Easter Eggs—La Mona
Books on symbolism are very much in vogue now, and some of the writers in that line would not be occupying their abilities much less profitably than usual, were they to investigate the mystical connection between Easter and dyed hens’ eggs. But a fortnight before my arrival in Barcelona, I had seen old women, by the score, hawking the last-named commodity about, under the wings of the lion of St. Mark’s, in anticipation of the holy season. Mrs. Butler, in her «Year of Consolation,» tells us that she saw Easter-eggs in Rome, decked with feathers and artificial flowers, but that they were not by any means as beautiful as some that she had seen, from Russia. Every one knows how deadly a blow is given to the hopes of young poultry in embryo, by the approach of the same solemn feast with us in the United States, and if therefore there be any thing in the orthodox maxim, «quod semper et ubique,» &c, the custom in question must be as near orthodoxy as any thing profane can be. Drake says that «Pasche eggs» were eaten in England in the sixteenth century, as emblematic of the resurrection; a ceremony which, he informs us, was recognized by the Ritual of Pope Paul V., wherein there is a form of prayer for their consecration. It would puzzle the most learned symbolist, however, it occurs to me, to fathom the peculiar system of correspondences which the Barcelonese have instituted in the premises. Not only was there every variety of hue and device upon the shells, but in the windows of every pastrycook or baker, and at all the stalls where appetite was tempted, in the public places, there were piles of loaves, shaped very much like shoe-lasts, and having at each end, an egg, strapped and baked nicely and securely in, between two slips of erust or pastry. On Easter-eve, it was edifying to see how women, men, and children («oh dura ilia!«) not having the fear of indigestion before their eyes, thronged to possess themselves of the commodity, with the deliberate intention, of eating it. They called this bread la mona—the monkey—and a challenge to eat the monkey—comer la mona—is one which all the world is ready to give or to accept. A kind acquaintance, native and to the mona born, gave me its history, and commended it to me as a special luxury. Even my Spanish predilections, however, were not equal, I confess, to such a test, and I thus began to learn, what is not altogether useless to an American, that a stranger must be excused, at first, if he is not able to swallow «peculiar institutions,» with a relish.
The crowd continued, late and busy, on the Rambla, and when I retired, the lights were still blazing in gay vistas along it, though the watchmen were crying «Ave Maria purissima,» in token that it was midnight. I strove to win slumber within my red bed-curtains, but a love-lorn troubadour of a cat, with a strong smack of the Limousin in his accent (and who had probably come up, like my friend the marquis, to the opening of the opera), sang serenades in my sleepless ear till it was almost morning.