December 13th
I feel ill at the news this morning. The Federals seem to have taken many positions from the horrible rebels; and the fratricidal war will take on a new strength without hope of issue on either side. I feel the cruelty and the uselessness of our policy more and more every day. The “fine idealism” does not prevent the inhabitants from being exterminated. Why don’t we come in? Or—hands off, and give Huerta a chance!
The Mexicans have never governed themselves, and there is no reason to suppose they can till a part of the eighty-six per cent. that can’t read have at least learned to spell out a few words. The much vaunted and pledged rights of man, voting and abiding by the results, are unknown and, as long as Mexico is Mexico, unknowable. So why lose time in that search for the impossible? The rebels seem to be able to take the towns, but not to hold them. Once in the various strategical positions they are in the same plight as the Federals; and so the see-saw continues, with no results except horrors beyond words. I am tempted to hope for intervention (unnecessary though it once was), no matter what the cost.
There are so many plays and puns and doggerels on the inviting name of O’Shaughnessy. One Shamus O’S. says he won’t admit the man in Mexico who bears the Frenchy name of chargé d’affaires to the family! However, why worry? The last viceroy bore the noble name of Juan O’Donoju! Another calls N. the man that put the “O” in Mexico. And they do love a head-line: “Hugged by Huerta”; or “Is it not better to be kissed than kicked when you deliver the periodical ultimatum?” Of such slender things fame is made.