On Sunday I attended public worship at the cathedral. The bishop delivered his last of an annual series of ten sermons. “Heaven” was the subject of his discourse. The church was well filled; the ladies, of course, and as usual, constituting a majority of the numerous assemblage that attended. They looked exceedingly well, though I could reconcile myself with difficulty to their seating themselves upon the cold stone floor. The words of the bishop, at the remote position which I occupied in the church, were indistinctly heard; and, therefore, I am unable to give any opinion of their merits. One thing is certain, their author looked the prelate to admiration. It was rather an ungentlemanly or thoughtless act of the commanding officer on parade in the adjoining square, to fire a feu-de-joie during the preaching. It had the effect of putting to rout many of the congregation, and drowning the bishop’s voice, very much to his discomfiture. I had entertained much doubt respecting the popularity of the church among the higher order and the better informed people of Yucatan, and this went far to establish it. It is policy, however, to keep it up as it is—but such examples as this have quite a contrary tendency. For the last ten days the city has presented a singular aspect. Stores have been closing and opening. Processions, military and ecclesiastical, have been the order of the day. Images, of all sizes and distinctions, have been paraded through the public streets, and the churches crowded with women. Prayers were uttered aloud in the public thoroughfares of the city; and places of most resort, filled with both sexes, arrayed in suits of mourning. Government officers received indulgences, and all public labor was suspended. It was the enacting of the scenic shows of the death and rising of our Saviour. At half-past eight o’clock this morning, all the bells (and here are not a few) were put in motion. The Saviour had risen, and all was life—as life is in Merida!