Hidalgo's position was now becoming serious.[1] Up to this time his success had been brilliant. Forced prematurely into action, into the promulgation and defence of long-cherished principles, his people had gathered round him, and after that a large army had come to his support. They were unlettered, untrained, but they were trustful. Thousands of them had already laid down their lives for their country; thousands more were ready to die rather than relinquish their hope of liberty. Here were many, but why were there not more? Why were the men of America so slow to move in this matter? Here was the priceless boon held out to them; why would they not stretch forth their hand and take it? True, fifty thousand had come forward—eighty thousand; but why do not they all come—five hundred thousand, five millions—why do not they come and be free? Oh, base apathy, offspring of iron bound ignorance!
He had sent agents into the capital, and to the neighboring towns, to stir up the people and make them ashamed of their bonds. Not hearing from them, he had sent others, and these found the first fallen away from the cause. Some of his emissaries had been captured.[2] Evidently the country here about was not ripe for revolt. His warmest adherents a little distance away from him became cold. He had no helper, no one with whom to share his heavy load of responsibility. Allende was a good man, a brave soldier, a faithful adherent; but he was nothing more than a fighting man, and like fighting men frequently, he was inclined at times to be rash and reckless, and then to be angry if checked.
The capital city was the tempting prize, the city of Montezuma, of Córtes, a city classic in the annals of America; and it was so near. But he well knew that he was in no condition to march on Mexico. He has
