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The Convent of St. Francis.

In the present state of society in Europe, in which the principles and traditions of the Middle Ages have been so completely broken up, one can hardly form any idea of the influence which the monk exercises in Mexico, and of the strong tie which connects him with the world. If, however, this bond had no existence, the singular picture which Mexican society presents would lose one of its greatest charms—the perpetual contrast, namely, of the customs and characteristics of the nineteenth century with those of the time of Philip II. Beside men armed to the teeth, women dressed as in the days of Cortez and Pizarro, and barelegged Indians, with feet encased in ancient sandals, the gown of the monk appears, not as an anomaly, but as a highly poetic souvenir. This figure is not out of keeping with the picture, but in perfect harmony with it. Whether in public or in private, the monk takes a share in Mexican life, not only every day, but almost every moment. Not to speak of the many religious ceremonies performed by the monks, the rules of the cloister are generally so lax as to allow them free liberty of egress at almost any hour; and thus they can mix, without difficulty, in all the gayeties of the world. You can easily understand what a picturesque element is introduced into society by this immense crowd, who issue every day from the numerous convents, each order bringing its own type upon the scene, from the black frock of the Dominican to the white robe of the Mercedario.

If the upper classes of Mexican society have escaped from the trammels of monkish influence, the middle classes regard them with as much superstitious reverence as they did a century ago. The fantastic eloquence of the Middle Ages still keeps its ground here. The Mexican preacher, carried away by his enthusiasm, seizes upon the most startling metaphors: sometimes he represents God as making the sun his charger, and the moon his stirrup;[13] sometimes it is an obscene story, to which, with the most imperturbable gravity, he attaches a religious moral. When out of pulpit or confessional, the same man who inculcated the severest ascetism, utters the raciest jokes, and sings the best songs in some tertulia on the ground floor. He even pushes his anxiety so far as to furnish the laity with hints about dress. He gives excellent directions about the cut of a new suit of clothes; nay, more, he charges himself sometimes with their purchase, frequenting assiduously the saloons of fashion—and there is no appeal from his criticism. Very often his complaisance is not of the most disinterested kind; too often his purchase is only a kind of tribute paid to a family whom the reverend father supports at his own expense, on condition of tasting clandestinely in its pleasures. The monk is every where except at his convent. Every thing is an attraction to him—bull-fights, cock-fights, gambling-tables, and theatres; every place gives him an opportunity of displaying his whims and oddities. Let no one fancy that his compliant manners operate against him as a priest and spiritual director. The Mexicans understand to a nicety the bond which unites devotion to worldly pleasures. When the monk, late at night, wends his way to his convent after a day spent in dissipation, the passers-by, when they see him, bow the knee with as much respect as if his pious discourses and conduct were not in startling contrast with each other.

After this account of the character and habits of the Mexican monk, no one will be astonished at the occurrence which made me acquainted with one of the jolliest members of the great monastic family, the Reverend Fray Serapio. Curiosity had led me to a popular fête in the environs of Mexico, that of San Augustin de las Crevas, a small town about twelve miles from the capital. This fête, which makes Mexico a deserted city for three days, is frequented by the élite of Mexican gamblers. Whoever does not play is looked upon with suspicion. I followed the example of the numerous card-players who had been attracted to San Augustin, and seated myself at a table. My opposite neighbor was a Franciscan of athletic mould, and I shall never forget his sunburned, swarthy countenance, his piercing look, and his shaven face fringed with clusters of long crisp hair, shaggy as a bison's mane. He was a true soldier in a monkish dress. After a run of bad luck, I left the tables just as my last stake disappeared in the pocket of the monk. I wandered for some time in the streets of the village, hearing around me every where the clink of quadruples and piastres. I then mounted my horse, and, cursing my ill luck, took the road to Mexico. I had scarcely gone more than half way when I was brought to a stand-still by a very disagreeable circumstance. A turnpike gate stood half way between Mexico and San Augustin. Just as I came within sight of it, I made the disagreeable discovery that I had not the real necessary for passing me through the gate. Wishing to give myself time for reflection, I walked my horse slowly along, but the fatal turnpike came always nearer and nearer. I was just going to turn my horse's head round and gallop back, when by chance the Franciscan who had cleaned me out came up. The lucky winner addressed me most politely, and I replied in the most courteous manner. He offered to accompany me to Mexico; and the secret hope of being able to pass the gate at the Franciscan's expense doubtless made me accept his offer with so much alacrity. I fancied that I was doing no more than an act of politeness in congratulating my companion on his run of good luck. But what was my surprise when he exclaimed, with a sigh, "Confound it! I was quite cleaned out down there; I have nothing—nothing but my debts. I must say that I counted upon you to pass me through."

I confessed that I was just about to beg the same favor of him. Upon this the Franciscan fell into such convulsions of laughter that, in spite of myself, I could not help joining him heartily. We then deliberated what course to pursue. We hit upon several ludicrous expedients, but they were rejected one after the other. After some discussion, we decided that it would be best to clear the turnpike at a gallop without paying. "We will pay double the next time we pass," said the monk. Having thus disposed of this case of conscience, he spurred his steed; I followed. We soon left the pikemen behind us; and our horses flying at full speed, a thick cloud of dust soon hid us from their sight. Once at Mexico, it may be easily understood that we did not part without agreeing to meet again. A card-table, it must be owned, is rather an extraordinary place for one to strike up a friendship with a monk.

The acquaintance thus commenced promised to be agreeable, and a few days after our first meeting I repaired to the convent of St. Francisco, the abode of my friend. After this visit I went often, at first for the Franciscan's sake, and afterward to see the convent, the most beautiful building of the kind in Mexico. To tell the truth, Fray Serapio was seldom in his cell; but his friendship insured me a constant welcome at the monastery, the library of which possessed inexhaustible treasures.

None of the religious communities scattered over Mexico is so rich or powerful as that of St. Francis. The vast extent of ground covered by the Franciscan convents in all the large towns, and the massive walls, crowned with numerous turrets, which surround them, are sufficient indications of the power and wealth of the order. The monastery to which chance had introduced me is at once worthy of the community that owns it, and of the capital of which it is one of the chief ornaments. The street of San Francisco, which leads to the cloister of this name, is a continuation of that crowded commercial street, the Plateros. The cloister, happily situated in the most stirring part of the town, rises at the extremity of the street Francisco, and extends as far as the entrance to the Alameda. The thick walls, flanked with massive buttresses, give to the convent the appearance of a fortress. At the same time, the spires, which shoot up into the air, and the fine cupolas, covered with burnished tiles, gave clear indications of the character of the building. You arrive at the principal chapel by a vast flagged court, which is always crowded with sight-seers, visitors, the faithful, and the poor. Opposite the first court is an inclosure reserved for the monks. The immense cloisters, ornamented with basins inlaid with white jasper, gardens, a rich library, new dormitories, three hundred cells, a refectory, in which three hundred persons can sit down to dinner, combine to form a spectacle at once imposing and magnificent, which surpasses even the expectation of the visitor who enters the convent after having admired its exterior.

All my leisure hours, on Sundays especially, I loved to bury myself in the huge dusty library, and to ransack archives of which even the monks themselves were quite ignorant. Two books, above all, captivated me completely; one was a volume of legendary stories, the other a collection of autos de fé, executed by the Mexican Inquisition. I forgot even the lapse of time while reading them. These atrocious recitals, which the cold-blooded chronicler always sums up with Laus Deo, exercised upon me, especially when the day was waning, a singular fascination. The distant droning of the organ, and the doleful chanting of the monks, sometimes deepened the impression; and, in the mysterious gloom which had already enveloped the hall, I fancied I saw rise before me the heroes of the legendary stories, or the victims of the Inquisition. When I came out of the library, and walked in the cloisters, the monks whom I met in the dark corridors seemed to me to bear no resemblance whatever to those I had seen upholding the dignity of the cowl in the streets of Mexico. There are two sorts of monks in the convent: monks still young enough to delight in a monte table and in a tertulia, and who are never in their cells; others whose age and infirmities prevent them from mixing with the world: these last form the settled population, which is not a very numerous one. Among the monks whom I met in the corridors of San Francisco, there was one, above all, who seemed to me to personify the convent life, with all its attendants of gloomy observance and secret penance. He was an old man, with a shining bald head; a kind of awe, mingled with curiosity, seized me whenever I saw him. I could have sworn that one of those sombre pictures upon the walls of the convent, from the pencil of Rodriguez, Cabrera, or Villalpando, had left its frame and come to life again.

Sometimes I mused away an idle hour in the garden; for, all the time I was in Mexico, solitude was peculiarly pleasing to me. Since my arrival in Mexico, years had been added to years, and I began to experience attacks of home-sickness. The unvarying deep blue sky, so unlike that of France, rather increased my sadness. The appearance of the convent garden, surrounded on all sides by lofty walls, was in perfect harmony with the melancholy thoughts which had taken possession of my mind. The sun had calcined the brick walls, upon which opened the windows of the tenantless cells. Weeds were growing here and there on a terrace shaded with the wide-spreading branches of the sycamore, the palma christi, and the mango. An arbor, ornamented with climbing plants, was the place to which I most frequently directed my steps. There, under a flowery arch, where the passion-flower, that favorite plant of the cloisters, the jasmine, and the clematis, with its beautiful flowers, grew in charming confusion, I passed many long hours, dreaming of my native country and absent friends. A mysterious charm drew me to this fresh and rustic retreat. A quaint device, cut on the trunk of a sycamore, which threw its branches across my bower, often attracted my attention: In silentio et in spe erit fortitudo tua. My soul felt strengthened and soothed in this solitude. In this wild and uncultivated garden I was charmed into a forgetfulness of the world, where the only sounds that reminded me of life were the buzzing of the humming-birds among the rose-bushes, the tinkling of bells, and the distant droning of the organ.

I scarcely ever saw any one in the garden. One monk only seemed to share with me a predilection for this peaceful inclosure, and, above all, for the arbor, from which I almost always saw him escaping at my approach. He was the same man whom I had so often watched in the cloisters with such a fearful curiosity. Sometimes I surprised him watering the garden borders, or giving his care to those flowers which grew near the grass-grown walks. My imagination soon found some romantic link between this melancholy old man and the forsaken bower. I resolved to enter into conversation with him. A conscience so troubled as his seemed to be might surely be able to make some curious revelations; but, after repeated attempts to rouse him from his habitual taciturnity, I was forced to give it up as hopeless. With hands crossed, and face turned to the ground, the monk, every time he met me, quickened his pace and vanished from my sight. I looked at him always with intense interest, as the intellectual though stern expression of his features contrasted strikingly with the vacant faces of the other monks. His face, which sometimes betrayed painful dejection, sometimes a fanatical joy, reminded me at times of the wonderful legends and dismal stories which I had been reading in the convent library. Was I right in my conjectures about this singular personage? Despairing of success in my endeavors to induce the monk to break silence, I resolved to question Fray Serapio about him; and, with the hope of meeting the jolly Franciscan, I directed my steps to one of the most charming spots in the environs of Mexico, the canal of Viga.