Pictures of life in Mexico/Volume 1/Chapter 15
CHAPTER XV.
A POOR FUNERAL.
The tierra caliente, or hot region of Mexico, is infested with horrible reptiles called alacranes, which in appearance resemble both the scorpion and the spider. These creatures have tails two inches long, armed with a sting, and bodies equaling in size those of the largest spiders; they swarm among old houses and neighbourhoods; and their sting is sure to produce dangerous illness, perhaps death—especially to the delicate and young. In the early season of the year, the inhabitants surround their beds with a peculiar kind of net-work, for protection against scorpions during sleep; and it behoves a stranger to be careful in such districts, to look well about him before he seats himself, or retires to bed, or even handles his arms or puts on his sombrero—for these animals will often be found nestling in such places as a hat lining, or the lock of a pistol, for security.
In some of the mining cities of the north, associations have been formed for their destruction, and persons who have nothing better to do are employed to hunt them out; a reward of two clacos (about three half-pence) being paid for the body of every scorpion or spider scorpion that is brought to them. And as a light occupation is preferred by the lower classes inhabiting these cities, and as there is a little of the zest of the hunter about the pursuit, there is no lack of alacran seekers; though the profession is not unaccompanied by many dangers and discomforts; and great numbers of the vermin are thus destroyed.
Before the entrance of a low hut, five miles distant from the city of Durango, three figures are grouped together in mournful conversation; interrupted at short intervals by hollow groans and moans from the interior of the dwelling, as of some one suffering from pain and illness there. The light of a glorious sunset gilds the broken ground and the frail erection upon it, and obliges the uncouth figures to turn away their faces, and place their hands before their eyes, to shield them from the glaring light.
The eldest is a middle-aged Indian, with low and retreating features, and a head partially shaved. He is dressed in a miserable thatch-like cloak, or serapé, made of twisted water-flags; and the tattered breeches that barely reach below the knee, leave his legs and feet as much exposed as the coating of soil and clay upon them will permit. The other two are youths, apparently from fifteen to eighteen years of age, still more scantily clad than their companion; their faces wear the listless, sleepy aspect so common to the Indians; and their wild and matted hair, starting out in every direction, gives their heads, upon the whole, somewhat of the appearance of porcupines. And now, with drooping heads and anxious faces, these three figures crouch down to enter the forlorn dwelling beside them.
The rancho (or hut) is a type of whole villages. No human creatures are more wretchedly lodged than the Indians. In districts where trees abound, they generally select the foot of a plantain or palm tree; and leaving an open hole for entrance and egress, they place a few canes upright in the ground; then some thatch, or a bundle of flags, is twisted round them, and the whole is completed by an exceedingly slight roof of the same material. The hut in question has, in addition, a couple of logs on each side of the entrance, and a few palm leaves mingled here and there among the thatch. The floor is of mud, of a grey and clayey kind; a block of wood, answering the purpose of a table, an apology for a bed, consisting of two beams with a dirty hide stretched upon them, and a rude furnace and plate for tortilla cakes, are the only articles of furniture it contains. On the miserable couch is laid an elderly female, from whom the exclamations of anguish from time to time proceed. It is long since any other scene has met her eyes than the obscurity of her wretched room, and she despairs of ever again seeing the sun rise above the hills, as she plods on her weary way to dispose of her maize and tortilla-cakes at the neighbouring town, as has been her wont.The man in the cloak of water-flags is the sufferer's husband; and the two youths are their children. They are alacran hunters; and the nets which they use for capturing the detestable vermin hang over their arms. All the family have repeatedly suffered from the attacks of their dangerous prey; the mother—who had long been sinking under disease, brought on by filth and destitution, and unable to rise from her bed upon the floor—has been twice stung by them within a short period: the double shock has proved fatal, and she now lies languishing in pain, with no hope of recovery.
In a very few days afterwards, the Indian and his two sons bore the remains of the poor woman to their last depository, in an obscure corner of a neglected burying-ground, near the city of Durango.
In highly civilized countries, the rites of sepulture, even among the humblest people, are accompanied by an absurd parade of state and frippery; but in Mexico the case is widely different. The poor have no prospect of being laid in some sweet, secluded resting-place, hallowed by the memory of friends and companions gone before, and sanctified by the pious visits and fond regrets of beloved survivors; with long grass flourishing, and wild flowers blooming over their silent bed. No hope of tiny feet pressing the soil above, and of subdued yet cheerful faces perusing the stone which tells where they lie. No thought of shady trees and twittering birds, of calm sabbaths, hymns of praise, and thronging worshippers: but all is neglect and desolation.
In the case of the wealthy, however, neither pomp nor expense is spared. To die rich in Mexico, and to bequeath the greater part of your riches to the Church, is not only to secure a splendid pageant on earth, but to possess a safe passport to heaven besides. Take no care for the welfare of friends and dependants: commend your family to the care of Heaven; reck not of wrongs committed, of wealth abused, of injustice unremedied, of urgent social duties left undone; only bear that huge, rich, national mendicant, the Church, in your testamentary remembrances, and your salvation is secure; and the number of masses and requiems to be said and sung, for the repose of your benevolent soul, will be proportioned to the price you paid for them.The common people are interred in the most primitive manner, without coffins, and almost without covering; and death itself appears, to an unaccustomed spectator, invested with additional dread, from the squalor and heartless neglect surrounding it. The corpse, exposed to the public gaze, is hurried off, almost if not wholly unattended, to some ruined burial place, perhaps at the end of a public walk,—provided there are relatives who are able to afford this—where, in a little chapel—if they are able to pay for the use of that too—a few prayers are muttered in a very unimpressive manner, and the body is huddled into the ground. No solemnity attends the burial-service; no consolation is offered to the bereaved; very little spiritual comfort is afforded to the poor; and that little is carefully meted out according to the grade and connections even of poverty itself.
The funeral I witnessed was that of one among the humblest of the humble—the poorest of the poor. Tupa—this was the name of the Indian—and his two sons were the only mourners; their hands had prepared the grave; and there was neither priest, assistant, service, nor mass; scarcely a word being spoken. The wretchedly clad corpse was lowered into the meanest portion of the ground, in silence, only broken by the sobs of the bearers; and I turned, with mingled feelings of compassion and indignation, from the sight.
The occurrence reminded me of another and more appalling scene of death, which I had once beheld in the city of Mexico; and as it is particularly characteristic of the country, and not altogether foreign to the present subject, I will relate it here.
It is a fact not generally known, I believe, in England (so contrary is it to the usages of the Romish clergy in other countries), that priests in Mexico are frequently in the habit of living with favourite wives or concubines, and of bringing up their families in their own sanctified abodes. The practice entails upon them no disgrace, and their claims to mix in the best company are as eligible as before. But, in this instance, a padre, named Miguel, had ventured a step further: after living many years with a very amiable and well-conducted lady, he basely deserted her and her children. This circumstance had very properly diminished the reverence with which his character had been previously regarded in the district. He was otherwise unpopular in society.
Having given offence to the vagabond portion of the community, by his instrumentality in bringing a number of léperos and thieves to merited punishment, many a withering curse and savage glance had been bestowed upon him; and it was whispered that a few resolute ruffians had determined effectually to stifle his vigilance in future.
Adjoining the Accordada, or common prison of the city, in one wing of the building, is a low, ominous-looking room, with a grated window facing the street, known as the dead-house or "morgue" of the capital; and on an elevation inclining downwards to the window, are placed the corpses nightly found within the city and its suburbs.
Mexico has no lack of melancholy sights,—scenes that are enough of themselves to horrify the sensitive, and to fill the mind of the philanthropist with sorrow; yet, of all these, perhaps the most melancholy may be witnessed in the public street, outside the little low barred window of that dreadful room. Heartrending are the shrieks and lamentations often to be heard there! Women bewailing the loss of their husbands; orphans weeping over the corpse of a murdered father; a daughter, or sister, mourning near the remains of a dear female relative. Could the stones of this vault but find a tongue, mournful indeed would be their revelations!
One of the most touching sights I ever beheld at that solemn place, was the grief of a mother and her daughters. No agony ever depicted on woman's countenance, could be more poignant; as, dashing the tears from her eyes, the matron advanced to gaze through the opening—then retreated in horror from the sight—then returned to gaze again and again, repeating, "I forgive him all! I forgive him now! Though I loved him and he deserted me, I forgive him all! I forgive him now! "No cries that had ever risen to the roof of that apartment could be more heart-rending than the wail of those young girls at her side, beautiful in their sorrow.—"My father!" was their only cry, "my father! Oh! my father!"
Deeply interested in their appearance, and irresistibly drawn towards the scene, I approached the window, and stooped to look within. My eye rested on the body of a man stretched upon the inclined plane near the bars, clothed in the habiliments of a priest,—the features were much distorted, the hair was partially torn away, the dress rent in several places, and the hands were clenched as if in the act of struggling against a violent death. I looked more intently.—Yes, it was indeed Father Miguel! His ragged and vindictive enemies had set their mark upon him. The knife of a lépero had found its way to his heart!
Although the fate of this wretched man could not excite much commiseration, his funereal procession yet presented a very different appearance from the mournful and unbefriended one which I have before recorded.