GOOD-FRIDAY.
Sad indeed was the aspect of all things within the cathedral on Good-Friday morning. Black draperies covered the pulpit, reading-desks, and seats reserved for the authorities, and every one was attired in mourning. Instead of the rose-color and blue of Holy-Thursday, the ladies now wore black or violet silks and satins with jet ornaments.
All the personages of the preceding day were present, and the religious services were in nowise different from those of the Catholic Church in other lands, with the exception that, in the reading of the passion, at the words "gave up the ghost," all knelt, but did not kiss the ground, as is the custom in France.
During the adoration of the cross, in which the captain-general, apparently almost too ill to stand, and the other gentlemen took part, the choir sang the beautiful hymn Pange lingua, with its tender burden of Crux fidelis. Never did it sound to me more touching.
"Sing, O my tongue! the Victor's praise;
For him the noblest trophy raise,
The victory of his cross proclaim,
His glory and his laurelled fame;
Sing of his conquests, when he proved
The Saviour of the souls he loved.
O faithful cross! thou stand'st alone;
None like thee in our woods is grown,
None can with thy rich growth compare,
Or leaves like thine, or flowerets bear.
Sweet wood, sweet nails, both sweet and fair,
Sweet is the precious weight ye bear."
The adoration terminated, the procession was formed, exactly as on the day before, to bring back the Blessed Sacrament from the sepulchre. On reaching the foot of the steps, the captain-general delivered up to the bishop the key he had worn suspended from his neck since the preceding morning. As the procession returned, the noble strains of the Vexilla regis resounded through the great church.
"The standard of our King unfurled
Proclaims triumphant to the world
The cross, where Life would suffer death
To gain life with his dying breath!"
My heart beat faster as I listened to the glorious hymn!
The communion made, vespers were chanted in grave and mournful tones, and the service was concluded. As the bishop descended the nave to leave the cathedral, the little girls of the nuns' schools crowded around him to kiss his hand; and it was very pretty to see them clasp his fingers, and look up in his kind face with a confiding smile.
As it had been officially announced that the meditation on the seven words of Jesus on the cross, with the ceremony of the descent from the cross, to be followed by the procession of the interment, were to take place, as is usual every year, that afternoon in the church of San Juan de Dios, I determined to be present.
At three o'clock, accordingly, I stationed myself in a shady corner, not far from the principal entrance of San Juan, among a crowd of soldiers, volunteers, and colored people. All gazed at me inquisitively. I looked like a lady; but my somewhat Andalusian physiognomy, shaded by the black lace mantilla, put them out a little. I heard them at last decide that I was an estranjera, (stranger,) and consequently considered capable of, and permitted, any eccentricity, without derogating from my claim to respect. Twenty minutes passed away thus; a south wind was blowing, and great water-laden clouds were fast covering the sky; the heat was very oppressive, and soon heavy drops of rain began to fall, and every one rushed to shelter. I ran back to the cathedral, my nearest refuge. The Tenebræ had just commenced, and I sat there and listened to the doleful lamentations of Jeremiah, and the wails of the holy women, mingling with the thunder-crashes and the noise of the pouring rain, which fell as it only falls within the tropics. It was a combination of sounds not easily to be forgotten.
At half-past four, the storm was over, and the sky clear and blue once more, so I determined to hasten to San Juan, and, though too late to hear the meditation, still witness the descent from the cross. To my surprise, on going to the door I found it impossible to leave the church; the whole place in front of the cathedral was knee-deep in water, and all the streets leading from it looked like swift-flowing rivers! Not until five o'clock did the water subside sufficiently to permit me to cross the street conducting to San Juan, where, however, I fortunately arrived in time for the ceremony I so much wished to see.
The high altar had been removed, and in its place, on an elevated platform, were erected three great crosses, the centre one bearing the image, large as life, of our Saviour, the other two those of the thieves crucified with him; the face of the repentant sinner was turned lovingly toward his Lord, that of the unrepentant looked away with a scowl.
The figure of the victim was fearfully natural—the pallor of death was on his blood-stained brow, the gash in his side, and his mangled hands and feet were livid. Two priests, mounted on ladders placed against the arms of the cross, were in the act of taking down the writing when I got near enough to see well. At the command of the preacher, who had just finished the meditation, and who directed them from the pulpit, they then proceeded to draw out the nail from the right hand; when loosened from the tree, the arm fell stiffly and as if dead; before the other was freed, long and wide linen bands were passed under both, and around the body, to sustain it and prevent it from falling forward. Llorad lagrimas de sangre—"Weep tears of blood," cried the preacher while this was being done amid the breathless silence of the spectators, "he died for you!" So solemnly, so tenderly did the priests perform their office, that it seemed no representation, but dreadful reality, and my cheeks grew cold, and my heart throbbed painfully when the pale, bruised body was gently lowered and borne to the bier waiting to receive it.
Yes, this cruel death He died for us; but, O true and loving women! one sweet and proud remembrance will be ours for all eternity—our kiss betrayed him not, nor our tongue denied—
"While even the apostle left him to his doom,
We lingered round his cross, and watched his tomb!"
The preacher now descended from the pulpit, and quitted the church in company with the other assistant priests; and the direction seemed to be left in the hands of a fraternity called los Hermanos de la Soledad—the Brethren of Solitude—a set of tall, fine-looking black men, many with thin lips and almost Roman noses. They were dressed in robes of black glazed calico, with white lace tippets.
A quarter of an hour elapsed; the church remained crowded, but there were no signs of preparation for the procession. Presently a handsome, authoritative-mannered personage, evidently a Spaniard, entered hastily, and, pushing his way unceremoniously through the people, sought the members of the brotherhood, to whom he evidently gave some orders, and then went away. A great silence prevailed, and every one seemed to be waiting for something. I at last mustered up courage to ask a brother when the procession would commence.
No hay procesion hasta el año que viene—"There will be no procession until next year"—he answered in a very loud voice.
Pero, señor, en el diario—"But, sir, in the newspaper—" I began. "No hay procesion hasta el año que viene," he repeated louder still.
The women broke forth in murmurs; but not a man spoke, though compressed lips and scowling brows showed sufficiently what was passing within. I must not omit to remark that the congregation consisted almost entirely of colored creoles.
By dint of soft but firmly continued pushing, and a pleasant smile when the individual I elbowed looked grimly at me, I forced my way out of the disagreeable pack of volunteers and negroes, men and boys, that surrounded me, to the chancel, where I found a number of well-dressed and respectable-looking colored ladies seated on the platform. There the discontent was louder, and I understood distinctly that the disappointment was attributed more to the ill-will of their rulers than to the bad state of the weather. One woman, particularly, exclaimed angrily several times, and sufficiently loud to be heard by all in that end of the building, Hay procesion para los Españoles, pero no para nosotros—"There are processions for the Spaniards, but not for us."
However, there was nothing to be done but to submit; so a few persons went quietly away, and I at last succeeded in obtaining a close view of the bier. It was in the form of a sarcophagus with open sides, placed on a trestle concealed by black velvet drapery spotted with silver stars; the upper part very tastefully decorated with white and lilac flowers. The image lying within was covered with a cloth of silver tissue, the head and feet left bare. Close by stood another trestle, also covered with ornamented black velvet, and supporting a small platform, on which stood the figures of the Blessed Virgin, in deep grief, holding in her hand a very handsome lace pocket-handkerchief, and of St. John, with a profusion of fair ringlets, sustaining her in his arms. The bier, followed by the Virgin and St. John, carried by the members of the black Hermandad, escorted by soldiers and military music, and accompanied by a vast number of people, constitutes the "procession of the interment," which every Good-Friday (when permitted) leaves the old church of San Juan de Dios, passes through many streets of the city, and before the palace of the captain-general, and stops at the cathedral, into which it enters, and where the images are finally deposited with great solemnity. This year, as we have seen, the procession did not take place.
While examining with interest these curious remains of the piety of the first settlers in the island, I heard some one cry out, No deja ninguno salir—"Let no one go out"—and at the same moment saw some soldiers lifting up and looking under the velvet draperies as if searching for some one. Five very uncomfortable minutes followed; the door by which I had entered was blocked up with soldiers and volunteers, every one was frightfully silent—and I am not a heroine! At last the people were allowed to go out by one door, while the soldiers and volunteers slowly filled up the church by the other.
Exceedingly great was the relief I felt when I found myself safely seated in the cars, (which in consequence of the rain had been permitted to enter the city and station themselves in their usual place,) and on my way home, where I arrived very tired and almost disgusted with sight-seeing.