It was nearly three o'clock when I at last reached home; but not until the next day did I hear of the four unfortunate men shot that afternoon in the streets, during the embarkation of the two hundred and fifty political prisoners for Fernando Po.
THE TENEBRÆ.
The following Wednesday morning, I reached the cathedral just as the gospel was commenced. At the conclusion of the mass the service of the Tenebræ was very impressively chanted. As I listened, my heart realized all the grief and desolation of that sad time. I could hear David bewailing his outraged Lord and Son; Jeremias lamenting over the ruins of Jerusalem, over the crucified Victim; dear mother church calling her children to repentance in supplicating, tender strains; and the three devoted Marys sighing and weeping as they climbed the steep of Calvary among the crowd that followed our blessed Saviour to the cross. At the termination of this mournful music, just as the confused murmur that recalled the noise of the tumultuous masses who, led on by Judas, came armed with sticks to seize Jesus, died away, a number of priests, completely enveloped in ample black silk robes with long pointed trains, their faces entirely concealed beneath high-peaked black silk hoods, advanced to the front of the altar and knelt in a row on the step before it. After a short, whispered prayer, one of them arose, and taking the black banner with the blood-red cross, which I have already mentioned, waved it for several minutes in silence over his companions, while they prostrated themselves on their faces before the altar. It is impossible to imagine a scene more lugubrious; the black-robed figures lying motionless, the mysterious hooded form that seemed to tower above them, the sinister flag, the deep silence—all contributed to inspire a sentiment of undefinable fear. Every one present knelt, and in unbroken silence the black banner was waved over us. When we raised our heads, the sombre assembly had disappeared and the chancel was empty.
This, I was told, is a ceremony that has been handed down from the time of the primitive Christians of Rome; but no one was able to explain the meaning of it to my satisfaction.
MAUNDY-THURSDAY.
Maundy-Thursday found me bright and early in the cathedral, and well placed; for I was again just opposite the seats reserved for the captain-general and the governor, and just behind those intended for the military and civil officers.
With the exception of the bishop's dais, throne, reading-desk, and cushion, which were now of white damask and gold, every thing was the same as on Palm-Sunday. But the great white curtain had been removed from before the southern transept, and there was now to be seen a magnificent golden sepulchre, under a white and gilded dome supported by columns. The statue of a kneeling angel adorned each side of this monument, to which the officiating priest ascended by six carpeted steps. Innumerable wax tapers in silver candlesticks were arranged on each side, their soft light reflected by the silver and gold drapery that lined the vault.
As on Palm-Sunday, the floor of the nave was soon covered with carpets and little chairs, all occupied an hour before the mass began by women and children, white and colored, of every social grade, from the delicate marchioness to the coarse black cook. Not even the most elegant lady present seemed in the slightest degree annoyed by being elbowed, and her satin dress rumpled, by some pushing, saucy morena, (colored woman,) who planted her chair or stool just where she could contrive to squeeze it in, with the most perfect assurance that no one would question her right to do so. I remarked, too, that in the crowd of men who stood in the aisles, the whites and blacks, the rich and the poor, were on the same terms and acting in precisely the same manner toward one another; and I felt convinced that nowhere on earth was such social equality to be met with as I witnessed in the cathedral church of Havana.
I was admiring this absence of all invidious distinctions in the house of God, and rejoicing in the thought that here, at least, the master had to confess himself weak and humble as the slave, the rich powerless as the poor, when two men forced room for themselves on my bench and by my side. One had the look of a low grog-shop keeper, the other of a whining street-beggar; both were shockingly, disgustingly filthy; both snorted and spat in the most frightful manner, and in the discomfort they caused me, I arrived at the conclusion that all men are equal—yes, except the clean and the dirty; and I fretted and fumed against the church officials who thus abandoned the faithful washed to the inroads of the faithless unwashed. Faithless unwashed!—it is written wittingly; for I cannot credit that piety will exist with filthiness of its own free will. No, sin and dirt are too often bosom friends; but cleanliness goes hand in hand with godliness.
I had, however, to bear and forbear with my unpleasant neighbors, whose propinquity induced a train of thoughts somewhat at variance with the solemnity I had come to witness. I remembered, among other discrepant subjects, the nickname given to the Spaniards by the Cubans, Patones—"Big-Feet"—which appellation has frequently been used in skirmishes between the insurgents and the Spanish troops as a battle-cry. Viva Cuba, y mueren los Patones! "Long live Cuba, and death to the Big-Feet!" the rebels would shout, and the soldiers, very naturally enraged at a personal defect being alluded to in such terms, would fight like insulted heroes. So I improved this opportunity, having a long row of Spaniards before me, to examine their lower extremities and judge for myself what truth there was in the discourteous designation. After a careful and impartial investigation, I believe that I can say with justice that, though they do not possess the exquisitely-formed, fairy-like little feet with which every Cuban, male and female, trips into this world, they yet cannot be accused of having large or clumsy ones. Most of the Spanish feet I saw were certainly much smaller than those of the English or Germans, resembling, perhaps, those of the French.