more national than in Russia or
Turkey. America indeed leads civilization and leads it forward. So the
distance between the Indians and the citizens of the United States
grows more and more remarkable. The gap is a sort of Grand Cañon
in itself, a grand cañon in the continuity of human things.
The sentimental interest is therefore greatly intensified by the
spectacular one, the paradoxical one, of one people standing still
whilst all the rest of the world moves on, a people who refuse to
budge from what they were in 1492.
I suppose those Indians were most lucky whose habitat was more
remote; those who were furthest from the capital of New Spain;
those who were furthest from the centers of population in the United
States. Probably the Pueblo Indians of New Mexico were in that
position. That is why they have survived so well. The deserts have
been their protection.
An acquaintance, buying land near Ramah, New Mexico, found,
when he took over a new estate, that there was behind his ranch-
house a whole village of cliff dwellings. In a like manner when in
1848 America took over the new territory which was the spoil of the
Mexican War she found she took with it the Pueblo Indians, living
more or less untouched, unmolested, as they had lived for centuries.
Remote from Aztec power, remote from Cortes' power, remote from
Spanish power, remote from the seat of power of the Mexican
Empire, now remote also from modern America and all that America
means, the Pueblo Indians are still happy in their traditional homes,
worshipping raingods in the desert, dancing ceremonial dances,
dancing their sorrows and their ecstasies.
I was at the Indian pueblo of San Juan on St. John's Day. The
Indians and the Mexicans were holding a fiesta. Broadly beat the sun
on the mountainous deserts, on the wind-carved, pyramidal
mountains and strange rocks, on the sandy waste of the river bed,
and on the mud huts of the Indians.
Such a hubbub! The drums of the Indians are beating, throbbing;
the many feathers of the war bonnets are bobbing over the
sombreros of the dark-suited Mexican crowd which looks on. There
is dancing. Let us climb on to the roofs of the mud huts and look
down on it.
The drums that they are beating are shaped like sections of tree
trunks, but adorned with rude swastikas. Indian warriors, all painted
and bedizened and armed, are dancing to the tune of the drum
beats, and beautiful women with long hair hanging down their
backs, broad set faces, slightly lifting feet in white curl-toe boots, are
balancing little feather-topped arrows in each hand.
The war chiefs' dance is a sort of war prance; an arrow-shooting
gesture, a spear-holding gesture! And as they dance they jingle their
belt bells and set earrings and rattles all atinkling. Their long hair is
done up in twin pellicules of fur, and hangs in long tails over their
shoulders—or it is inter-plaited with bright ribbons. Their faces are
painted in various ways. The leading man, carrying a pink-melon-
colored, scythe shaped banner, has black ladders on his cheeks
climbing to his yellow-circled eyes. Another man has a striped face,
stove black alternating with brightest orange; another has yellow
star-rays round his eyes and the ruddiest blood-red over the rest of
his face. One is painted top half yellow, lower half rose-red. Almost
all wear war bonnets, brown or fawn felt hats, or buckskin caps
trimmed with selected black and white feathers. All the feathers are
white tipped except those which have been dipped in the war paint.
On one warrior this headdress is adorned with small circular mirrors
the size of watch lids; they circle his face and gleam in the sun, but
they also continue downward at the bases of the long stream of
feathers to his ankles. For these feathery bonnets, starting as a
broad crest to the brows, finish only short of the ground—and how
they dance in the wind as their owners dance!
All the men carry weapons and shields—spears with bright ribbons,
imitation bayonets, revolvers, pistols, swords, bows and arrows.
One, having on his shield a blood-red star and crescent, slews in the
air with a great curved sword. Several are naked to the middle, but
all are powdered or dabbed with white paint. They have large
feminine-looking breasts, deep-cut navels, smooth skins and no hair.
They perspire profusely, and fan themselves occasionally with
feathers. One almost naked pagan has the stars and stripes for a
loin cloth, and prances about with a sham rifle. Occasionally the
seminaked ones seem to obtain furs from somewhere, and appear
with their backs and bellies quite covered up.
The drummers are older looking men, very stern in their expression.
They know nothing of tradition except its binding force. One of them
has a crown of fresh-cut stems of the cottonwood tree. They beat
their throbbing drum taps. They sing, they chant, they mumble—
mumble, mumble, dum, dum, dum—it is hardly a tune but a sensual
appeal. The men do the dance, plunging back and forth; the women
throb and quiver, with their broad-booted feet, and short, broad,
brightly enwrapped bodies, and wide, woodlike faces, and low, broad
brows framed in sharp-cut ebony hair. Their front hair is cut
Egyptian-wise, sphinx-wise, while down to where the waist should
be behind hangs a great cloud of untrimmed waving tresses. They
quiver, the men prance. All the dancers are in fours—the men and
the women in alternate files, thirty men and thirty women.
The men are the fighters; the women serve them with arrows. The
men prance in front of the women; the women are protected by
them. The women scarcely change their positions the whole time,
but the men diagonalize between files and prance forward in front of
them, lifting high their weapons and emitting curious little cries and
yelps. As they kill in the ritual they give the deathcry of the victims.
They dance six long dances, and after each, in a processional
bacchanalia, leave the scene of the dance, and with splendor of
waving color, file upward on ladders on to the roofs of the houses
and disappear through holes in the roof into the two kivas, or council
chambers of the men and of the women.
It is also a Mexican holiday, and near by goes a dilapidated "merry-
go-round," worked by hand by two men, with the wretchedest
burble of music, a torn canvas roof, and a flag. Somewhere, also, in
the background, a cowboy is riding a bucking bronco while dark-
eyed Mexican youth looks on.
But the mud huts of the Indians and the freshly made, green-
branched street shrines of St. John and the Madonna are the real
background of the fiesta. The last dance of the afternoon is danced
bowingly and worshipfully into a green alcove, where stands a little
silver and white Virgin, and an old Mexican is sitting beside her,
playing dreamily on a violin. In one respect at least the Indians are
not as they were. They have become Catholics. I am told that is
merely a polite acquiescence on their part, and though with their
faces they bow to the Madonna their hearts know her not.
In the course of the summer we rode to seven or eight Indian
villages; sometimes to dances, sometimes just to see the villages
themselves and the normal way of life in them. And we were much
besought to buy turquoise rings and bracelets and brightly woven
saddle blankets and rugs. Some visitors to Santa Fe bought great
quantities of these things, and one of the poets disported five or six
large silver and turquoise rings on his fingers and had more still in a
drawer. Nearly all the ladies of Santa Fe had waist belts adorned
with silver conches. The Indians work the same turquoise mines
which have been theirs immemorially, and they mine also silver,
though I think not a little of their silverware is now derived from
molten dollars. Paper money seems always inacceptable to the
Indians. So one always carries a weight of silver in one's pockets
when traveling in these parts.
Each pueblo is a community and lives a communal life. Their land is
held in common, and is inalienable. I believe their title derives from
the King of Spain, legalized by the Mexican Republic and recognized
by the United States when they conquered the country. Much of the
best land, however, has been stolen from them. There are many
squatters, both English- and Spanish-speaking. In many places their
water has been diverted, and they have been left stranded on yellow
sands. They have never been able to defend themselves in civilized
courts, being incapable of grasping the procedure—and they have
suffered accordingly. All this summer and autumn there raged a
campaign fostered by the artists and literary colony in Santa Fe, for
the protection of the Indians and the institution of new works of
irrigation to give them back their lost water. Thanks to this campaign
a spoliatory measure which passed the United States Senate,
commonly called the "Bursum Bill," was recalled. The object of this
Bill has been chiefly to give a legal title to the squatters. There is a
good deal of hope that, having frustrated the passing of this bill, the
Indian Committee of Santa Fe will have been able to introduce into
Congress a highly practical measure which at the same time would
help and protect the Indians, benefit the squatters, and pay for
itself. This is a bill for new irrigation works and compensatory land
grants to the Indians.
The great problem of living is that of water, and more than half the
Indian dances are prayers to a nature god for rain. The description
which I give here of our ride to Santo Domingo pueblo to their
greatest festival may give some suggestion of the desert and the
Indians praying for rain.

We rode down from the mountains with their green pastures to the
parched valleys and plateaus, and were told irrigation had ceased for
want of water. The river beds and channels and dykes were yellow
and dry and scorching. Rivers, instead of broadening out, grew less
as they flowed—attenuated. They became trickles, they became the
mere wetness of the tongue in the mouth, they disappeared.
Even the cactus has withered. The roselike cactus blossoms of the
higher mountains are no more. The fresh, green, spiny stalks are
brown and frightful in death. There is no grass for the horses, and
the only green things on the waste are rank, poisonous, deep-rooted
weeds which draw their sustenance from the moisture which is far
below.
The bones of dead cattle tell a melancholy tale of thirst. Woe to the
herd of the cowboys who do not know where water is to be found.
They are driving their herds over vast distances—from California into
Texas or beyond; they are taking their time, feeding well as they go.
Or they ought to be feeding well. And the cowboy's mind-map of the
world is one of hidden springs and constant pastures. So they have
driven the herds upwards, even though that be out of their way. For
there is no water or pasture below.
Our horses would fain return. When we rest them at noon they trail
their reins after them and start homeward and are not easily
captured. We have found alkali water in the depths of an arroyo.
The horses try to drink it but lap up bitter sand instead. They quit
trying to drink it and lie down on it instead and try to roll in it.
We climb black, boulder-strewn cliffs and look painfully once more at
the bleached bones of cattle. We walk our horses all the afternoon
over a sun-blazing prairie toward a horizon that seems infinitely
removed. And we see in the distance the bright, gleaming wheel of a
water windmill, and the wheel is surely revolving. Though not our
way, it means water, and we will go to it.
We are soon on a cow trail, a goat trail, a human trail—all making
for the windmill. How gayly the wheel flashes in the sunlight. It is
truly a delight—a token of happiness. But, alas, when we get to it
we find the cisterns and the troughs all empty. The wheel is
revolving, but it is drawing forth no water. All is desolate. We
dismount and sit on the wall of the concrete reservoir, and the
horses wonder why they are there.
But up above us revolves the wheel, once descried afar, now over
our very heads and actual. And it cries as it revolves:

No waw ... ter—Hell!

Creak, cranger—
He ... ll,
No waw ... ter—

And all strewn around on the ground are discarded bottles and cans,
and a cross of new wood marks somebody's grave.
"No waw ... ter!" Well, on to the horses again. We'll be on the great
Rio to-morrow, far away, low down below this sun-cursed moor. The
horses will drink deep when we get there. And we shall join the
Indians who on the day of St. Dominic are going to intercede and
dance for rain.
On the evening of the second day we rode into the mud-hut
settlement of the Indians of Santo Domingo and admired their large
new church with its external fresco of horses. The horse came to the
Indians at the same time as the Cross, and perhaps to them is as
holy.
We rode along the broad street, three times as broad as New York's
Broadway, and hoof-marked and wheel-marked from wall to wall.
The squaws were ascending and descending ladders to go in or
come out at the doors which they have in their roofs. On strings
along their roof-taps chunks of meat were dessicating in the
sunlight. But in front of many houses were portals of green branches
and boughs brought up from the woods along the bank of the river.
The Indians neither saluted us nor welcomed us. But their dogs
barked at us and we passed on—away through their cornfields down
to the Rio Grande-the great river. And there we camped, where the
rapid flood rolls down from the Rockies, red with the color of
Colorado.
It was the eve of the festival of St. Dominic. Indians in their covered
wagons were coming from all parts—Jemez Indians, Tesuque
Indians, Navajos ... Indians also on horseback, galloping along the
opposite bank of the river and plunging their horses to the ford. All
night long the moon among her clouds looked kindly down upon the
river and listened, as it were, to the galloping of the horsemen and
the crunching of the wheels of the wagons on the valley sand.
Indians encamped in the valley and let loose their horses, built fires
beside ours and fried their corn and broiled their coffee; gay men
and tittering squaws and wild-eyed little ones. Up in the settlement
the guests slept in the streets on the roadways, though all night long
music never ceased, nor the throb of the drums for the morning. On
the white mud church where the horses were painted on the outside
walls they lit seven flaming altars which blazed into the night sky. It
looked then like an Aztec pyramid lit for human sacrifice to
Quetzalcoatl—the god of the air. Perhaps to the Indians it was. Who
knows their minds?
As for us, we slept in the bush on the verge of the red-flowing
waters, and our horses neighed to one another and whinnied, the
night long.
Next day, as on the night before, we swam in the river—its rapid
current flattering our achievement. It was red and warm and mighty,
rolling us in wave motion ten feet at a thrust. Yet it was weak. It
would be a strong Indian who would swim the Rio Grande when it is
in its strength. For it is then capable of washing away villages and
towns as it goes. Has not the old church and half the pueblo of
Santo Domingo been swept to limbo by the river?
Three beautiful youths come and sit by our camp fire and smile at us
—one is in a black velvet coat and with a crimson ribbon in his long
ebony hair—he is handsome and romantic as Bonnie Prince Charlie.
Following him we ride up to Mass in the church of the painted
horses, and we find the pueblo arrayed in the many colors of
gorgeous Indian life. And on top of the kiva or council chamber is a
banner crowned with a cluster of many-colored painted feathers. An
Indian takes our horses into his yard and we go into the church.
What was there more impressive than the service in Latin,
completely in Latin, with not a word of Spanish or of English! Or the
Indians singing the chorus of praise and serving at the altar! A giant,
as it seems, in terra cotta-colored coat and neatly tied, voluminous
black hair standing constantly at the altar steps.
Saint Dominic is waiting—he lies prone on the ground. St. Dominic
will be invoked at the Breaking of Bread; Sanctus, sanctus, "Oh
Santo Domingo, where art thou at this hour—we'll reach thee."
Tinkle, tinkle, goes the church bell, and then suddenly, dum-a-dum-
dum-dum-keroah, go the drums and horns of the Indians, and
spludge, spludge, they fire their rifles in air.
The bearers raise St. Dominic on high. He seems veritably to rise
from the dead as he gradually ascends above the worshipers' heads.
He is golden and patriarchal and benign, and they carry in front of
him a little gilt dog. Domini canes, the dogs of the Lord, the
Dominicans used to be called, and the pun has endured.
As St. Dominic is carried to every Indian house and byway of the
gray mud built pueblo the horns and the drums accompany him, and
spludge, spludge, goes the accompaniment of fired guns. And when
all the visiting has been done the figure is placed in the alcove of
green boughs—the street shrine before which two hundred Indians
will dance a prayer for rain.
And now onward all the day the Indians dance. First come the
Koshare, who represent the spirits of their ancestors. All but naked,
they are painted a dull gray—to look either like corpses or invisible
as ghosts. There are strange black bands and traceries on their limbs
and bodies, and their faces are painted to affright; they grimace,
they insinuate, they strike terror, and also they make mirth. They
have corn stalks in their hair, and sandals on their feet.
As for the rest they all wear their long hair hanging so that men look
like women, but the men have branches of green tassels on their
heads and the women wear green wooden crowns. The men have
armlets of green with pine twigs in them. The upper parts of their
bodies are all exposed, but are painted dark brown and seem as of
stone. The men wear fox skins hanging behind them, like tails. The
drums beat, the men incant, the Koshare wave their hands to
heaven and make every gesture that means falling rain.
The living dance in ranks, but the wild Koshare, the spirits of the
dead, dance in and out at will and seem to improvise all they do.
They lead the dance, they dominate. It becomes an orgy of
marvelous beauty, dimpling, dazzling; a great moving
phantasmagoria. It is like the manes of a hundred black horses
plunging together on the prairie; it is like running shadows and
sunshine over mountain meadows of flowers. And all the while the
drums, and all the while the incantations—
Strangest of all is the body of earnest old men at one side, not
dancing, and yet somehow contributing to the dance. They are all
farmers. They want the rain for their crops. They are terribly intent.
They never cease turning from the heavens to the earth and back
again and making with their fingers the gesture of trickling water
and dropping rain, calling all the while something like—

"Ukky-ukky-you-you, ukky-ukky-yah-yah, ukky-ukky-yum-yum,

ukky-ukky-you-you!"

How they want it to rain! There's no doubt of the sincerity of their

prayers.
The dance is in two sections; one represents Winter, the other
Summer. They dance separately and then come in together in one
grand bacchanalia, the Koshare exceeding themselves in yelling at
visitors and sightseers, booing into their faces and kicking their
shins.
Little children come bringing loaves to place at the feet of St.
Dominic, who stands benignly in the silver and green shadowland of
his bower in the village street. He seems to be listening to
something. He is altogether remote from this time. He is thinking of
something else, trying to remember something. But be that so or no,
little loaves have been placed in front of him, and outside the shrine
in an astonishing frenzy the dance goes on.
The beautiful Indian girls, so young, so dark and jewel-like, lift all
their naked feet in perfect time, in a hypnotic time, and balance their
bodies, balance to the rhythm of the great dance with half-closed
eyes.
The Rio Grande, away below, rolls on in red waves from Colorado to
the sea. The clouds that are above are merely messengers, fleet-
footed Mercuries whose message is not to be delivered here.
And yet, what is that which is forming away to the North; surely a
thundercloud. The mountains have stopped the clouds. It is raining.
The clouds are broadening and enveloping.
"Ukky-ukky-you-you," the old men clamor, and point back to their
crops. "Ukky-ukky-yah-yah" don't stop for a moment, "ukky-ukky-
yum-yum."
The Koshare become the spirits of the storm, making the most
astonishing leaps, and crying out and pulling the rain out of the
heavens toward them. The ardor of the dance redoubles and there is
no rest. And the heat, as of an oven, is not tempered by the breeze.
Suddenly glimmering white ribbons are pulled through the clouds
and it is lightning, a sign at least that the prayers are being heard.
These people know how to pray for rain. No idle "May it please
Thee, O Lord" sitting on plush, but a terrific dynamic appeal by one
force in nature to another. What wonder if year after year the Santo
Domingo dance brings rain!
But what a drama! It rakes one's soul. You are torn by it. Will it rain,
will it rain? See the dance, see the clouds approaching, see the old
men, see the waving fields of green flowering corn, see the maidens
like jewels, see the young men like princes, see the dreadful and
marvelous Koshare all gray and stove-black with masklike faces,
grimacing and simpering and yet somehow compelling! See the
emblems of Christ, see the Church, see the Kiva, white magic and
black magic, altogether, all toned up, all compelling, throb-throb-
throb, dum-dum-dum, ukky-yah-yah, ukky-ukky-you-you!
Ah it comes, yes, a spot, a wind-carried token of a storm somewhere
else, a black tooth-mark in the pueblo dust. See the Koshare drop to
it, lick it up with their tongues, dust and all, and cry, "More, more, all
hands to the sky, all hands to the earth, ukky-ukky-you-you, ukky-
ukky-yah-yah!"
But it does not rain. It rains all around; it will rain. Cool airs creep in.
The dance ends at last, and all who danced in it are exhausted.
Candles on long poles are lit. St. Dominic is raised again, and he and
the little gold dog are borne away to the church.
A bell rings quietly in the evening air and the streets begin to empty
—of all but Mexicans and Americans. In the distance you hear the
river rolling by, hear also the hoofs of the horses and the splashing
of those who are fording the Rio Grande homing into the night.
 CHAPTER X
MEXICANS OF NEW MEXICO

New Mexico is the only Catholic State in the Union. Maryland has the
tradition of Catholicism, but New Mexico has the verisimilitude of a
Latin country in Europe. When, in 1848, it was annexed to the
United States, or, let us say, in 1850, when it was organized as a
territorial possession, or, in 1863, when it was reshaped,—it has had
many birthdays—it was entirely Spanish-speaking and Catholic. The
population now is five times as great as it was then. The Mexicans
have prospered and multiplied; the Texans have colonized the South
and East. State consciousness is remarkably undeveloped. Those of
Texan origin are proud of Texas. No Anglo-Saxon or German-
American seems ready to call himself a New Mexican. It is the
Spanish-speaking people who are the real New Mexicans—and they
do not care to be confounded with real Mexicans. The visitor,
therefore, has a sense of being in a foreign State and one decidedly
Catholic.
The atmosphere is rather that of Spain than of Mexico. For Mexico
has been exposed to sixty-five years of anticlericalism wherein the
Church has been fought by the State, shorn of its possessions, and
greatly reduced in pride and power. It has meant much to the New
Mexican that his Church has not been humiliated. In Mexico also the
strain of race is much more mixed. Almost every Mexican has Indian
blood, and the onslaught on the power of the Church was obtained
by her great Indian President, Benito Juarez. The converted Indian is
a much less faithful son of the Church than the Castilian, and it may
be that the spirit of revolt in Mexico derives more from the aboriginal
strain than from the Spaniard. In what is now New Mexico, however,
there has never been much crossing with Indian blood. The Navajos,
the Apaches, the Zunyis, and the rest, were never subjugated in the
way the Aztec tribes were. Deserts lay between these races and the
main bodies of armies; their wealth was not enough to tempt great
numbers of adventurers. The Spaniards who settled were mostly
peaceful colonists. They set up churches, they built new villages,
they tilled the soil or herded cattle, and they were content to forget
higher ambitions. They lived to themselves.
There is now a remarkable difference between the Mexican proper
and the Mexican who has become a United States citizen. And that,
although New Mexico only became a State and was admitted to the
Union in 1912. It is not simply the moderation of the size of his
sombrero and his abandonment of tight breeches, nor the
disappearing of the mantilla as a headdress of the women. It seems
first of all to be a difference in soul. The faces of the Mexicans are
furtive, restless; their round, staring eyes tell of a primitive nature,
simple, stupid, and violent. The New Mexican is of a much calmer
countenance; he is steady, he does not fear his neighbors, he has
civilized ambitions, and he does not drink. As Mexico and the United
States might be called the Jungle and the Park, so the Mexican has
the restlessness of wild nature, and the New Mexican the calm of an
ordered and domestic life.
Prohibition has doubtless had a beneficent effect in New Mexico, but
even before the "dry" régime the drinking of pulque had almost died
out. But pulque, the juice of the maguey cactus, is a curse of
Mexican life. In its effect it is more like a combination of alcohol and
cocaine, and has a highly destructive effect on nerve and mental
organism. Like tequila and mescal, the other cactus drinks, it is a
strong provoker of violent lusts and is reputed to have destroyed
whole civilizations before the Spaniards came. Legend tells of a
virgin who brought some of it to the eighth King of the Toltecs, who
took both it and her and had a "cactus-born" child, and all his people
took to the new drink and were then fallen upon by the Chichimecs
and destroyed. It was working havoc among the Aztecs in Cortes'
time and is responsible for much from then until now. But from that
evil power the Mexican of New Mexico is surely protected.
Blood is thicker than water, and it is therefore surprising that there is
so little sympathy between the New Mexicans and their kindred over
the Border. One must seek reasons not only in the better life under
American rule but in the sparsity of the Mexican population on the
other side of the line. There is no flood of people in Chihuahua or
Coahuila or Sonora ready to overflow into what is now American
territory. New Mexicans do not seem to have kith and kin on the
other side. They do not read Mexican papers or take an interest in
Mexican affairs. In the case of a new war with Mexico they would
prove as loyal as the bold Texans themselves. The word "gringo" is
not on their lips. They, for their part, show a marked dislike of being
referred to as Mexicans, and if they must be "hyphenates" they
would rather be called Spanish-Americans. They are proud of their
citizenship, and are imitators of Anglo-Saxon America so far as their
natural conservatism permits. They have fallen into the ways of
American business, and have seized upon American politics with
great enthusiasm, canvassing Republicans or Democrats with the
same fervor as the most ardent politicians of the North.
In their religious life, however, they are not inclined to change. The
piety of the State might be a pattern for the Church. The New
Mexicans preserve the religious solemnity of Burgos or Seville. All
the villages and little towns have beautifully kept churches. And the
homes, mud built as they are, are all adorned with sacred pictures.
Here one may see the remarkable "Santos"—pictures of Saints
painted on wood, not unlike some of the domestic ikons of the old
Believers in Russia, at least in their weird and strange conceptions of
Godhead. Painted without art, smudged on to wood, these Santos
nevertheless convey the deeply seated religiosity of a race.
In New Mexico there is not the extent of superstition that is to be
found in Old Mexico. That is because Indian converts have been
fewer. The Indians in Mexico have imported all manner of pagan
ideas into current piety. That is natural, because they possessed
elaborate nature rituals, fetish worships, diabolisms; and the
missionaries seldom denied practice or belief if they could change its
name to Christianity and induce the pagans to be baptized. But the
Northern Spanish people kept their religion fairly pure. One
remarkable phenomenon, however, in the State is the widespread
prevalence of asceticism. Lent is observed with a rigor unknown
elsewhere in America. There are thousands of people living in the
mountains who practice self-flagellation and beat their bare backs
with cactus or with whips till they are streaming with blood. They
carry heavy crosses in procession. They even permit themselves to
be tied in crucificial attitude and hung on a cross till they are
exhausted. These are called the "Penitentes," apparently an offshoot
of the Third Order of St. Francis, which was inaugurated in Mexico in
the first year of Cortes' conquest. These are no longer safely in the
bosom of Mother Church, neither are they excommunicated except
by their own choice, but they are without priests, and practice their
rituals in windowless chapels called moradas. Of these there are
many on the mountain sides of the country near Santa Fe. The
Penitentes cannot be considered popular—and they for their part do
not ask the interest of outsiders. They are secretive, and some of
the Texans are all for "cleaning them up." There is no "hundred per
cent Americanism" in their practices, perhaps not one per cent, and I
doubt that they can long endure. They are likely to be forced into
the conventional orthodoxy of the Church within the century.
Santa Fe is in one way remarkable for its religious processions.
Open-air rituals, ceremonies, processions, are forbidden in Mexico
proper, and the monasteries and convents have mostly been
dissolved. A monk is a rarity in Chihuahua, but a common figure in
New Mexico. Sacred images repose in the churches in Old Mexico—
but here nothing so usual as to bring them out into the streets in
grand parade! When they carried out the little white De Vargas
Madonna in memory of the succor given to the Spanish troops in the
seventeenth century in the recovery of Santa Fe from the Indians
who had risen, killed their priests, razed their churches, and sacked
the country—the procession may easily have been a mile long. Brass
bands, sacred banners, mounted candlesticks, choir boys and clergy,
knights of Columbus led by some one with a long, bared sword.
Indians wrapped in their blankets, squaws with black hair hanging in
a cloud to their waists, children carrying garlands of flowers,
Mexican men in their clumsy clothes, women in long array of black,
—such a procession is a memorable and moving sight. It has a
missionary power also, and draws converts who thirst for color and
emotion in the dullness of the Protestant sects.
I was urged by some Americans to think that Romanism without the
Pope might become the new religion of America, and that it might
start its great evangelism and revival from Santa Fe itself. Perhaps I
am too much of a European, but the idea of Romanism without a
Pope seemed that of a tree without a root. "I used to go to the
church of the Paulist Fathers in New York every day of my life," said
Vachel Lindsay, who comes of an ardent Free Church stock. "I am
seventy per cent with them. Get rid of their politics and the Pope,
and I would be with them heart and soul."
Possibly as America swung free of England and Mexico of Spain, and
as the whole of America to-day with its Monroe Doctrine has cut
adrift from European politics, so also its Catholicism might one day
say—We will build Rome afresh in the New World and put away the
old Rome of Europe as something which has been outlived. There
might be a religious war of Independence. The Roman adherence of
the United States with its Irish, its Poles, its Czechs, its Southern
Germans, Austrians, and Italians, and its Spanish-speaking peoples,
is an enormous multitude. They obtain an increasing hold upon the
control of America, and they are regarded at present by Protestants
as an increasing danger. But that is due, not so much to the religious
expression of Romanism as to what it implies politically.
Of course there is a very telling reproach to Catholicism, and that is,
that in Catholic countries one always finds what Protestants call
"backwardness." It is a common objection in New Mexico, where it is
difficult to get enough money to carry out an advanced educational
program, where natural ambition seems somehow thwarted by a
satisfying religion, where the men do not think that their women can
have opinions or use a vote, where ethical standards are low, and
the conscience seems to be encased in proof. Inter-marriage is
regarded with disfavor by Americans. Many are ready to say that
these Spaniards are not Americans, that they cannot be till they
become Methodists or Presbyterians and speak the language
properly. Even those who emotionally admire the processions and
rituals go home to cool off and become disparagingly critical of the
people, as of foreigners. For such, a trip over the Border into Old
Mexico would be the best medicine—that they might see how far
New Mexico had progressed from what it used to be when it was
part of New Spain.
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