San Salvador

by Mary Agnes Tincker

The admonition to these devotions was brief: “At this time, while Nature sits in desolation, mourning over her decay and trembling before the winter winds, let us invite those veiled angels of the Lord, sorrow and fear, to enter our hearts and dwell awhile with us. Let us read and ponder in silence the life and death of the Divine Martyr. Let us remember that while we have rejoiced in peace, plenty, honor and justice, thousands and tens of thousands of our kind in the outer world have suffered starvation of body and mind, have been hunted like wild beasts, and branded on the forehead by demons disguised as men; and let us remember that that same Divine Martyr, our King and our Lord, said of these same children of sorrow and despair: Inasmuch as ye have done it unto them—whether good or evil—ye have done it unto me.”

The exercises began on Saturday night, and continued eight days, ending on the second Monday morning. There was a visit at night to the cemetery by all but the children, the sick, and the very aged. On Saturday the children would visit the Basilica to commemorate the blessing of the children by Christ, and, strewing the place with freshly budded myrtle twigs, would ask his blessing before the Throne. Mothers would take their infants there and hold them up, but would not speak. “For their angels shall speak for them,” they said.

Sunday was kept as Easter, and was a day of roses; and on Monday morning the whole town, all dressed in white, would go to the Basilica in procession, tossing their Easter lilies into the tribune as they passed, till the sweet drift would heap and cover the steps and upper balustrades, leaving only the Throne, gold-shining above a pyramid of perfumed snow.

For up through the dark soil and out of the prevailing grayness, already a wealth of unseen buds were pushing their way out to the broadening sunshine, to burst into bloom before the week should be over. The gardens had their sheltered rose-trees and lily-beds, and every house its cherished plants, watched anxiously, and coaxed forward, or retarded, as the time required.

The first Sunday was called the Day of Silence; for no one issued from his house after having entered it on returning from the cemetery, and each head of a family became its priest on that day, reading and expounding to his household the story of the passion of Christ, the Divine Martyr.

On Monday morning, after the procession of lilies, Dylar and Tacita would be publicly betrothed; and a week later their marriage would take place.

“I do not know, Tacita,” he said to her, “if our form of marriage will satisfy you. It has nothing of that ceremonial which you are accustomed to see, though we hold marriage to be a sacrament.”

It was Saturday morning of their Holy Week, and the two were walking apart under the northern mountains. They had already assumed the mourning dress of gray and black worn by all during that week, and the long gray wool cloaks with fur collars worn in the winter were not yet discarded. But their faces were bright, Tacita’s having a red rose in each cheek.

“Elena has told me something,” she said. “And how could I be otherwise than satisfied? For so my father and mother were married, and so—you will be!”

“Our position in regard to a priesthood, if ever to be regretted, is still unavoidable. Our foundation was a beginning the world anew, all depending on one man, with the help of God. No authority whatever was to enter from outside; but all was to conform as nearly as possible to the word of Christ; and as if to atone for any omission, he was elected King. Our people were of every clime and every belief; yet they were all won, by love,—not by force, nor argument, nor fear,—to accept Christ, and to live more in accordance with his commands than any other community in the world is known to do. When any of them go out into the world they choose the form of Christian worship which suits them best; and some, returning, have wished to see a priesthood introduced here. But that question brought in the first note of discord heard in our councils since the foundation. Some wanted one form, and some another. The subject then was forbidden, and we returned to the plan of our founder: to live apart, a separate and voiceless nation, waiting till God shall see fit to break down our boundaries. On Easter Sunday we lay our bread and wine on the footstool, opening the gates, and with prayer and song ask him to bless it, our invisible High Priest. Then each one, preparing himself as his conscience shall dictate, goes humbly up the steps his foot can touch at no other time, and takes of the sacramental bread, touches it to the wine set in a wide golden vase beside it, and comes down and eats it, kneeling. The little square of snowy bread looks as if a drop of blood had fallen on it where it met the wine. I think that many a heart is full of holy peace that day.”