EL SAGRARIO.
But that was in the good old time, which I am old enough to have seen, when priests and monks, their heads covered with huge hats, à la Don Basilio, filled the streets with their portly, dignified figures, their faces ever open to a smile. That time has gone by; monks and priests, shorn of their dress and privileges, have disappeared and become private citizens. The Church on that occasion was not proceeded against by slow degrees; the Government, feeling at home in a country peculiarly religious and Catholic, decreed on the same day the suppression of all religious communities, the confiscation of their goods, and the disestablishment of the Church, and though a large majority mildly protested, nobody cared; not so the monks and priests, who whirled anathemas and fulminated the excommunicatio maxima against whomsoever should lend a hand to the demolition of the convents—nay, even against those who would be found bold enough to pass through the streets thus opened on ecclesiastical property. The Leperos, however, engaged in these demolitions, had recourse to an ingenious device to nullify the spiritual thunderbolts of their ancient patrons. They bedizened themselves with amulets, scapularies, and chaplets as a protection against the wiles of the devil, and thus attired they proceeded gaily to the destruction of cell and chapel, whilst weeping dueñas, indignant at being witnesses of such sacrilege, poured out their unavailing supplications.
The excitement lasted but a week, and the Leperos thought so little of it that they did not refrain from bearing away to their housewives the wainscoting of the religious houses, and the newly made streets were used like any others.
But it will be asked, what of the monks? Most have become citizens and taken wives, and are now heads of families; some have gone into exile; whilst others are business men. I have even met a few, who, having turned Protestants, were employed as guides by the Boston and New York Biblical Missions. As for the clergy, contrary to the received opinion that on being deprived of their emoluments and tithes they would be richer than before, they have become as poor as their vows require, as humble as they profess, reading their services as heretofore to crowded congregations, and every one is or seems to be satisfied.
But to return to our edifices. The Church and Convent of S. Domingo (Dominick) stands in Custom House Square, blocked up at all times by carriages, carts, mules, and a motley crowd. At this point, when pronunciamentos were the rule, rebels used to take their stand, and sheltered behind the high steeples of the church, shot at their fellow-citizens lodged on the azoteas (flat roofs) of the neighbouring houses. They did their work so often and so well that the desolation of these cloisters is complete. The pictures which once were their chief ornament are mostly in holes, and the walls blackened with shot and powder. S. Domingo has the hardly enviable privilege of having been the seat of the Inquisition. Here, in 1646, the terrible tribunal celebrated its first auto-da-fè, when forty-eight persons were burnt at the stake. These human sacrifices, which were only abolished at the beginning of this century, were not better than the revolting practices of the Aztecs, save that Catholic priests were content to burn their victims without eating them, but to make up for this they branded them with eternal infamy.
The Convent of S. Francisco, which at one time extended over fifteen acres of ground, is situated between the street bearing the same name and S. Juan de Latran y Zuletta Street. It is intersected by beautiful cloisters, courts, and gardens, and was formerly the most important as well as the richest convent in Mexico: having two churches, the interiors of which were adorned with gigantic altars of finely-carved gilt wood; three exquisite chapels, and elegant cloisters covered with pictures, thus forming one of the most remarkable monuments in Mexico. But alas! all that wealth is gone, the ruthless hand of democracy has pulled down cell and chapel; streets run in places once occupied by its altars; its flower-beds are turned into a nursery-garden, and its silent cells are tenanted by poor families, whose women and children fill the air with their shrill and discordant voices. All that remains is the façade, with its magnificent gate—a curious mixture of Renaissance pilasters, covered with figures in high relief, surmounted with composite capitals, divided by niches adorned with statues, besides a marvellous wealth of ornamentation, not in the best taste, but highly finished. Their chief interest, however, lies in their being the work of the Indians, rather than the production of a Spanish chisel. Indians, according to Mendieta, were no contemptible artists; “with tools made of tin and copper, they could cut not only metals, but the hardest substances. They carved their vessels of gold and silver, with their metallic chisels, in a very delicate manner. They imitated the figures of animals, and could mix the metals in such a manner, that the feathers of a bird, or the scales of a fish, should be alternately of gold and silver.”
They worked the various stones and alabasters with guijarros (a tool made of silex and flint), in the construction of their public buildings, entrances and angles of which were frequently ornamented with images, sometimes of their fantastic and hideous deities. Sculptured images were so numerous, that the foundations of the Cathedral in the Plaza Mayor are said to be entirely composed of them.[7] They also painted from nature, birds, fish, and landscape, and after their conversion to Christianity, says Mendieta, they reproduced admirably our images and reredos from Flanders and Italy.