THE BISHOP.

was carried out almost in fits.

307

Water was brought

to the poor mother; and at last, making our way with difficulty through the dense crowd, we got into the sacristy. "I declare," said the Countess

to me, wiping her eyes, "it is worse than a marriage!" I expressed my horror at the sacrifice of a girl so young that she could not possibly have known her own mind. Almost all the ladies agreed with me, especially all who had daughters, but many of the old gentlemen were of a different opinion. The young men were decidedly of my way of thinking, but many young girls, who were conversing together, seemed rather to envy their friend, who had looked so pretty and graceful, and "so happy," and whose dress "suited her so well;" and to have no objection to "go, and do likewise."

I had the honor of a presentation to the Bishop, a fat and portly prelate, with good manners, and well besuiting his priestly garments. I amused myself, while we waited for the carriages, by looking over a pamphlet which lay on the table, containing the ceremonial of the veil-taking. When we rose to go, all the ladies of the highest rank devoutly kissed the Bishop's hand, and I went home, thinking by what law of God a child can thus be dragged from the mother who bore and bred her, and immured in a cloister for life, amongst strangers, to whom she has no tie, and towards whom she owes no duty. That a convent may be a blessed shelter from the calamities of life, a haven for the unprotected, a restingplace for the weary, a safe and holy asylum, where a new family and kind friends await those whose

natural ties are broken and whose early friends are gone, I am willing to admit; but it is not in the flower of youth, that the warm heart should be consigned to the cold cloister. Let the young take their chance of sunshine or of storm. The calm and shady retreat is for helpless and unprotected old age. to whom I described one of these ceremonies, wrote some verses, suggested by my account of them, which I send you.

In Tropic gorgeousness, the Lord of Day
To the bright chambers of the west retired,
And with the glory of his parting ray,

The hundred domes of Mexico he fired,
When I, with vague and solemn awe inspired,
Entered the Incarnation's sacred fane.

The vaulted roof, the dim aisle far retired,

Echoed the deep-toned organ's holy strain

Which through the incensed air did mournfully complain.

The veiling curtain suddenly withdrew,
Op'ning a glorious altar to the sight,

Where crimson intermixed its regal hue

With gold and jewels that outblazed the light
Of the huge tapers near them flaming bright

From golden stands;

the Bishop, mitre-crowned
- in order due around

Stood stately near ;·
The Sisterhood knelt down, their brows upon

the ground.

The Novice entered: To her doom she went
Gems on her robes, and flowers upon her brow.
Virgin of tender years, poor innocent;

Pause -ere thou speak th' irrevocable vow.
What if thy heart should change, thy spirit fail?

She kneels. The black-robed sisters cease to bow.
They raise a hymn which seems a funeral wail,
While o'er the pageant falls the dark, lugubrious veil.

With the drear mantle of the pall spread o'er, The new-made nun, the living sacrifice,

Dead to this world of our's for evermore! The sun his parting rays has ceased to pour,

As loth to lend his light to such a scene ...
The Sisters raise her from the sacred floor,

Supporting her their holy arms between,
The mitred priest stands up with patriarchal mien,

And speaks the Benediction; all is done.

A life-in-death must her long years consume.
She clasped her new-made sisters one by one.
As the black shadows their embraces gave,
They seemed like spectres from their place of doom,
Stealing from out eternal night's blind cave,

To meet their comrade new, and hail her to the grave.

The curtain fell again, the scene was o'er,

The pageant gone ·

-

its glitter and its pride,

And it would be a pageant and no more,

But for the maid miscalled the Heavenly Bride.

If I, an utter stranger, unallied

To her by slightest ties, some grief sustain, What feels the yearning mother from whose side Is torn the child whom she hath reared in vain,

To share her joys no more, no more to soothe her pain!

LETTER THE TWENTY-FIRST.

The Boxes

San Agustin -The gambling fête. The beauties of the village - The road from Mexico - Entry to San Agustin — The gambling houses-San Antonio - The Pedregal - Last day of the fête The Cock-pit The Cock-fight - Decorum - Comparisons - Dinner - Ball at Calvario - House of View of the gambling tables- The Advocate - Ball at the Plaza de Gallos Return to Mexico-Reflections Conversation between two Ministers

General Moran

15th June.

SINCE my last letter we have been at San Agustin de las Cuevas, which, when I last saw it, was a deserted village, but which during three days in the year, presents the appearance of a vast bee-hive or ant-hill. San Agustin! At the name how many hearts throb with emotion ! How many hands are mechanically thrust into empty pockets! How many visions of long-vanished golden ounces flit before aching eyes! What faint crowing of wounded cocks! What tinkling of guitars and blowing of horns come upon the ear! Some indeed there be, who can look round upon their well-stored hacienda and easy rolling carriages, and remember the day when with threadbare coat, and stake of three modest ounces, they first courted Fortune's favors; and, who being then indigent and enjoying an indifferent reputation, found themselves, at the conclusion of a few successive San Agustins, the fortunate propri

etors of gold, and land, and houses; and moreover with an unimpeachable fame; for he who can fling gold dust in his neighbor's eyes, prevents him from seeing too clearly. But these favorites of the blind goddess are few and far between, and they have for the most part, with a view to greater security, become holders or sharers of banks at San Agustin, thus investing their fortune in a secure fund; more so decidedly, if we may believe the newspaper reports, than in the Bank of the United States at this present writing.

Time, in its revolutions, whirling all things out of their places, has made no change in the annual fête of San Agustin. Fashions alter. The graceful mantilla gradually gives place to the ungraceful bonnet. The old painted coach, moving slowly like a caravan, with Guido's Aurora painted on its gaudy panels, is dismissed for the London-built carriage. Old customs have passed away. The ladies no longer sit on the door-sills, eating roast duck with their fingers, or with the aid of tortillas. Even the Chinampas have become stationary, and have occasionally joined the Continent. But the annual fête of San Agustin is built on a more solid foundation than taste, or custom, or floating soil. It is founded upon that love of gambling, which is said to be a passion inherent in our nature, and which is certainly impregnated with the Mexican constitution, in man, woman and child. The beggars gamble at the corners of the streets, or under the arches; the little boys gamble in groups in the villages; the coachmen