I Landed Here In Passion Week, And The Next Day Was Holy
Thursday, When Not A Vehicle On Wheels Of
Any sort is allowed to be seen
in the streets; and the ladies, contrary to their custom during the rest
Of the year, are obliged to resort to the churches on foot. Negro servants
of both sexes were seen passing to and fro, carrying mats on which their
mistresses were to kneel in the morning service. All the white female
population, young and old, were dressed in black, with black lace veils.
In the afternoon, three wooden or waxen images of the size of life,
representing Christ in the different stages of his passion, were placed in
the spacious Church of St. Catharine, which was so thronged that I found
it difficult to enter. Near the door was a figure of the Saviour sinking
under the weight of his cross, and the worshipers were kneeling to kiss
his feet. Aged negro men and women, half-naked negro children, ladies
richly attired, little girls in Parisian dresses, with lustrous black eyes
and a profusion of ringlets, cast themselves down before the image, and
pressed their lips to its feet in a passion of devotion. Mothers led up
their little ones, and showed them how to perform this act of adoration. I
saw matrons and young women rise from it with their eyes red with tears.
The next day, which was Good Friday, about twilight, a long procession
came trailing slowly through the streets under my window, bearing an image
of the dead Christ, lying upon a cloth of gold.
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