He was amusing, but cynical (as he well may be), about the cry of "free land," saying that it would engulf, in the fulfilment of its high purpose, any man in any party starting out under its banner. "And the people won't get the land," he added; "they never do, anywhere. It isn't only in Mexico, as foreigners seem to believe." We caused a cloud to come over his face when we asked if he were soon starting for Japan. He has been delegated to thank the Mikado for participation in the Diaz centenary celebration of 1910. You see how fast Mexican events move, and how infinitely unrelated to one another they sometimes are! He said, with a rather sharp look in his eye, that Japan was _muy lójos_ (very far), and it certainly is far from these Mexican political fields, apparently white for the harvest.[61] _September 21st._ Recently a band of Mexican regulars made the journey from El Paso, _via_ the United States, to some point in Sonora. Several of the more up-to-date papers at home are worrying for fear, unless our Monroe Doctrine be more extensive and comfortable, the "house guests" won't stay. There is one consoling aspect to the Zapatista outrages, as far as Madero is concerned. They always relate to his own people, and so can be dismissed. But the outrages in the north are not so easily disposed of where American and Mexican _meum_ and _tuum_ is involved. A letter from ----, dreading life, fearing death. His is a ravaged existence and "pain's furnace heat within him quivers." I sent him the inclosed verses, which came to me in the night. It is the simplicity of death, after all, that is its wonder. To ---- Why should I fear to die? When all I love do tread Among the quickened dead? If they, then why not I? If their wills have reposed From acts the sense hath known, Why then myself alone Affright and uncomposed? Shall I not rather deem If they give back no groan, They lie not there alone, In some cold, heavy dream? But have returned home, As one at eventide By his swept fireside Sitteth, but not alone. * * * * * So steadfast are the laws That bind us each to each, They scarcely give us pause To weep that which they teach. _Sunday evening._ A long day. N. is at the Embassy; the house is quiet, except for water still dripping heavily from the roof. My Mexican sands are slipping, and this morning my eyes looked their last on the so-familiar beauty of the plateau. Early Mr. de S. and Mr. S. and myself started out from the city, down the shining Avenida San Francisco, through the Zócalo, past the palace, through the Calle de la Moneda, where the French troops entered in 1863, out past the San Lázaro station, on to what was once the ancient Aztec causeway.