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;[1] 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;
- ↑ Cabalgando el sol, y estribando la luna.
