I have not been able to ascertain the reason why the Roman Catholic
celebrate the resurrection this morning, with an anticipation of
nearly four and twenty hours, and yet continue the fast till midnight
or the beginning of Sunday. This practice is, I believe, of high
antiquity.
The service begins this morning without either the sound of bells
or of musical instruments. The _Paschal Candle_ is seen by the
north-side of the altar. But, before I mention the size of that used
at our cathedral, I must protest against all charges of exaggeration.
It is, in fact, a pillar of wax, nine yards in height, and thick in
proportion, standing on a regular marble pedestal. It weighs eighty
_arrobas_, or two thousand pounds, of twelve ounces. This candle
is cast and painted new, every year; the old one being broken to
pieces on the Saturday preceding Whitsunday, the day when part of
it is used for the consecration of the baptismal font. The sacred
torch is lighted with the _new fire_, which this morning the priest
strikes out of a flint, and burns during service till Ascension-day.
A chorister in his surplice climbs up a gilt-iron rod, furnished with
steps like a flag-staff, and having the top railed in, so as to admit
of a seat on a level with the end of the candle. From this _crow’s
nest_, the young man lights up and trims the wax pillar, drawing off
the melted wax with a large iron ladle.
High mass begins this day behind the great veil, which for the two
last weeks in Lent covers the altar. After some preparatory prayers,
the priest strikes up the hymn _Gloria in excelsis Deo_. At this
moment the veil flies off, the explosion of fireworks in the upper
galleries reverberates in a thousand echoes from the vaults of the
church, and the four-and-twenty large bells of its tower, awake,
with their discordant though gladdening sounds, those of the one
hundred and forty-six steeples which this religious town boasts
of. A brisk firing of musketry, accompanied by the howling of the
innumerable dogs, which, unclaimed by any master, live and multiply
in our streets, adds strength and variety to this universal din. The
firing is directed against several stuffed figures, not unlike the
Guy Fawkes of the fifth of November; which are seen hanging by the
neck on a rope, extended across the least frequented streets. It is
then that the pious rage of the people of Seville is vented against
the archtraitor Judas, whom they annually hang, shoot, draw and
quarter in effigy.
The church service ends in a procession about the aisles. The priest
bears the host in his hands, visible through glass, as a picture
within a medallion. The sudden change from the gloomy appearance of
the church and its ministers, to the simple and joyous character
of this procession, the very name of _Pasqua Florída_, the flowery
Passover, and, more than the name, the flowers themselves, which
well-dressed children, mixed with the censer-bearers, scatter on the
ground, crowd the mind and heart with the ideas, hopes, and feelings
of renovated life, and give to this ceremony, even for those who
disbelieve the personal presence in the host, of a Deity triumphant
over death; a character of inexpressible tenderness.