On the staging which followed this, stood the Virgin, in glowing wax. She wore a sparkling diadem, and a robe of purple velvet, gorgeously inwoven with gold, and flowing off into a magnificent train, supported by angels. As she passed, the crowd fell on their knees and whispered their Ave Marias, while the swinging censers of the priests sent up their curling cloud of homage.
The third and last staging supported a tree, high in the limbs of which clung a little wax cherub, intended to represent Zaccheus. He was looking down with an expression quite removed from one of reverential curiosity. The children shouted, and it was as much as their mothers could do to hush them into silence. Thus passed this religious pageant; when the crowd broke up in much the same humor with which they would leave their seats at a theatre. Were the historic symbols of our religion intended to amuse mankind, this spectacle might possibly answer its purpose. But here the awful reality so overpowers the representation, that it cannot leave in the imagination even the solemnity of a religious delusion.
Monday, April 6. We visited to-day the Franciscan church and convent. They cover seven acres of ground, and combine a degree of architectural grandeur and cloisteral luxury singularly at variance with the mendicant virtues of the fraternity to which they belong. The church, indeed, is one of the most sumptuous in Lima, and showers its rich gilding upon you from pavement to dome. In its niches, and over its altars repose statues, on which art has bestowed the highest expressions of its ambition.
In one of the altars we recognised St. Benedict, holding a black infant Saviour in his arms. The existence of this representation has been denied by a distinguished prelate of the Roman Catholic church in the United States, but of its truth I have the testimony of my own eyes. The idea originated, undoubtedly, in a wish to conciliate the African. Rome becomes all things to all men, and I hope for the purpose of saving some.
The convent has four hundred cloisters, which open on stately corridors that circle around central courts, where fountains play among evergreens, fruits, and flowers. Who would not gaze on a skull and a life-glass only an hour or two a day to enjoy such a residence as this? These gloomy emblems of our mortality might almost be forgotten in the deathless bloom of the amaranth. Give me a monk for exigencies; he can make solitude social, and convert a golgotha into a garden. He lives in affluence without a ready penny, and is sainted without an active virtue.
Tuesday, April 7. To die regularly in Lima the patient must be admonished of his approaching end by his physician, and receive extreme unction from his priest. The physician who should let his patient die without this timely warning, would receive the severest censures of the relatives of the deceased, and be required by the church to pay for masses for the repose of his soul. He is consequently faithful in this last sad office. With us the sick often die in glowing dreams of life. The pale shadow flits before their glassing eyes, but is not seen.
The medical profession here, in dignity and respect, ranks far below the pulpit, the bar, and the camp. It involves too many cares, too many vigils, too many humble offices to suit the indolence and pride of the Spaniard. It is consequently exercised mainly by those of African or Indian descent, and a thankless office they have of it. If their patient survives, it is ascribed to some miraculous intervention of the Virgin; if he dies, it is attributed to an unpardonable want of skill: so that between the imputed miracle in the one case and inevitable death in the other, he gets but little credit for his professional sagacity. His only resource in all critical cases is to call in half a dozen consulting physicians, and share with them the responsibility of the issue. I always pity a consulting physician; he must approve what has been done, though in so doing he often gives the lie to the change of treatment which he directs. But let that pass.
Wednesday, April 8. The great cathedral was crowded at an early hour this morning to witness the ceremony of the “Banner.” As the organ commenced a low, mournful air, a tall priest, robed in black, took his station in front of the high altar, where he unfurled from its staff a large sombre banner.
After having waved it for a few minutes in front of the lights on the great altar—knocking over one of the candles, which I suppose went for Judas Iscariot—he faced about, and with his long train, supported by three pages, marched down, with a slow stately step, into the centre of the cathedral. Here twenty-four priests, through whose files he passed, and who were in sable robes, with dark crowns on their heads, fell flat with their faces upon the pavement. The banner continued waving over them for several minutes, while the low tones of the organ died away on the silent air. Several of these prostrate functionaries, when their eyes met each other, found it almost as difficult to preserve their gravity as Cicero’s augurs.
The banner now disappeared through one of the side chapels; the priests got up, replaced their crowns, and the spectators departed. Not a word was spoken during the whole ceremony; what it meant, is more than I can say. I made repeated inquiries of those present, but no one could give me any information beyond the fact that it belonged to Holy Week. I must, therefore, refer the reader to those better versed than myself in symbolic worship or an interpretation of the vision.