Till late in the evening of Holy Thursday, people were kneeling before the church doors, counting beads, and saying their Ave-Marias. At nine o'clock at night, three military bands of music, of the artillery, Caçadores, and Legion de la Patria, each preceded by the globe, or balloon, with transparencies, carried upon a pole, entered the Plaza with drums muffled, and playing solemn airs. The artillery band was much admired; Masoni, and other professors, performed in it. I followed two of the bands to their barracks, at the Retiro. The night was lovely; and it was late ere I returned home, my thoughts entirely absorbed in the scenes of the day. On the afternoon of Good Friday, the mass at the cathedral was well attended. The custom of burning Judas has fallen off. On the Saturday, this year, the rain fell in torrents; but, a few nights after, Judas was burnt near the Victoria coffee-house, amidst fire-works and music. Another great object of attention to us Protestants is the Holy Ghost proceeding through the streets, to administer the last offices of religion to those who are presumed to be in a dying state. The holy father, and one attendant, both richly attired, are seated in a coach drawn by white mules. They go at a walking pace, with a few soldiers for escort; negresses, boys, and others, carrying lighted lanterns, both by night and day. A bell warns passengers of its approach, when all within view must be uncovered, and, when they are near the carriage, kneel. This last operation, not being very agreeable in dirty weather, foreigners try to avoid his holiness altogether, by going up other streets. Equestrians descend from their horses, and kneel. At night, lights are placed in the windows of the houses they pass, and their inmates kneel. Why do you kneel? said I, to a slave boy, at a house in which I resided. "Because God is in the coach," he replied. A brutal soldier, of the escort, once knocked an Englishman down, for not kneeling in time. The magistrates took cognizance of it; and, I hear, that strangers are not now obliged to kneel, though common respect will always teach them to be uncovered. In passing the guardhouses, the guards turn out, drums are beat, &c. They have now a large bell, the small one having been mistaken for those belonging to the water carts:[29] a Londoner might mistake it for the bell of the six-o'clock-afternoon postman. [29] Carts, with a bell affixed, go about the streets vending water. The city is but ill provided with water, that in the river being considered unwholesome. Mr. Bevans, the engineer, has sunk the ground at the Recolator to a great depth, for the purpose of forming a well to supply the town with water. The work still goes on; but, hitherto, the desired water is not to be found.