A church, in Catholic countries, ever possesses something to strike the eye, though there may not be service going on. There are generally to be seen numbers of poor old women, before their saint, counting their beads, the low murmurings of their prayers alone breathing the silence of the place: many times have I advanced with cautious steps, fearing to interrupt their devotions. The absence of a congregation gives one, likewise, an opportunity of a closer inspection of the glittering altars, virgins, saints, and Madonas. No fear exists that sacrilegious hands would dare purloin any thing from the sacred walls; alas! in England, our thieves would not be so scrupulous.
The churches, on a Sunday, or feast day, are worthy a stranger’s attention; and he must be cold indeed, that can view such an assemblage of beauty unmoved: the dress, the veil, and prostrate persons; indeed, we might picture other Lauras besides Petrarch’s: it is almost enough to make one turn renegade, forsake the religion of our fathers, and rush into the bosom of a church so enchanting.
Public worship takes place at various hours: one mass, as early as six in the morning, and the sweet girls and their mothers are seen hurrying to church at that early hour.
Families going to mass are attended by slaves and servants carrying the carpeting upon which they kneel. Of books they have few enough; and would, I dare say, stare to see our London footmen, in gorgeous liveries, looking like Austrian field-marshals, walking behind their mistresses, with a load of books, to church, and the host of carriages that attend a fashionable chapel.
Upon entering or leaving a church, many of the congregation are content to receive the holy water at second hand; that is to say, one who is near the vessel which contains it will dip his fingers in, and furnish to three or four other persons drops of the sacred element, to make the sign of the cross. The ladies often condescend to mark with this water the foreheads of their female slaves and attendants.
At “oration time,” in the dusk of evening, a small bell tingles from the churches, when, it is presumed, every true Catholic whispers a prayer. In Buenos Ayres, I am afraid, this is not always the case.
Some of the music sung in the masses is very pretty: friars and boys are the vocalists, selected from the best voices. Friar Juan, at the Cathedral, has a fine bass voice. The Portuguese hymn they sing with science; but, as I had heard this hymn at the Portuguese Ambassador’s Chapel in London, in which several of the first-rates of the Opera took parts, the effect here was diminished: they select, too, from profane music, and I applaud them for it, following the remark attributed to our Rev. Rowland Hill, on the introduction of “Rule Britannia,” and “Hearts of Oak,” into his chapel—“It is really a great shame the devil should have all the pretty tunes to himself.” If music be the “food of love,” it is equally so of religion, insensibly leading the mind to an enthusiasm, and that softness, that compensates for “a dull age of pain.” I wish they would reform the dismal hum-drum music of our English churches. I do not wish the lively dance; but something a little less gloomy than the present mode. My English friends will be shocked to hear that in a Buenos Ayres church they have played and sung to the charming air that opens our petit opera of Paul and Virginia, “See from ocean rising.” At Monte Video, I heard the Tyrolean war song, or our “Merrily O,” upon the organ, in a church. Music and religion have, and will, raise these people to war and desperation; other causes must combine to have the same effect upon Englishmen.
Persons of both sexes go to confession very young—even at the early age of ten years. At church confessions, the priest is seated in the box, to which there is an iron-grating on one side, and through this he hears the confession of the parties upon their knees outside. I have seen several women confess;—somehow or other the sex have more devotion than us men. Doubtless, it is a relief to the overcharged heart to unbosom itself, and receive the consolations of religion; and I can fancy the happiness experienced from the gentle expostulations of an amiable priest, who, in censuring the errors, bids the sinner not despair of mercy. We, of Protestant creed, appeal to God alone, disdaining earthly interference. This system of divulging our inmost thoughts has, at all times, been an argument with the opponents of the Romish church, who instance, that the peace of families or nations are at the mercy of a mortal man; and if breaches of confidence are rare, still some villain might betray his trust, and ruin his unsuspecting victims. To the honour of the Catholic priesthood, such probabilities are very remote. I am afraid that I should make a sad father confessor: loveliness upon the bended knee before me would destroy all my philosophy; I should at once accord them absolution, remission, and every thing else; and, forgetful of my oaths and sacred calling, turn suppliant at the feet of those who came to me as their pastor and guide.
Females are at times seen in the streets habited as nuns, in flannel vestments, crosses, beads, &c. the effect of a vow made during sickness or penance. The sins of some of these young creatures cannot have been very flagrant: I should have pardoned them for the pleasure of receiving their confessions again. There is likewise a house in which females pass weeks in penitence and prayer.
It is observed of the Spanish female, that she will give herself up to all the voluptuousness of pleasure, haste to the church, and, prostrating herself before her favourite saint, return to sin again. I will not venture to be so severe a censurer as to hazard an opinion upon this: but, as my eye wandered over the countenances of many a fair creature of Buenos Ayres, kneeling in graceful beauty before the inanimate saint, I fancied all and more than books had ever told me; for, “with faces that seemed as if they had just looked in Paradise, and caught its early beauty,” I fancied that many of earthly mould shared in those contemplations so seemingly devoted to heaven.