The bells in the campanile begin to toll slowly, and from the midst of the crowd instantly comes a burst of glorious music. The village-band stationed there renders effectively an operatic air as the natives slowly enter the church. After all are seated, the priest preaches a short sermon, full of pith and of pertinent suggestion about the Saint whom the day commemorates. The audience is then dismissed with a benediction; and to the lively music of some composer it files leisurely out. The natives see nothing incongruous in the introduction of operatic music into divine worship. They are moved to devotion no less by the stirring strains of one of Sousa’s military marches or a languorous waltz of Strauss, than by the solemn Te Deums of the Catholic ritual. To them all music is divine.
We stop a few minutes to watch the cura,—the parish priest,—as he dispenses blessings to his devout parishioners, who now crowd round him with every appearance of reverential affection.
Our friend the cura is a veritable father to his people. As he listens to the ingenuous confidences of his flock, his face beams with that rare benevolence born of godliness; there is a whisper of domestic sorrow that he needs must hear, a story of happiness or a tale of wrong. For each and all he has a word of kindly affection, and as he sees us waiting near the entrance, he approaches with outstretched hand and invites us to the grand procession in the evening.
A Fashionable Church in Majayjay, Near Manila.
The people have dispersed, and have returned to their homes. Already the sun is high in the sky, pouring a deluge of heat upon the landscape. From the horizon, mountain after mountain springs airily into the heavens, their blue peaks suggesting a place of perpetual coolness, upon which the eye loves to linger amid the oppressive blaze of the tropic sun.
Surrounding the village are forests of majestic trees, of indescribable grandeur, and of unparalleled magnificence. Among these the white houses of the planters nestle peacefully.
Each house has its own tiny garden, fenced in with reeds, and forms a miniature paradise, where are flowers of splendid hue, creepers with purple blossoms, red-coral blooms, and trees of palm, mango, orange, lanzon, santol, and giant bananas, whose rich fruits, in giant clusters, tempt the eye of the beholder. Here the native is a petty king: for his own little domain, for nine months of the year, yields sufficient for his wants. Nature, indeed, gives him a golden harvest for only the reaping.
We have been invited to spend the day with a well-to-do native planter, who, at the conclusion of the service, has sought us out. He lives on the outskirts of the village, and we are soon with him in his carromata, speeding leisurely over the highway.
We approach his home—a typical native dwelling; the body of the house is raised about six feet from the ground, and is mounted on thick pieces of stone. This allows the air to circulate freely beneath, and prevents the entrance of snakes and insects, and is in every way conducive to health and comfort. We mount the wide stairway, that connects the house with the ground, and enter upon a broad open piazza facing the street, called a cahida. The sides of this are formed of sliding windows, composed of small square panes of mother-of-pearl, opaque to the heat, but admitting the rays of light. Here we are introduced to the various members of the family, who receive us kindly and offer sugared dainties and a cigarette.