THE LOST MONARCHY OF MEXICO

A ROYAL VISION FOR POSTCOLONIAL MEXICO

In the aftermath of the Mexican War of Independence, as Mexico emerged from Spanish rule, intense debate arose over what kind of nation it should become. Should it be an enlightened republic, an empire, or a monarchy? Various factions held differing ideological visions—but one in particular stands out.

History shows that Mexico initially became an empire under the leadership of Agustín de Iturbide—a short-lived affair that lasted only a year. In fact, the years that followed were marked by a series of fleeting political experiments: a republic here, a confederacy there, countless proposals, a French takeover, a second attempt at empire, then back to a republic—on and on it went. Needless to say, in the years following Spain’s departure, stability remained a goal forever out of reach. What’s particularly fascinating is to consider the alternatives—the plans that were never realized—and what their implications might have been.

Thus, we turn our attention to a plan that remains little more than a footnote in history, yet carries heavy implications—and if nothing else, is deeply intriguing. The plan in question was the “Plan of Chicondla,” drawn up by a group of Catholic priests, which proposed that Mexico be governed as a monarchy. At first glance, this wasn’t an especially radical idea—monarchies were still common, though increasingly challenged by the wave of revolutions sweeping across the globe. But this wasn’t just any monarchy. This one would not be ruled by a distant European noble—Spanish or otherwise—who had never set foot in Mexico. Instead, the crown would go to someone from Mexico itself: a descendant of the last Aztec ruler, Montezuma.

What might have been.

A MESTIZO KINGDOM

This would have been unprecedented. Never before had a monarch been established in the Americas who was also from the Americas in both birth and lineage. There are a few rare examples—such as the Afro-Bolivian kingship, and to some extent the Brazilian monarchy during its imperial period—but even these rulers, while born in the Americas, were of Old World descent. Perhaps there’s an indigenous ancestor hidden somewhere in their background, but even if that were true, could they claim descent from indigenous nobility? From a great chief, a warrior, or someone as storied as Montezuma? I doubt it—though I would be delighted to discover otherwise.

In any case, during this period it was proposed that a descendant of the great Montezuma should become the first king of an independent Mexico.

In some respects, this would have been the ideal choice to unify a young and diverse nation—perhaps the perfect antidote to the chaos and instability that had followed independence. Especially compelling were some of the requirements outlined in the plan. One article in particular seems designed to foster social cohesion, and it reads as follows:

Article VII: “The emperor, within six months after his election, must be married, if he is Indian, to a white, and if he is white to a pure Indian.”

In this way, the priests embedded into their plan a policy of forced miscegenation which, in a somewhat backward fashion, could be seen as both a positive and a slightly racist idea. But of course, we're talking about the 1830s. As misguided as it is to mandate anything involving race—especially when it comes to marriage—there's something surprisingly progressive here for the time. It suggests not just tolerance, but an active encouragement of racial mixing, which might surprise modern readers unfamiliar with the attitudes of early 19th-century Latin America. Still, such thinking was not altogether unusual in Spanish and Portuguese colonial traditions, which often had a more fluid and complex view of race than their Anglo-American counterparts.

The architects of the plan—two Catholic priests, likely of Spanish descent—seemed intent on setting the new nation on a path toward forging a new, mixed identity. And there's something particularly striking about how the article is worded. Had it only stated that an Indian emperor must marry a white woman, it might have implied an intent to dilute or erase Indigenous identity. But by including the reverse—mandating that a white emperor marry a pure Indian woman—it suggests something more balanced, more deliberate. It wasn’t about erasing either identity, but about creating a synthesis: a new national identity that embraced both Indigenous and European heritage.

It should be remembered that, in the time of kings, the monarch was meant to represent all people—not merely a political faction or party. Ideally, the monarch served as a symbol of national unity, a father figure to the country, and a model for the people below him. In this light, the Plan’s encouragement of miscegenation would have served as a powerful symbolic act: setting a precedent that racial mixing was not only tolerated but embraced at the very highest level of society.

Imagine the national celebration that would follow the birth of their first child—a mestizo, a literal embodiment of two worlds joined together. Such an event would have sent a potent message of unity, standing in stark contrast to the revolutionary republics emerging at the time, where factionalism and rigid ideologies often took precedence over cohesion. Mexico, under a symbolic and unifying monarchy, might have had a stronger foundation—especially useful considering the turmoil the nation faced in the wake of independence.

One can only imagine how different things might have been had Mexico had a monarch whom all sectors of society could feel represented by: a Catholic monarch to connect with the deeply religious population; an Indigenous monarch to rekindle the pride and memory of Aztec glory; yet also someone who would not alienate Spaniards, Criollos, or the growing Mestizo population. In theory, such a figure could have married progressive and traditional values, perhaps even bridging the gap between Mexico’s bitterly divided political factions. Of course, we must be careful not to idealize the scenario—just as easily, both conservatives and liberals might have felt the monarchy failed to fully realize their respective visions.

Beyond internal politics, the symbolic power of an Indigenous monarch could have had real diplomatic and strategic implications—particularly with the Indigenous groups living in the northern borderlands. Under Spanish rule, tribes like the Apaches and Comanches had treaties, were respected as political entities, and could even be paid off when necessary. Spain had the resources and the professional military—such as the famed Dragones de Cuera—to maintain order in those regions. After Spain’s departure, however, a power vacuum emerged, and the tribes were no longer bound by earlier agreements.

An Indigenous monarch might have sent a different message—one of respect, recognition, and cultural closeness. It could have bridged the divide, at least in perception, between central authority and the autonomous tribal world. At the very least, one could expect a monarch of Indigenous heritage to approach Indian affairs with a measure of empathy, nuance, and possibly a more just policy framework, even toward hostile groups.

AN IRON HAND IN A VELVET GLOVE

Besides its racial policy promoting miscegenation (and the symbolic impact that may have had), the Plan of Chicondla also included other intriguing articles that reveal the architects’ vision for a future Mexican state.

Article I states:

“La nación mexicana adopta para su gobierno, el monárquico moderado, por una constitución que se formará al efecto.”(“The Mexican nation adopts for its government a moderate monarchy, by means of a constitution that shall be formed for this purpose.”)

This article makes it clear that the proposed monarchy was not to be absolute, but a constitutional one—moderated and balanced by laws, and theoretically accountable. This is a noteworthy distinction, especially for the time, as it reflects a desire to combine the stabilizing symbol of monarchy with the emergent liberal spirit of constitutional governance. In essence, it envisioned a system where the monarch reigned, but did not rule arbitrarily—mirroring in some ways the British model, though with a uniquely Mexican twist rooted in its Indigenous and colonial legacies.

It also demonstrates that the plan was not merely nostalgic or idealistic—it attempted to ground its vision in a legal, institutional framework, aiming for legitimacy and sustainability. The priests who drafted the plan understood that simply crowning a monarch wouldn’t be enough; a functioning state required structure and principle.

This is to say that the monarchy envisioned by the Plan of Chicondla was to be a constitutional monarchy, not an absolute one. In practical terms, this meant the king's authority would derive its legitimacy not from divine right or inheritance alone, but from a constitution—a man-made legal framework established by the nation itself. His powers would be limited, checked, and defined by this document, which could serve as a benchmark for judging the legitimacy of his actions.

To many, any form of monarchy is inherently suspect. Yet among monarchists themselves, there are multiple schools of thought. Some argue that a monarchy governed by a constitution is more palatable—tempered by law and tradition—while others believe that constitutional limits weaken the sanctity or effectiveness of monarchy. The central idea, however, remains this: monarchs can act with broader authority in the absence of a constitution, even if ethical principles or customary duties are implied.

A relevant comparison might be the British monarchy, which, while not bound by a single codified constitution, is limited by centuries of evolving legal documents, conventions, and institutional checks—a so-called “unwritten constitution.”In the Mexican context, we might also consider the Spanish intellectual tradition, particularly the arguments of Juan de Mariana and the School of Salamanca, who defended the ethical and even theocratic legitimacy of regicide under certain conditions. Their reasoning was clear: a king is never above the law and must act as a steward of the people on behalf of God, not as a despot ruling by divine fiat.

Especially in the wake of revolution and the fall of colonial rule, any new monarch in Mexico would have had to tread carefully—aware that his position, while possibly ordained by God in the eyes of some, would ultimately rest on his ability to serve the people and respect the law. Power, in this model, would not be a right, but a responsibility.

THE DIVINE RIGHT OF KINGS

In relation to this, another article of interest is the insistence that twelve male descendants of Montezuma be presented for the selection of a monarch. The number twelve is itself noteworthy, laden with biblical significance: the twelve tribes of Israel, twelve judges, twelve apostles, and more. It is a number symbolizing completeness, divine order, and sacred selection.

The method for choosing among them was equally symbolic and evocative of ancient Hebraic practice. Article 5 explicitly states: “The emperor will be selected by lot, leaving the choice to Divine Providence.” This practice of casting lots was not a novel invention, but a direct reference to the scriptural tradition of trusting God to make decisions where human wisdom might falter—used to choose leaders, divide land, and appoint responsibilities among the Israelites.

This method could elicit two kinds of reactions from the candidates not selected: envy toward the one chosen, or a quiet, somber acceptance, perhaps born of reverence for the divine process. While it is impossible to definitively measure how people at that time would have felt, I am inclined to believe—given the religious climate of the 1830s—that people were more faithful or superstitious than we are today, and therefore more willing to accept the result as a legitimate and providential outcome.

It remains unclear what would have become of the other eleven men not selected by lot. However, it is difficult to imagine that they would simply be sent back to obscurity. If anything, it would have been logical—and strategically wise—for these individuals to form the core of a new noble class, perhaps even a kind of council or royal family-in-waiting. Monarchies often rely on an extended family not only for continuity of rule but also for internal checks on the monarch himself. In this way, their presence would have reinforced the system's legitimacy and stability.

Furthermore, for the general populace to hear that the emperor had been selected by lot—rather than by elite consensus or political favoritism—might have been deeply reassuring. It would have appeared fair, divinely inspired, and untainted by self-interest. In a time of political fragmentation and elite power struggles, such a method could have had profound symbolic weight, signaling a break from corruption and a return to divine justice.

A ROYAL RETROSPECTIVE

There are at least thirty-nine articles of the proposed plan that ultimately never came to fruition. All we are left with now is the history that did occur—one marked by struggle, division, and an uphill battle for much of the Latin world after breaking free from Spanish rule.

It is in moments like these that one is drawn to contemplate what kinds of benefits might have arisen had Mexico been made a monarchy—especially of this particular kind. While history did offer two brief experiments with monarchy, both the First and Second Mexican Empires suffered from similar structural weaknesses: they lacked widespread support and subjective legitimacy, failed to fully satisfy either progressives or conservatives, and both struggled with the question of succession.

Other complications also loomed large. Take, for example, the case of Maximilian, Emperor of the Second Mexican Empire. He was installed with the support of French troops during the American Civil War, a fact that led many Mexicans to view him as a foreign agent. Being foreign in origin is not inherently disqualifying for monarchy—many dynasties in Europe had foreign roots—but for a post-colonial nation like Mexico, still licking the wounds of imperial rule, the yearning was for one of their own.

Once the Civil War in the United States ended, the Monroe Doctrine once again became operative, and with it came a loss of French military backing. Isolated, Maximilian was captured and ultimately executed. Yet even in his final moments, he showed the kind of personal nobility and Christian character that monarchists often point to as ideal. His last words, spoken in Spanish, were:

"I forgive everyone, and I ask everyone to forgive me. May my blood, which is about to be spilled, end the bloodshed that has plagued my new motherland. Long live Mexico!"

Agree or disagree with his rule, these words were not empty rhetoric. They reflected a man who genuinely believed in the country he had adopted and who faced his death with dignity and grace. They remind us that monarchs—whatever their origin—can serve as symbols of unity, capable of exercising mercy, restraint, and moral clarity.

Still, one cannot help but wonder: If the words of a foreign monarch reveal such care and consideration to this people foreign to him, what might a monarch truly native to Mexico—rooted in the soil and spirit of its people—have achieved? Could such a figure have closed the long-standing divides between Indigenous, Mestizo, Criollo, and Spanish populations? Could he have stood as a bridge between traditional and progressive values, guiding the nation toward cohesion rather than fragmentation?

We may infer, we may imagine, we may argue and discuss. But ultimately, we will never truly know.