THE old St. Augustine inhabitants are very regular in their attendance at the cathedral exercises, which, during the Holy Days, appear to be their sole employment. The first sound that greets us in the morning is bells for mass. How those harsh tones, jingling like fire-bells run mad, break in upon our soft repose! The alarming speed with which they are rung attracts no attention, this being all the excitement we have in the way of a noise. The earliest sunbeams shine upon groups of worshipers going to offer oblations, while the shades of twilight deepen before vespers are over, and the throng of satisfied penitents move to the quietude of their homes. The most devoted are said “to live in the church.” Surely their lives must pass peacefully, “Mid counted beads and countless prayers.”

The cathedral is an object of interest on account of its ancient architecture more than age, having been commenced in 1793. The church in use previous to its erection was located on the west side of St. George Street. The engineers and officers belonging to the Government—Don Mariana and Don P. Berrio—directed the work, it being completed at a cost of over sixteen thousand dollars. During the many improvements made in the city, the main part of the cathedral has remained the same for nearly the past century, while time has touched it lightly—thus forming a link with the present in a useful state of preservation. The walls are built of coquina of no modern thickness, but as if designed to resist a siege. Its Moorish belfry with four bells, and the town-clock, form a complete cross. One of these bells was taken from Tolemato Chapel, it having been originally brought from Rome, as the lettering indicates. It bears the following date and inscription: “Sancte Joseph, Ora pro nobis, 1682.” The cathedral also contains a crucifix, which is brought into requisition once every year on Good Friday, it being a relic from “Nuestro Cano de la Leche,” which is all that remains. The front doors of the cathedral are now kept locked, as it has been a resort for so many inconsiderate persons, who went there smoking and talking in loud, irreverent tones, as though it was a theater, where some kind of daylight drama was being enacted, instead of a house devoted to worship, and entered with purity of feeling, if not according to prescribed rules, which the faith of everybody induces them to adopt.

To the minds of these Church-devotees all other pageant fades into insignificance before the festivities and solemnities of the Holy Days connected with their Church-services, and the veneration due to their patron saints. Whatever vicissitudes or changes may take place with them in other respects, their religion remains the same; it is, indeed, a part of their being, without which their lives would be considered incomplete, their existence blank as the brutes, which die that others may live. Some of the worshipers rush to the cathedral with the rapidity of an opera-goer, who is afraid the seats will all be taken before he arrives, but enter with the same degree of veneration as the pilgrims who visit and kiss the statue of St. Peter—still clinging to their catechism and creeds firmly, as a part of their life, while their well-learned prayers are repeated as a talisman against temptation and violent death. These old cathedral walls have witnessed stately ceremonials, heard the prayers and confessions of many penitents, whose troubled consciences and sin-burdened hearts could find no relief except at the confessional.

The bishop is regarded by the Catholics as the Vicegerent of Heaven. He lives in the greatest seclusion and simplicity—never appearing in public except amid the glitter and grandeur of a ceremonial, but always accessible to those wishing the administration of Church-rites.

Many outsiders regard the adoration rendered to the priesthood as homage to man. This conclusion is incorrect—“all this effort at splendor and magnificence being wholly and purely a tribute of man to honor the religion which God in his love and mercy has given, and no part of it designed for man’s honor.” As evidence of this, none of the priesthood ever approach the tabernacle, or other holy symbols, except with marked demonstrations of the most profound reverence and uncovered head—thus rendering the same veneration to Christ which he requires from the people.

With an utter disregard for the fitness of things, on exhibition in this cathedral are two frescoes—one representing the “Death of the Wicked,” the other the “Death of the Good.” The good man appears perfectly composed, as though he were about to survey one of his Father’s mansions, well prepared for the coming change, only waiting for the gates of glory to be opened for his entrance, when the words of welcome would resound through the peaceful abodes of the just made perfect, “Enter into the joy of thy Lord.” “The Death of the Wicked!” Where the idea of so much that is horrible could have been conceived is difficult to be accurately determined. It has been conceded by all that there is nothing like it in Rome or the Vatican. Dante, with his vision of demoniac spirits, is not a rival. How these devils grin! How they stare at the distorted features of the poor, dying man, who anticipates soon taking a leap into the dark abode of these exultant beings, who are delighted at the prospect of having one more victim to slake their sleepless thirst, or on which to experiment with some newly-suggested torture!

Travelers, in coming here, must not imagine they can regulate the standard of religion in all climates by their own.

The old, time-honored custom, in Catholic countries, of spending a portion of Christmas Eve in prayer and praise to God for the unspeakable gift of his Son Jesus Christ, is still observed here with all the accompanying ceremonies of ancient times pertaining to the Holy Order of St. Augustine, transmitted, through the priesthood, to the present generation.

The high windows, which are nearer the roof than any other part of the building, will never draw wandering thoughts from their devotions, as their altitude would preclude any but angel eyes from looking through them. The modernized, cushioned, upholstered seats, upon which registered Church-members, with gilt-edged hymn-books in their hands, expect to slide from into the portals of glory, are not found here, but the genuine, old-time wooden benches, with a thick plank to sit on, and another to support the shoulders. No velvet foot-stool to kneel upon, but the bare floor for penitents to bend in their devotions, and the sin-stricken to derive comfort and seek forgiveness for their misdeeds. Outside the chancel, on the right of the altar, in a niche, is a statue of the Madonna, life size, with the God-child standing beside her, both looking very benignly. Beneath the niche is a representation of the lamb, of which our Saviour is the antitype. On an altar below this was a miniature stable, with an inside exposure, containing figures of the infant Jesus in a manger with Mary and Joseph, the whole surrounded by oxen, beasts of burden, and other things connected with the humble furnishings of a stable, while bending in front of all were the wise men worshiping.

In rear and above the grand “high altar” stands the figure of St. Augustine, dressed in all the insignia of rank belonging to his holy order, decked in azure, with gilt trimmings, above which is inscribed, “Sancte Augustine. Ora Pro Nobis!” On each side of this are two other saints with the same petition over them. The altars were all dressed in an appropriate manner, with evergreens and flowers that never fade. The choir made a fine exhibit of their musical skill, singing “Miserere Nobis,” “Gloria in Excelsis,” very finely, with the organ accompaniment. On this Christmas the cathedral was filled with a remarkably quiet, well-deported audience, composed of citizens and strangers. The services were conducted by Bishop Verot, who has ministered to them in holy things for nearly twenty years. At this time he was dressed with more than usual display, it being the crowning day of all holy days—Christmas. His sacerdotal robes were of costly materials, over which was worn the chasuble, elaborately embroidered with designs of the finest needle-work, wrought in gold, and interspersed with numerous precious stones, while upon his head rested a miter of corresponding elegance; in his hand he held a crozier of costly and curious pattern. He was assisted in the service connected with the ceremonies by two other priests, also twelve acolytes. Bishop Verot made some very appropriate remarks upon charity and the Redeemer’s birth. He said that no earthly king had ever made his appearance in so humble a manner, and he was greater than all kings or princes in the world.

Softly fell the rays of light from six tall wax candles, supported by metal of ancient date, surrounded by many lesser ones that lent their luster to reflect the solemnity of the scene. Heavenly thoughts should visit us when associated with so many holy emblems. Amid the stillness of midnight, surrounded by the symbols of this most fascinating religion, before the grand altar kneeled twelve nuns, draped and veiled with the sable-hued garments, indicating their abandonment of all worldly display. Before the tabernacle stood Bishop Verot, with a massive golden chalice in his hand, while slowly and distinctly from his lips were echoed the solemn words of the Lord Jesus, “Hoc est enim corpus meum,” as each communicant received the blessed wafer.

A visit to Tolemato Cemetery, situated at the north end of Tolemato Street, is in reality going to a “garden of graves,” on account of the large number of interments which have been made there. It was the Sabbath when we went, and, contrary to the usual custom in most towns and cities, there were no loafers prowling about the grounds, or sitting on the tablets reading novels, thus committing an act which in itself partakes so much of daring desecration. The custodian of the gate was a lizard, that lives in the lock, and crawls with astonishing rapidity to his hiding-place on application of the key. When the gates are open we enter “God’s acre,” where rest the remains of those who have lived and died for the past three centuries—priests and people, all sleeping side by side, awaiting that summons of which Gabriel will be the herald. Since the settlement of St. Augustine this cemetery has been the scene of a tragic event, which occurred in 1567, when Father Corpa, influenced by a desire to rescue the souls of the savages from the lurid flames which he imagined would hover around the delinquents in purgatory, rebuked them for their hostile and polygamic customs. His pearls were cast before swine, as the untamed red men had no prescribed rules from the Great Spirit in regard to their conduct. They could not adopt this new rÉgime, and the propagator must be silenced. A council was called—the Sanhedrim of the savage—when a yell of triumph which penetrated the portals of prayer rang out upon the stillness of midnight. It was then the edict went forth, irrevocable and sanguinary as the laws of Draco, Father Corpa must die; and who should strike the fatal blow? Whose unflinching arm can rid us of this our peace-destroyer? The athlete of his tribe replied, “It is I!” Stealthily and silently they stole into Tolemato Chapel, where, kneeling before the altar, with a lone taper, whose feeble rays served as a guide, was Father Corpa. A single flash from the warrior’s steel gleamed through the darkness; a single stroke sufficed.

Tolemato Cemetery now marks the spot where this act was perpetrated, baptized with the blood of its first missionary. The remains of this chapel have long since disappeared, except the bell, which hangs in St. Augustine cathedral.

Another chapel stands within the cemetery now, erected to the memory of Father Varela by his beloved pupils in Cuba. The architecture is Corinthian, while above the doorway is the following inscription: “Beati mortui qui in Domino morientur.” This vault, when opened, is in reality a dark, chilly, awe-inspiring place, where service is held on “All Souls’ Day,” when Catholic devotees are assembled to repeat prayers for the repose of the souls whose bodies lie buried here. The following Spanish register is made upon the marble tablet which covers his remains: “ESTA CAPILLA, FUE, EREGIDA, POR, LOS, CUBANOS, EL ANO 1853, PARA, CONSERVAR, LAS CENIZAS DEL PADRE VARELA.” Hanging over the emblematical representations standing upon the mahogany altar is a copy from Raphael’s sublime painting, “The Ascension.” The ravages of time have destroyed all the inscriptions upon the tombs which were placed here previous to 1821. One of the tablets being moved back from the top of the vault, a portion of the coffin was exposed. We concluded it might be the perpetuation of a time-honored superstition, which favored the idea that the soul visited the body, and watched over it after death. “Vida Robles”—a life of troubles—was inscribed on another tablet. From this epitaph a stranger would naturally suppose life had very few charms for the body deposited beneath it, and death a welcome messenger, that gave the care-worn frame a blessed rest.

A few years since, some workmen being employed to dig among the ruins where Tolemato Chapel once stood, discovered a medal, or medallion, in basso-rilievo, bearing the inscription, “Roma.” This sacred relic is supposed to have been attached to the rosary worn by the priest at the time when he was victimized before the altar. On one side of this medal is a kneeling figure, with an infant in his arms, around which is engraved, “SANCTUS JOANNES DE DEO”—St. John of God. C—who was born in 1495, a founder of the Order of Charity, and father of the eminent saints that flourished in Spain during the sixteenth century. His motto was, “Lord, thy thorns are my roses, and thy sufferings my paradise.” On the opposite side is engraved “S. CHRISTOFORUS”—St. Christopher—represented bearing the Christ-child. This ancient relic comes to us blessed by the Pope, and in a remarkable state of preservation.