The city, born amid the rubbish of the heroic Tenochtitlan, the capital city of the viceroyalty of New Spain, which had on every corner a chapel or temple—or, at least, a picture of a saint—pious evidences of the religion of the populace, now rejuvenates itself, appropriating those old buildings, consecrated to some special purpose, to some use far different, since the epoch of the Reform.
What was then a church is now a library; what was a convent, a barrack; what was a customs house, a departmental office; a corridor becomes a gallery; a patio, a warehouse; a refectory, a stable.
Before the special physiognomy of those times completely disappears, before the crowbar demolishes the last façades, before the scaffolding is raised against the bulging wall, before—finally—we hear the song or whistle of the indifferent stonecutter, as he mercilessly chisels the stone which will completely change the aspect of those things upon which our forebears gazed, we propose to conjure up the incidents, the times, and customs which have gone that future generations need not vainly excavate among forgotten ruins.
LUISA MARTINEZ.
The war of independence in Mexico had, also, its martyr heroines. The insurgents never executed a woman of the royalists; but that party stained its arms with the blood of the fair sex.
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There was another heroine of humble origin whom we ought not to omit, because she, also, was a martyr of the independence. She was named Luisa Martínez, wife of Steven García Martínez (nicknamed ‘the reveler’), who kept a little shop in the pueblo of Erongaricuaro, about the years 1815 and 1816. In that pueblo all were chaquetas, that is to say, partisans of the royalists. She, however, was devoted to the other flag. She courageously aided the insurgent warriors, she gave them timely information, victuals, resources, and communicated to them messages from their superior officers, with whom she kept in constant touch. One day her messenger, bearing letters directed to the insurgent leader, Tomás Pacheco, was surprised by Pedro Celestino Negrete. Luisa Martínez fled; but, pursued, captured, and tried, she was compelled to pay two thousand pesos and to promise to communicate no farther with the patriots, in order to regain her liberty. But she was not warned by her experience. Thrice again was she pursued, imprisoned, and fined, until, at last, she could not pay the sum, four thousand pesos, which Negrete demanded, and was shot by his order in the year 1817, in a corner of the cemetery of the parish church at Erongaricuaro.
Just before her execution, turning to Negrete, she said to him:
“Why such persistent persecution of me? I have the right to do what I can to help my country, because I am a Mexican. I do not believe that I have committed any crime, but simply have fulfilled my duty.”
Negrete remained inflexible, and Luisa Martínez fell, pierced by royalist bullets.