nder tapers which flicker
against the walls in stone arches, a dense crowd of human figures veiled
in black, in a place overpowering and suffocating--underground, no
doubt--which is filled with the perfume of the incense of Arabia; and a
noise of almost wicked movement, which sirs us to alarm and even horror:
bleatings of new-born babies, cries of distress of tiny mites whose
voices are drowned, as if on purpose, by a clinking of cymbals.

What can it be? Why have they descended into this dark hole, these
little ones, who howl in the midst of the smoke, held by these phantoms
in mourning? Had we entered it unawares we might have thought it a den
of wicked sorcery, an underground cavern for the black mass.

But no. It is the crypt of the basilica of St. Sergius during the Coptic
mass of Easter morning. And when, after the first surprise, we examine
these phantoms, we find that, for the most part, they are young mothers,
with the refined and gentle faces of Madonnas, who hold the plaintive
little ones beneath their black veils and seek to comfort them. And the
sorcerer, who plays the cymbals, is a kind old priest, or sacristan,
who smiles paternally. If he makes all this noise, in a rhythm which
in itself is full of joy, it is to mark the gladness of Easter morn, to
celebrate the resurrection of Christ--and a little, too, no doubt, to
distract the little ones, some of whom are woefully put out. But
their mammas do not prolong the proof--a mere momentary visit to this
venerable place, which is to bring them happiness, and they carry their
babes away: and others are led in by the dark, narrow staircase, so low
that one cannot stand upright in it. And thus the crypt is not emptied.
And meanwhile mass is being said in the church overhead.

But what a number of people, of black veils, are in this hovel, where
the air can scarcely be breathed, and where the barbarous music, mingled
with wailings and cries, deafens you! And what an air of antiquity marks
all things here! The defaced walls, the low roof that one can easily
touch, the granite pillars which sustain the shapeless arches are all
blackened by the smoke of the wax candles, and scarred and worn by the
friction of human hands.

At the end of the crypt there is a very sacred recess round which a
crowd presses: a coarse niche, a little larger than those cut in the
wall to receive the tapers, a niche which covers the ancient stone on
which, according to tradition, the Vi