Christ hath sent us down the angels
And the whole earth and the skies
Are illumed by altar candles
Lit for blessed mysteries;
And a Priest's hand through creation
Waveth calm and consecration.”
E. B. BROWNING.
IT was Easter-day in the City of the Kings, the capital of the New World. The bells of the Christian churches rang out glad peals of triumph; banners and tapestry adorned the principal streets, which were thronged by Spaniards, Creoles, and Indians in their gavest costumes. But in the great Square the throng was thickest, and all were pouring onwards in a steady stream towards the new cathedral. This singular building stood before them, in all the glory of its painted facade of glaring red and yellow, its lath and plaster towers, and its three wide green doors, now thrown open for everyone to enter. But once within, the bad taste that planned the exterior was forgotten, and nothing felt but admiration. Decorations of the most costly kind abounded in rich profusion; and the numerous altars literally groaned beneath the weight of silver vessels, massive enough for a monarch's ransom.
It was very early, yet the spacious building was already filling rapidly. Perhaps rather with eager sight-seers than with devout worshippers or attentive hearers. For there was much to be seen that day, if there was also something to be heard. Places were reserved in the nave for the friars of the four great monasteries—the Dominicans, the Franciscans, the Augustinians, and the Mercedarios; and by-and-by they defiled slowly in, wearing their appropriate costumes. The Franciscans looked the best satisfied and the most interested: the sermon of the day was to be preached by a Franciscan monk.
Few Indians were visible; not that they would not have liked well enough to witness the pageant, but the Spaniards and Creoles, as was natural, had the best places, and left little room for their dusky brethren. One Indian enjoyed, however, by special favor, an excellent seat, whence he could both see and hear everything.
With a heart full of the deepest anxiety, Jose (who, with Fray Fernando, had come in from Callao the day before) took his place amongst the hearers of his patron's Easter sermon. He knew that for some days previously the monk had been continually in prayer. But he had spoken little, indeed nothing whatever, about his own intentions, or the possible issues of the day.
High Mass was first celebrated, with more than the usual pomp attendant on that chief ceremonial of the Roman ritual. The solemn tones of the organ, recently brought from Spain; the sweet chants of the white-robed choristers; the gorgeous dresses of the priests, with the bright harmonies of their varied coloring; the beautiful children swinging censers; the clouds of fragrant incense;—all these filled the soul of Jose—keenly susceptible of such influences—with exquisite pleasure. He gave himself up without reserve to the spell that stole over him. For the time—only for the time—he forgot all Fray Fernando's anxious questionings, all his great searching of heart, about the sacrifice of the Mass; and at the elevation of the Host he bowed himself to the ground with as little scruple or hesitation as any man in the vast congregation.
And very soon afterward he enjoyed the proud triumph of seeing the patre—still in the simple dress of his order, though waited upon by gorgeously attired acolytes—ascend the stately pulpit in the sight of all.
For a few moments, heedless of the crowd beneath, Fray Fernando lifted up his heart in silent prayer. Then in a voice, apparently not loud, but clear enough to be heard throughout the great building, he repeated the few simple words he had chosen for his text, "The Lord is risen indeed.”
The Lord is risen—the Son of God. Therefore all He said is true, and His claim to Divine Sonship established forever.
The Lord is risen—the Redeemer of man. Therefore the redemption is accomplished, the debt paid to the uttermost farthing. For the prison gate is thrown open, and the Surety has gone forth in triumph.
The Lord is risen—the First-fruits of the Resurrection. Therefore all shall rise; earth and ocean shall give up their dead; not one lacking of the countless millions that are slumbering there. For "since by man came death, by man came also the resurrection from the dead.”
The Lord is risen—the Head of the Church. Therefore those who are His body, made one with Him by a living faith, are already by faith risen with Him. Let such "seek those things that are above, where Christ sitteth at the right hand of God.”
These were the thoughts that, clothed in a rich drapery of imaginative, perhaps even to a modern taste fanciful illustration, Fray Fernando presented that day to thousands of wondering hearers. The manner was not strikingly unlike that of his brethren—the gift of fervid eloquence was shared by many amongst them—but the matter of the sermon was new and startling.
Yet two at least of the truths he told, Rome has preserved well and carefully amidst all her errors. Nor were the two others, as he stated them, in any open contradiction to her teaching. But the utter absence of much that they were wont to hear—and, even more, the power and vital force that dwelt in what they heard—awed, impressed, amazed the intelligent amongst his audience. If the comparison be not derogatory to such high personages as the Archbishop and Chapter of Ciudad de los Reyes, it may be said that they felt as felt the witch of Endor, when at her call from the earth arose—no counterfeit, no pale shadowy image,—but dread reality, the very prophet of Israel, come from the world of spirits with a message of doom for those that awaked him.
Jose's simple heart, meanwhile, beat high with exultation. Those truths, whatever they might be to others, to him were life and joy and peace. Christ was risen indeed for him.
The preacher also had a place in his thoughts. Now, at last, would all men see how great, how wise the patre was! And, casting a triumphant glance around, he read admiration in a thousand faces, whilst his own was saying, "Is not the patre great?”
But amongst the faces upon which his eye rested, he marked one—unlike the others—that of the Dominican from Cuba. It did not speak admiration: it was doubtful, dark, anxious. And Jose felt as if from that moment the light grew dim; and a chill mist of fear rose up and overshadowed everything around.
In his cell in the Franciscan monastery, he had a strange dream that night. He thought that it happened to him to go with the patre on board a ship which lay at anchor in the bay. Alone, they drifted somehow out to sea together. No mariners, no rudder, no compass there. Nothing but white sails set, wild waves around, fast fading land behind. And they looked each on the other in blank dismay.
Then suddenly, as things happen in dreams, the storm arose, the wild wind shrieked and howled, the ship tossed helplessly.
Jose stretched forth his hands and cried aloud, "Lord, save, or we perish!”
When—behold! a Form appeared, treading the stormy deep. And a Hand touched his;—with the thrill of that touch Jose awoke, and lo! it was a dream.
But he could not forget that dream.