Nothing in the life of the people of the Philippine Islands is more interesting to the foreigner than the village feasts; nothing is more indicative of the character of the people, who are exceedingly fond of ornament and display. Every village has its own feasts, to which all the natives in the surrounding district contribute;—in which all alike take part.

These feasts are always of a religious character, and are encouraged by the clergy, who find them not only lucrative, but also conducive to religious feeling.

Come with me and visit the busy morning-scene of a fiesta in a populous village near the capital. As we enter the broad roadway, winding with serpentine folds among the gleaming bungalows, we see everywhere signs of unusual activity; groups of smiling natives, dressed in their Sunday best, hurry by, chattering gaily. Here comes a long line of carromatas (small carts) drawn by wiry ponies, driven by well-to-do native planters: with the lofty consciousness of worldly prosperity they sit erect in imperturbable dignity.

We join a passing group and follow them past the low, airy houses, all decorated now with gorgeous bunting and gay festoons. Flags and streamers flutter on every house-top; the whole village presents a scene of picturesque animation; for the tropical luxuriance of the trees and the myriad flowers of gorgeous hue, form a brilliant background.

We arrive at the village-green, and here stands a motley assemblage, constantly reinforced by the throngs that come in by every path and roadway. An expression of eager anticipation is on the faces of all as they gaze in the direction of the little church that fronts the crowded court. The church is a low, massive, white building, with large pillars in front, that give it a semi-classic appearance; it forms a curious, but not uninteresting, contrast to the many-gabled bungalows.

The bells in the campanile begin to toll slowly, and from the midst of the crowd instantly comes a burst of glorious music. The village-band stationed there renders effectively an operatic air as the natives slowly enter the church. After all are seated, the priest preaches a short sermon, full of pith and of pertinent suggestion about the Saint whom the day commemorates. The audience is then dismissed with a benediction; and to the lively music of some composer it files leisurely out. The natives see nothing incongruous in the introduction of operatic music into divine worship. They are moved to devotion no less by the stirring strains of one of Sousa’s military marches or a languorous waltz of Strauss, than by the solemn Te Deums of the Catholic ritual. To them all music is divine.

We stop a few minutes to watch the cura,—the parish priest,—as he dispenses blessings to his devout parishioners, who now crowd round him with every appearance of reverential affection.

Our friend the cura is a veritable father to his people. As he listens to the ingenuous confidences of his flock, his face beams with that rare benevolence born of godliness; there is a whisper of domestic sorrow that he needs must hear, a story of happiness or a tale of wrong. For each and all he has a word of kindly affection, and as he sees us waiting near the entrance, he approaches with outstretched hand and invites us to the grand procession in the evening.

The people have dispersed, and have returned to their homes. Already the sun is high in the sky, pouring a deluge of heat upon the landscape. From the horizon, mountain after mountain springs airily into the heavens, their blue peaks suggesting a place of perpetual coolness, upon which the eye loves to linger amid the oppressive blaze of the tropic sun.

Surrounding the village are forests of majestic trees, of indescribable grandeur, and of unparalleled magnificence. Among these the white houses of the planters nestle peacefully.

Each house has its own tiny garden, fenced in with reeds, and forms a miniature paradise, where are flowers of splendid hue, creepers with purple blossoms, red-coral blooms, and trees of palm, mango, orange, lanzon, santol, and giant bananas, whose rich fruits, in giant clusters, tempt the eye of the beholder. Here the native is a petty king: for his own little domain, for nine months of the year, yields sufficient for his wants. Nature, indeed, gives him a golden harvest for only the reaping.

We have been invited to spend the day with a well-to-do native planter, who, at the conclusion of the service, has sought us out. He lives on the outskirts of the village, and we are soon with him in his carromata, speeding leisurely over the highway.

We approach his home—a typical native dwelling; the body of the house is raised about six feet from the ground, and is mounted on thick pieces of stone. This allows the air to circulate freely beneath, and prevents the entrance of snakes and insects, and is in every way conducive to health and comfort. We mount the wide stairway, that connects the house with the ground, and enter upon a broad open piazza facing the street, called a cahida. The sides of this are formed of sliding windows, composed of small square panes of mother-of-pearl, opaque to the heat, but admitting the rays of light. Here we are introduced to the various members of the family, who receive us kindly and offer sugared dainties and a cigarette.

Beyond is a large room, with walls of window and with sliding doors. Here are some chairs and a table, covered with a handsomely embroidered cloth. Upon the walls, which are covered with cloth instead of plaster, are various bric-a-brac, artistically arranged upon scrolls; while several engravings of religious subjects and one or two family portraits hang between. From the centre of the ceiling hangs a crystal chandelier with globes of colored glass; a small oratory, supporting the brazen image of some Saint, stands in the corner. The broad floor-planks, daily scrubbed and polished with plantain leaves, are as smooth and clean as a mirror.

Opening from this main room are several smaller rooms, used as bedrooms. A narrow passage-way leads to the bath-room and to the kitchen—in a separate building. The design of the whole domicile seems to aim at cleanliness and coolness,—both essentials of comfort in this hot, moist climate.

The roof is patched with nipa palm, and the outside walls of bamboo—painted white and striped with green and blue—are covered with grotesque carvings. This, with the broad eaves and the wide balconies, gives the house a most picturesque appearance.

We note with gratification the many signs of family affection around us. The father, kind and considerate; the mother, sweet and sympathetic; the children, quiet, obedient, and well-behaved—a picture of domestic happiness that is representative rather than exceptional.

After tiffin, each retires to his own room to enjoy the siesta; and thus we sleep soundly through the heavy afternoon hours.

The siesta over, we venture into the village. Through the streets are hurrying scores of men, nearly every one with a cock under his arm. They are going to the cock-pit. We follow, and soon we come to our destination.

Imagine a large bamboo building with a thatched roof, wherein hundreds of natives have gathered, for, what is to them, the supreme enjoyment of life. Around the door are one or two guards in Spanish uniform; but everything appears so decorous and orderly that it is indeed difficult to realize that we are in a gigantic gambling den. Nearly every native has with him his fighting-cock, which he loves as devotedly as one of his own children, and upon which he has spent much care and interest. The “farmer,” often a Chinaman, who has secured a license from the Government to run the cock-pit, stands in the middle of the ring, around him a group of natives excited and eager.

Two fighting-cocks, each armed with a steel spur three or four inches long, are in the hands of their respective owners. Every eye is riveted upon the prospective contestants. The farmer, or proprietor, announces that the contest is about to begin, and from every hand dollars rain into the ring, each person staking a certain amount upon his favorite.

This done, all is breathless expectation, and at the word “Casada” (meaning matched), and at “Largo” (let go), the fowls are let loose.

The fight waxes hot and furious; the two cocks are as pugnacious as bull-pups. But it is soon over; for, at a well-directed thrust from the steel spur, one of the contestants lies dead.

The crier now announces the name of the winner, and all the winners come down into the middle of the ring and pick up their own stakes, as well as the amount won by the wager.

Strangers often remark how unusual it is that amid so much confusion, and where there is apparently boundless opportunity for cheating, there should be so much honesty and good faith.

However, every man is to be trusted. I have never known but one exception—he was instantly hacked to pieces with knives. There are over a hundred of these gambling pits around Manila. It is the natives’ greatest diversion. Opposition to this sport would almost create a rebellion; and so the Spanish Government wisely makes the best of it, pocketing almost a million dollars a year from the licenses.

It is night. Against the sombre gloom of the heavens twinkle millions of stars: they too are a part of the grand illumination that is to be the climax of the whole fiesta. Again the village-green in front of the church! It is alive with the happy villagers, decked in all their finery—the men and boys in airy, colored shirts and white trousers, the women and girls in splendid skirts and brilliant chemisettes.

All are standing bareheaded. The band is discoursing sweet music, and the people stand entranced. Not a sound is heard till the tune is ended; then, on every hand, arises a decorous murmur of delight. Here comes the cura. He at once proceeds to arrange the procession, which is the event of the feast, and to which the villagers have been looking forward, with joyous anticipation, for many months. Mysterious groups are issuing from the church. These are assigned to their respective positions by the father, who, in this, as in all else, is the master of ceremonies. Let us, however, leave the crowd and move a little way up the street, where, before long, the procession is to pass.

Over the roadway, from airy arches, gaily decorated with bunting, are suspended Chinese lanterns. On the gateways to the houses, on all the fences that line the street, hang little fat-pots, whose pale flicker, multiplied a thousand-fold, produces a most romantic effect, to which the lights on the arches and the many-colored illuminated lamps in the windows add a subdued splendor.

We have not long to wait; for the procession has been speedily arranged, and is already making its way up the street, the band, at the head, playing an operatic air.

Behind come the happy participants, two by two; men and women alternating. All carry torches, whose glow throws over their grave faces a gleam of soft light, that harmonizes well with the nature of the occasion.

And now comes the spangled image of some old Saint borne aloft on a litter; while a murmur of applause bursts from the admiring onlookers. From every house rockets are shot into the heavens, showering on the dusky night constellations of colored stars.

Thus, Saint after Saint, martyr after martyr, is majestically borne along, till near the end of the procession appears the image of the Virgin, herself “decked with jewels bright and with glory crowned.”

Now the murmur rises to a shout of devout acclaim: the Queen of the festive night, Our Lady, passes on.

Thus, through every street, winds the brilliant procession under the lighted arches, returning finally to the village-court, whence it started. Here the priest pronounces a benediction, and with a clash of triumphant music the participants are dismissed.

Again we accompany our host back to his hospitable mansion, where a generous meal has been prepared for us. We partake heartily of the good things: roast-pig, chicken, many kinds of native fruits, and rice. At the close, cigarettes are passed round,—both men and women smoking,—and we soon enter into conversation while the newer arrivals are being served.

It is our host’s grand reception night. A hundred guests have partaken of his bounty, and the veranda and the sitting-room are crowded with friends and neighbors,—invited and uninvited; all are equally welcome. Cigars and cigarettes are passed round, and now the fun begins. A girl—a wonderfully sweet and pretty creature—with glowing black eyes and long, loose black hair—advances to the centre of the room, and croons a low, plaintive air, reminiscent of unrequited love. She accompanies her music with a weird dance, impressive through its very simplicity. Gradually her tones grow louder and her movements quicker, signifying all the varying degrees of advance and refusal. Her supple body glides into a thousand graceful curves, each eloquent of beauty. Her pale olive face becomes mantled with a rich crimson tide as she lashes herself into a fury of passion. She feigns anger, and, stamping her pretty feet, now in petulant disdain, now in a paroxysm of wrath, stands the incarnation of beautiful rage. It is a picture full of tragic power, of deep significance.

She is approaching the climax of her passion. Her voice is sharp and shrill as it trembles with scorn or defiance. Forward and backward her body sways with a rhythmic swing that compels the attention of every beholder. Many, in fact, accompany her every motion with the sympathetic movement of unconscious imitation: their faces mirror the feelings of the dancer.

And now a note of triumph rings out, and the singer’s face glows with an expression of ecstasy; while, bounding forward, her splendid hair trailing its waves of ebony, she seems transformed,—the apotheosis of joy. Then slowly decreasing in volume, her voice sinks to a low whisper of serene content, and, blushing modestly at the applause, she retires to give place to others.

Two young men and a girl now come forward, and a scene of desperate rivalry on the part of the men, and of tantalizing coquetry on the part of the maiden, is enacted. This is by means of a series of intricate dance-movements, no less striking than original. A pretty tableau truly! And one not lacking in sentiment and in spontaneous expression. A foreigner would believe that these lithe young natives were in terrible earnest, and that they were rehearsing a passion of the heart! Such, indeed, is often the case, and many a girl has, through the license of this dance, shown her preference. Many a youth, too, has seen his hopes blasted, and his rival exalted, by a dainty pirouette.

This dance is followed by another, in which an exquisite girl and a fat young man take part. It is an Oriental rhapsody; a sort of couchee-couchee,—very suggestive and voluptuous, according to Western ideas. There are wrigglings and writhings, and clasps and embraces; all the sweet contortions of secret love, that the natives take as a matter of course, just as Europeans regard the waltz.

Dance after dance follows, and it is getting late. But another entertainment is in store for us; and so once more we venture forth into the night—en route to the village-green.

Here has been hastily erected a large booth, around which hundreds of natives are standing in an attitude of profound interest. A moro-moro play is going on. This is a sort of Philippine miracle-play, in which kings and queens and soldiers, and various persons with Biblical names, contend together. There is rivalry, ruin, and despair; there is death, murder, and awful retribution. It is a tumultuous tragedy; in which, too, are some subtle and refined elements, and a kind of gross humor, represented by the stage-fool and by the lads that take the female parts. There is, however, no coarseness; not a suggestion of it.

Love and religious persuasion and devotion mark the greatest number of moro-moro performances, and while some of the plays are fairly good,—not judging from too lofty a standpoint,—yet, on the other hand, it is indeed amusing to note how little in this line, how thin a texture, pleases the people, bombast and fury, honeyed accents and unnecessary vicarious suffering, false and flagrant violations of dramatic art—all alike are viewed with breathless interest, and applauded, or stoically witnessed as the occasion demands. The entire play is given in the Tagal language.

The native spectators, indeed, enter into the action of the play with, as it were, a grim earnest; as if all their mental faculties were judging complex emotions and nice situations.

Nothing, indeed, in the native character is more remarkable than its unvarying decorum. Here the happy crowd has been standing for three hours, agape with delight, drinking in the rude splendors of tinsel potentates.

Here, too, they would be willing to stand for several hours more; but it is nearly midnight, and a sudden illumination on the other side of the square announces that the time for departure is almost at hand. It is seen that the villagers have constructed a miniature castle, now ablaze with fire-works. Various designs are traced by the spreading glow, and scores of rockets shoot into the sky, dropping a shower of brilliant stars. Ever and anon, at some unusual display, a murmur of applause rises from the admiring throng. Entranced, they stay until the last rocket has been drowned in the vast ocean of Night. Then all leave as silently as they came, and the village square is soon deserted; while the lamps and lanterns are allowed to burn till their glow is quenched in the brightness of the morrow’s sun.