I was taken in to supper--the usual ceremonious, standing affair--by the Minister of War. He showed me a telegram confirming the capture of Orozco, who was not captured at all. They are very previous about accepting congratulations concerning good news, whether true or false. The President was receiving felicitations all the evening, and the Minister of War said, "We will of course shoot him immediately if Los Estados Unidos will extradite him." He was supposedly to be taken on American soil. This morning we saw there had been a big defeat of the Federal troops; El Tigre mine taken, etc. Prince Auersperg was at the palace, too. He was trying to interest the Mexicans in a patent cartridge-belt, just the sort of toy they all naturally love. I referred him to the Minister of War, and turned to the "green isle of Cuba" on my other hand. Afterward, as I watched the vast concourse, I felt a _serrement de cœur_. A something came out of the crowd--a quality of uncertainty, destructiveness, force, suffering, heroism, irresponsibility, persistence. The words of Holy Saturday recurred to me, "_Popule meus, quod fecisti tu?_" What have you done,--what will you always do? There is a something so irresistible and strong in life here. They are simply ground out, these generations, renewing themselves with terrible ease. The begetting, the mother-pain, the life pilgrimage, the death-pains--there is such an abundance of it all, but though just as tragic and mysterious, not as unlovely as in the slums of great cities. I am to press on to other things. What can one do, save leave it to God? But I felt unspeakably sad as I turned back into the great _sala_, where I saw the pale, illumined face of the priest Hidalgo looking down upon it all from its heavy gold frame. I stood by Mr. Lefaivre, as we were waiting for the motor, and he said, "_Il_ [Madero] _veut gouverner avec des vivas_." It is the situation rather in a nutshell. I am sitting out here in the park, with only this scrap of paper, which is so crisscrossed that you won't be able to read it. But, oh! this heavenly, _washed_ morning--this freshness of light filtering through the trees! Elsie and Elim are coming in sight, making such a charming picture across the green spaces with the glinting sunlight--a magic world. My "day" this afternoon, and then dinner at the Embassy. The Schuylers return shortly. I have told Gabrielle to put out the white satin dress. Its days are numbered, like mine. _September 17th._ Last night a great crowd at the station to say good-by to Señor Rivero, former governor of the Federal District. He has now been sent as minister to Buenos Aires, and goes _via_ Spain--a rather zigzag route; neither he nor his wife nor any of the six children nor accompanying servants were ever out of Mexico before.