The next day is Good-Friday, so called by the English, but Holy-Friday on the continent—the day of our Saviour’s death. Thousands of English travellers have witnessed, and many described, the splendid pageant of this night at St. Peter’s at Rome, on which the hundred lamps which burn over the apostle’s tomb are extinguished, and a stupendous cross of light appears suspended from the dome, between the altar and the nave, shedding over the whole edifice a soft lustre delightful to the eye, and highly favourable to picturesque representations. This exhibition is supposed to have originated in the sublime imagination of Michael Angelo, and he who beholds it will acknowledge that it is not unworthy of the inventor. The magnitude of the cross, hanging as if self-suspended, and like a meteor streaming in the air; the blaze that it pours forth; the mixture of light and shade cast on the pillars, arches, statues, and altars; the crowd of spectators placed in all the different attitudes of curiosity, wonder, and devotion; the processions, with their banners and crosses gliding successively in silence along the nave, and kneeling around the altar: the penitents of all nations and dresses collected in groups near the confessionals of their respective languages; a cardinal occasionally advancing through the crowd, and as he kneels, humbly bending his head to the pavement; in fine, the pontiff himself without pomp and pageantry, prostrate before the altar, offering up his adorations in silence, form a scene singularly striking.
In various Catholic countries the lights are suddenly put out at the sound of a bell, and a flagellation, in imitation of Christ’s sufferings, commences in the dark, with such cries as make it a truly terrific scene. The effect of the singing of the Miserere at Rome, in the time of the darkness, has been described by several writers as inexpressibly sublime.
At Jerusalem the monks go in procession to Mount Calvary with a large crucifix and image, where they take down the image from it with all the minute procedure of taking down, unnailing, taking off the crown of thorns, etc. etc. In Portugal, they act in the chapel the whole scene of the Crucifixion, the Virgin Mary sitting at the foot of the cross with Mary Magdalene and St. John; the coming of Nicodemus and Joseph of Arimathea; the taking down by order of Pilate, and bringing the body in procession to the tomb.
Such are the ceremonies of Catholic countries: here the people eat hot-cross buns, and go to church, and that is all. The first sound you hear on awaking in the morning, is that of numerous voices crying hot-cross buns, for every little boy has got a basket, and sets out with a venture of buns on this day. Yet how few know or call to mind the amazing antiquity of this custom. Mr. Bryant traces it to the time of early Paganism, when little cakes called bown were offered to Astarte, the Catholics having politically engrafted all the Gentile customs on their form of Christianity.
Then came Easter-eve, on which the fast was most rigorous; and then broke Easter-day, the joyous Sunday, the day of the resurrection. All sorrow, fasting, and care now gave way to gaiety; and religious pageants were established, and are so still in Catholic countries, to edify the people. Goëthe gives a lively description of the effect of the coming Easter morn upon Faust. He is just wearied out of life with ambitious cravings, and about to swallow poison, when he hears the sound of bells, and voices in chorus, singing—Christ ist erstanden!
EASTER HYMN.—Chorus of Angels.
Christ is from the grave arisen!
Joy is his. For him the weary
Earth has ceased its thraldom dreary,
And the cares that prey on mortals;
He hath burst the grave’s stern portals;
The grave is no prison:
The Lord hath arisen!
Faustus—O, those deep sounds, those voices rich and heavenly!
How powerfully they sway the soul, and force
The cup uplifted from the eager lips!
Proud bells, and do your peals already ring,
To greet the joyous dawn of Easter morn?
Hymn continued.—Chorus of Women.
We laid him for burial
’Mong aloes and myrrh,
His children and friends
Laid their dead master there!
All wrapped in his grave-dress
We left him in fear,
Ah! where shall we seek him?
The Lord is not here!