[Illustration: St. Agnes, Virgin and Martyr.
Published by Benziger Brothers, New York, Cincinnati and St. Louis.]
[Illustration: F A B I O L A
OR
The Church
OF
The Catacombs,
By Cardinal Wiseman.]
FABIOLA;
OR,
THE CHURCH OF THE CATACOMBS,
_By His Eminence Cardinal Wiseman._
HÆC, SUB ALTARI SITA SEMPITERNO,
LAPSIBUS NOSTRIS VENIAM PRECATUR
TURBA, QUAM SERVAT PROCERUM CREATRIX PURPUREORUM.
_Prudentius._
HERE, BENEATH THE ETERNAL ALTAR,
LIES THAT THRONG OF ILLUSTRIOUS MARTYRS,
WHO ASK PARDON FOR OUR SINS,
AND OVER WHOM THE CITY THAT GAVE THEM BIRTH WATCHES.
A Historical Picture
OF THE
SUFFERINGS OF THE EARLY CHURCH
IN PAGAN ROME,
ILLUSTRATING THE
Glories of the Christian Martyrs
as exemplified in the lives of
The fair young Virgin, St. Agnes; the heroic Soldier, St. Sebastian;
the devoted Youth, St. Pancratius; etc., etc.
ILLUSTRATED EDITION.
_WITH A PREFACE BY_
REV. RICHARD BRENNAN, LL.D.,
Pastor of St. Rose of Lima’s Church, New York.
NEW YORK, CINCINNATI, AND ST. LOUIS:
BENZIGER BROTHERS,
PRINTERS TO THE HOLY APOSTOLIC SEE.
1886.
COPYRIGHT, 1885, BY BENZIGER BROTHERS.
Electrotyped by SMITH & McDOUGAL, New York.
PREFACE
TO THE ILLUSTRATED EDITION.
The late Cardinal Wiseman’s admirable story, “Fabiola,” has been read
for the last thirty years in many lands and many tongues. At this late
day, to say that it has been everywhere productive of inestimable good
to Christian souls, would be the utterance of the merest truism. But
while its salutary influence has been felt far and wide, it seems to
have been fraught with special blessings most peculiarly adapted to the
religious circumstances of our own land; where, thirty years ago, when
the work made its first appearance among us, the condition of the Church
was not altogether dissimilar from that of the early Church in pagan
Rome at the date of the story.
Although the sun of divine faith had long before begun to warm with its
vivifying and sanctifying rays the virgin soil of this western land of
ours, yet it had hardly risen above the horizon when dark and
threatening clouds of persecution seemed about to obscure its light,
promising, instead of a bright and cheerful day for the Church, a night
of disappointment and suffering. The good already accomplished by the
early missionaries seemed imperilled by the coming storm, and the work
at that time in progress was meeting with fierce and even cruel
opposition. Then it was that men asked themselves, was it necessary that
the founding of Christ’s Church in America should undergo a process
similar to that which it had undergone in pagan Rome. Although the
Catholics of America thirty years ago had little cause to fear the torch
or the axe of the executioner, though they could hardly hope for the
blood-stained crown of martyrdom in the public arena, though they heard
not the cry, “to the wild beasts with the Christians,” yet they dwelt
amid much religious privation, underwent keen mental persecution, and
were made the victims of rampant bigotry, furious political
partisanship, and humiliating social ostracism. Like the heroic
characters so graphically portrayed by the Cardinal’s graceful pen in
the history of Fabiola, the Catholics in America professed a faith
imperfectly known in the land, or known only to be despised and hated by
the great majority of the American people, just as that self-same faith
had been misrepresented, detested and persecuted in the early ages, by
the misguided citizens of pagan Rome.
In such times, Catholics sorely needed the help of bright examples of
courage, zeal and perseverance, to beckon them on in the steady pursuit
of their arduous and sometimes perilous task of preserving, practising,
and declaring their faith. Such examples they found in Cardinal
Wiseman’s beautiful work, models of fidelity to faith, heroes and
heroines who in their patient lives and cruel deaths gave testimony unto
Christ Jesus, producing such fruits of virtue, and showing forth so
beautifully and so powerfully the effects of the true faith, that that
faith itself finally triumphed over all opposition; and verifying the
words of the Apostle, became a victory that conquered the world: “Haec
est victoria, quæ vincit mundum, fides nostra.” “This is the victory
which overcometh the world, our faith.”
By the study of these models, as presented in the story of Fabiola, the
struggling Catholics of this country learned how to possess their souls
in patience. While admiring the heroic fortitude of those martyrs,
though not presuming always to imitate their extraordinary ways, our
predecessors in the faith felt themselves encouraged to follow in their
footsteps, bearing patiently all religious privations and adhering to
their faith amid hatred and contempt, and giving bold testimony of it
before unbelieving men.
Inspired by the example of these primitive Christians, the priests and
people alike of the past generation were strengthened in the conviction
that in their poor despised Church, at that time remarkable for its
poverty and obscurity, there dwelt the eternal truth brought down to
earth from heaven by the Son of the living God, the truth which He had
confirmed by miracles and sealed with His precious life’s blood; the
truth in whose defence millions of the holiest and greatest men
sacrificed their very lives; the truth in whose possession the noblest
and most enlightened among the children of Adam had found peace in life
and consolation in death. For this truth, they were willing to die.
How opportune, at that time, was the appearance in our midst of a work
from a master-hand, presenting to view in a most vivid and realistic
light the trials and triumphs of those heroes in the Church who raised
the cross of Christ, bedewed with martyr-blood, upon the dome of the
Roman Capitol! Like the cheering flambeau borne in the hands of the
acolyte of the Catacombs, the story of Fabiola served to brighten and
cheer the arduous path of many a despised if not persecuted Catholic,
amid the religious wilderness then to a great extent prevailing over our
broad land.
But as the primitive Church emerged from her hiding-places, so, thank
God, has that same Church in our own country bounded forth from
obscurity and contempt into the broad light of day, where she stands
confessed in all her truth and beauty, at once the envy and admiration
of her recent opponents.
While to-day, protestantism is an enemy that no Catholic need fear, a
new and more formidable foe confronts us in the shape of materialism.
The contest between truth and error is as fierce as ever, though the
tactics are changed. We should arm ourselves for the battle against
materialism as our fathers did against protestantism. We can win no
laurels in a war against protestantism, for it has been subdued by those
ahead of us in the ranks. Such laurels have been gathered by earlier and
worthier hands than ours. Nor are there places for us by the side of the
martyrs Pancratius, Sebastian, and other heroes of primitive
Christianity. Yet a great trust has descended to our hands, and sacred
obligations have devolved on the present generation of Catholics. There
remains to us a great duty of defence and preservation, and there lies
open before us a grand and glorious pursuit to which the religious needs
of the times loudly call us. We live in an age of sordid materialism,
when it is of vital importance to turn the thoughts of all Christians to
the really heroic ages of the Church, and to the lives of men and women
who have done honor to principle, glorified God and benefited their
fellow-beings by their holy and self-sacrificing lives.
As the story of Fabiola taught our immediate predecessors in the faith
to admire and imitate the virtues of the primitive Christians, so should
we learn to cherish the names and memories of the devoted ones who, amid
hardships, privations and contempt, laid the solid foundations in this
land, of that stately and magnificent structure beneath whose hallowed
roof it is our happy lot to dwell unmolested in peace and prosperity.
Therefore we gladly welcome this first illustrated edition of Cardinal
Wiseman’s “Fabiola.” Viewed in its improved mechanical aspect, it is
emblematic of the wondrous development of our Catholic literature, and
when contrasted with the simpler and humbler editions which we received
thirty years ago, seems like the stately cathedral that has taken the
place of the lowly wooden chapel of that period. Its many beautiful
engravings will bring more vividly before the reader the scenes of cruel
persecution already graphically described, and with its bright examples
of constancy and self-sacrifice serve to stimulate and fortify Catholics
of the present and future generations in their contest with worldliness,
materialism, and, we may say, unmitigated paganism.
R. B.
ST. ROSE’S RECTORY, All Saints’ Day, 1885.
PREFACE.
When the plan of the _Popular Catholic Library_ was formed, the author
of the following little work was consulted upon it. He not only approved
of the design, but ventured to suggest, among others, a series of tales
illustrative of the condition of the Church in different periods of her
past existence. One, for instance, might be called “The Church of the
Catacombs;” a second, “The Church of the Basilicas;” each comprising
three hundred years: a third would be on “The Church of the Cloister;”
and then, perhaps, a fourth might be added, called “The Church of the
Schools.”
In proposing this sketch, he added,--perhaps the reader will find
indiscreetly,--that he felt half inclined to undertake the first, by way
of illustrating the proposed plan. He was taken at his word, and urged
strongly to begin the work. After some reflection, he consented; but
with an understanding, that it was not to be an occupation, but only the
recreation of leisure hours. With this condition, the work was commenced
early in this year; and it has been carried on entirely on that
principle.
It has, therefore, been written at all sorts of times and in all sorts
of places; early and late, when no duty urged, in scraps and fragments
of time, when the body was too fatigued or the mind too worn for heavier
occupation; in the road-side inn, in the halt of travel, in strange
houses, in every variety of situation and circumstances--sometimes
trying ones. It has thus been composed bit by bit, in portions varying
from ten lines to half-a-dozen pages at most, and generally with few
books or resources at hand. But once begun, it has proved what it was
taken for,--a recreation, and often a solace and a sedative; from the
memories it has revived, the associations it has renewed, the scattered
and broken remnants of old studies and early readings which it has
combined, and by the familiarity which it has cherished with better
times and better things than surround us in our age.
Why need the reader be told all this? For two reasons:
First, this method of composition may possibly be reflected on the work;
and he may find it patchy and ill-assorted, or not well connected in its
parts. If so, this account will explain the cause.
Secondly, he will thus be led not to expect a treatise or a learned work
even upon ecclesiastical antiquities. Nothing would have been easier
than to cast an air of erudition over this little book, and fill half of
each page with notes and references. But this was never the writer’s
idea. His desire was rather to make his reader familiar with the usages,
habits, condition, ideas, feeling, and spirit of the early ages of
Christianity. This required a certain acquaintance with places and
objects connected with the period, and some familiarity, more habitual
than learned, with the records of the time. For instance, such writings
as the Acts of primitive Martyrs should have been frequently read, so as
to leave impressions on the author’s mind, rather than have been
examined scientifically and critically for mere antiquarian purposes.
And so, such places or monuments as have to be explained should seem to
stand before the eye of the describer, from frequently and almost
casually seeing them, rather than have to be drawn from books.
Another source of instruction has been freely used. Any one acquainted
with the Roman Breviary must have observed, that in the offices of
certain saints a peculiar style prevails, which presents the holy
persons commemorated in a distinct and characteristic form. This is not
the result so much of any continuous narrative, as of expressions put
into their mouths, or brief descriptions of events in their lives,
repeated often again and again, in antiphons, _responsoria_ to lessons,
and even versicles; till they put before us an individuality, a portrait
clear and definite of singular excellence. To this class belong the
offices of SS. Agnes, Agatha, Cæcilia, and Lucia; and those of St.
Clement and St. Martin. Each of these saints stands out before our minds
with distinct features; almost as if we had seen and known them.
If, for instance, we take the first that we have named, we clearly draw
out the following circumstances. She is evidently pursued by some
heathen admirer, whose suit for her hand she repeatedly rejects.
Sometimes she tells him that he is forestalled by another, to whom she
is betrothed; sometimes she describes this object of her choice under
various images, representing him even as the object of homage to sun and
moon. On another occasion she describes the rich gifts, or the beautiful
garlands with which he has adorned her, and the chaste caresses by which
he has endeared himself to her. Then at last, as if more importunately
pressed, she rejects the love of perishable man, “the food of death,”
and triumphantly proclaims herself the spouse of Christ. Threats are
used; but she declares herself under the protection of an angel who will
shield her.
This history is as plainly written by the fragments of her office, as a
word is by scattered letters brought, and joined together. But
throughout, one discerns another peculiarity, and a truly beautiful one
in her character. It is clearly represented to us, that the saint had
ever before her the unseen Object of her love, saw Him, heard Him, felt
Him, and entertained, and had returned, a real affection, such as hearts
on earth have for one another. She seems to walk in perpetual vision,
almost in ecstatic fruition, of her Spouse’s presence. He has actually
put a ring upon her finger, has transferred the blood from His own cheek
to hers, has crowned her with budding roses. Her eye is really upon Him,
with unerring gaze, and returned looks of gracious love.
What writer that introduced the person would venture to alter the
character? Who would presume to attempt one at variance with it? Or who
would hope to draw a portrait more life-like and more exquisite than the
Church has done? For, putting aside all inquiry as to the genuineness of
the acts by which these passages are suggested; and still more waving
the question whether the hard critical spirit of a former age too
lightly rejected such ecclesiastical documents, as Guéranger thinks; it
is clear that the Church, in her office, intends to place before us a
certain type of high virtue embodied in the character of that saint. The
writer of the following pages considered himself therefore bound to
adhere to this view.
Whether these objects have been attained, it is for the reader to judge.
At any rate, even looking at the amount of information to be expected
from a work in this form, and one intended for general reading, a
comparison between the subjects introduced, either formally or casually,
and those given in any elementary work, such as Fleury’s _Manners of the
Christians_, which embraces several centuries more, will show that as
much positive knowledge on the practices and belief of that early period
is here imparted, as it is usual to communicate in a more didactic form.
At the same time, the reader must remember that this book is not
historical. It takes in but a period of a few months, extended in some
concluding chapters. It consists rather of a series of pictures than of
a narrative of events. Occurrences, therefore, of different epochs and
different countries have been condensed into a small space. Chronology
has been sacrificed to this purpose. The date of Dioclesian’s edict has
been anticipated by two months; the martyrdom of St. Agnes by a year;
the period of St. Sebastian, though uncertain, has been brought down
later. All that relates to Christian topography has been kept as
accurate as possible. A martyrdom has been transferred from Imola to
Fondi.
[Illustration: The Bark of Peter, as found in the Catacombs.]
It was necessary to introduce some view of the morals and opinions of
the Pagan world, as a contrast to those of Christians. But their worst
aspect has been carefully suppressed, as nothing could be admitted here
which the most sensitive Catholic eye would shrink from contemplating.
It is indeed earnestly desired that this little work, written solely for
recreation, be read also as a relaxation from graver pursuits; but that,
at the same time, the reader may rise from its perusal with a feeling
that his time has not been lost, nor his mind occupied with frivolous
ideas. Rather let it be hoped, that some admiration and love may be
inspired by it of those primitive times, which an over-excited interest
in later and more brilliant epochs of the Church is too apt to diminish
or obscure.
CONTENTS.
PAGE
PREFACE TO THE ILLUSTRATED EDITION iii
AUTHOR’S PREFACE vii
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS xiii
PART I.
Peace.
CHAP.
I. THE CHRISTIAN HOUSE 19
II. THE MARTYR’S BOY 26
III. THE DEDICATION 32
IV. THE HEATHEN HOUSEHOLD 42
V. THE VISIT 58
VI. THE BANQUET 64
VII. POOR AND RICH 72
VIII. THE FIRST DAY’S CONCLUSION 82
IX. MEETINGS 88
X. OTHER MEETINGS 106
XI. A TALK WITH THE READER 119
XII. THE WOLF AND THE FOX 129
XIII. CHARITY 135
XIV. EXTREMES MEET 139
XV. CHARITY RETURNS 149
XVI. THE MONTH OF OCTOBER 154
XVII. THE CHRISTIAN COMMUNITY 170
XVIII. TEMPTATION 183
XIX. THE FALL 190
PART II.
Conflict.
I. DIOGENES 205
II. THE CEMETERIES 219
III. WHAT DIOGENES COULD NOT TELL ABOUT THE CATACOMBS 239
IV. WHAT DIOGENES DID TELL ABOUT THE CATACOMBS 248
V. ABOVE GROUND 261
VI. DELIBERATIONS 265
VII. DARK DEATH 275
VIII. DARKER STILL 280
IX. THE FALSE BROTHER 285
X. THE ORDINATION IN DECEMBER 291
XI. THE VIRGINS 300
XII. THE NOMENTAN VILLA 308
XIII. THE EDICT 315
XIV. THE DISCOVERY 325
XV. EXPLANATIONS 330
XVI. THE WOLF IN THE FOLD 335
XVII. THE FIRST FLOWER 356
XVIII. RETRIBUTION 368
XIX. TWOFOLD REVENGE 381
XX. THE PUBLIC WORKS 390
XXI. THE PRISON 396
XXII. THE VIATICUM 403
XXIII. THE FIGHT 419
XXIV. THE CHRISTIAN SOLDIER 431
XXV. THE RESCUE 437
XXVI. THE REVIVAL 448
XXVII. THE SECOND CROWN 457
XXVIII. THE CRITICAL DAY: ITS FIRST PART 464
XXIX. THE SAME DAY: ITS SECOND PART 473
XXX. THE SAME DAY: ITS THIRD PART 491
XXXI. DIONYSIUS, PRIEST AND PHYSICIAN 507
XXXII. THE SACRIFICE ACCEPTED 513
XXXIII. MIRIAM’S HISTORY 523
XXXIV. BRIGHT DEATH 532
PART III
Victory.
I. THE STRANGER FROM THE EAST 549
II. THE STRANGER IN ROME 558
III. AND LAST 564
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.
FULL-PAGE ILLUSTRATIONS.
CHROMOLITHOGRAPH OF ST. AGNES, VIRGIN AND MARTYR. FRONTISPIECE.
FROM ORIGINAL DRAWINGS BY YAN DARGENT.
PAGE
ORDINATION, IN THE EARLY AGES OF THE CHURCH 33
THE SACRAMENT OF PENANCE, IN THE EARLY AGES OF THE CHURCH 125
THE BLESSED EUCHARIST, IN THE EARLY AGES OF THE CHURCH 337
CONFIRMATION, IN THE EARLY AGES OF THE CHURCH 343
BAPTISM, IN THE EARLY AGES OF THE CHURCH 539
ADMINISTERING THE SACRAMENT OF EXTREME UNCTION, IN THE EARLY
AGES OF THE CHURCH 545
A MARRIAGE, IN THE EARLY AGES OF THE CHURCH 553
FROM ORIGINAL DRAWINGS BY JOSEPH BLANC.
“WITH TREMBLING HANDS SHE DREW FROM HER NECK THE GOLDEN
CHAIN” 39
“FABIOLA GRASPED THE STYLE IN HER RIGHT HAND, AND MADE AN
ALMOST BLIND THRUST AT THE UNFLINCHING HANDMAID” 51
“HE WHO WATCHED WITH BEAMING EYE THE ALMS-COFFERS OF JERUSALEM,
AND NOTED THE WIDOW’S MITE, ALONE SAW DROPPED INTO THE
CHEST, BY THE BANDAGED ARM OF A FOREIGN FEMALE SLAVE, A
VALUABLE EMERALD RING” 55
“‘HARK!’ SAID PANCRATIUS, ‘THESE ARE THE TRUMPET-NOTES THAT
SUMMON US’” 95
“‘HERE IT GOES!’ AND HE THRUST IT INTO THE BLAZING FIRE” 321
“‘IS IT POSSIBLE?’ SHE EXCLAIMED WITH HORROR, ‘IS THAT TARCISIUS
WHOM I MET A FEW MOMENTS AGO, SO FAIR AND LOVELY?’” 409
“EACH ONE, APPROACHING DEVOUTLY, AND WITH TEARS OF GRATITUDE,
RECEIVED FROM HIS CONSECRATED HAND HIS SHARE--THAT IS, THE
WHOLE OF THE MYSTICAL FOOD” 415
“PANCRATIUS WAS STILL STANDING IN THE SAME PLACE, FACING THE
EMPEROR, APPARENTLY SO ABSORBED IN HIGHER THOUGHTS AS NOT
TO HEED THE MOVEMENTS OF HIS ENEMY” 427
“THE JUDGE ANGRILY REPROVED THE EXECUTIONER FOR HIS HESITATION,
AND BID HIM AT ONCE DO HIS DUTY” 481
“FABIOLA WENT DOWN HERSELF, WITH A FEW SERVANTS, AND WHAT WAS
HER DISTRESS AT FINDING POOR EMERENTIANA LYING WELTERING IN
HER BLOOD, AND PERFECTLY DEAD” 535
* * * * *
THE RUINS OF THE COLISEUM, AS SEEN FROM THE PALATINE OF ST.
BONAVENTURE 89
ST. LAWRENCE DISPLAYING HIS TREASURES 151
INTERIOR OF THE TEMPLE OF JUPITER 163
THE RUINS OF THE ROMAN FORUM, AS THEY ARE TO-DAY 199
THE MARTYR’S WIDOW 221
THE TOMB OF ST. CÆCILIA 227
A COLUMBARIUM, OR UNDERGROUND SEPULCHRE, IN WHICH THE ROMANS
DEPOSITED THE URNS CONTAINING THE ASHES OF THE DEAD 233
THE CLAUDIAN AQUEDUCT 267
INSTRUMENTS OF TORTURE USED AGAINST THE CHRISTIANS, FROM ROLLER’S
“CATACOMBES DE ROME” 287
AN ATTACK IN THE CATACOMBS 349
THE MARTYR CÆCILIA 363
THE MARTYR’S BURIAL 377
THE NORTH-WEST SIDE OF THE FORUM 453
THE CHRISTIAN MARTYR 485
ILLUSTRATIONS IN THE TEXT.
EXCLUSIVE OF ORNAMENTAL INITIALS.
THE BARK OF PETER, AS FOUND IN THE CATACOMBS 12
INTERIOR OF A ROMAN DWELLING AT POMPEII 19
PLAN OF PANSA’S HOUSE AT POMPEII 20
DOOR OF PANSA’S HOUSE, WITH THE GREETING SALVE OR WELCOME 22
ATRIUM OF A POMPEIAN HOUSE 23
ATRIUM OF A HOUSE IN POMPEII 23
CLEPSYDRA, OR WATER-CLOCK, FROM A BAS-RELIEF IN THE MATTEI PALACE,
ROME 25
A PORTRAIT OF CHRIST, FROM THE CATACOMB OF ST. PONTIANUS 25
A PIECE OF A “GOLD GLASS” FOUND IN THE CATACOMBS 41
POMPEIAN COUCH 44
TABLE, AFTER A PAINTING IN HERCULANEUM 44
COUCH FROM HERCULANEUM 45
ELABORATE SEAT FROM HERCULANEUM 46
A SLAVE, FROM A PAINTING IN HERCULANEUM 48
A LAMP FOUND IN THE CATACOMBS 57
SAINT AGNES, FROM AN OLD VASE 60
SAINT AGNES, FROM AN OLD VASE PRESERVED IN THE VATICAN MUSEUM 61
BANQUET TABLE, FROM A POMPEIAN PAINTING 67
DAVID WITH HIS SLING, FROM THE CATACOMB OF ST. PETRONILLA 71
A DOVE, AS A SYMBOL OF THE SOUL, FOUND IN THE CATACOMBS 81
VOLUMINA, FROM A PAINTING OF POMPEII 84
SCRINIUM, FROM A PICTURE IN THE CEMETERY OF ST. CALLISTUS 84
OUR SAVIOUR, FROM A REPRESENTATION FOUND IN THE CATACOMBS 87
META SUDANS, AFTER A BRONZE OF VESPASIAN 91
THE ARCH OF TITUS 92
THE APPIAN WAY, AS IT WAS 102
EMBLEMATIC REPRESENTATION OF PARADISE, FOUND IN THE CATACOMBS 105
SAINT SEBASTIAN, FROM THE “ROMA SOTTERANEA” OF DE ROSSI 107
MILITARY TRIBUNES, AFTER A BAS-RELIEF ON TRAJAN’S COLUMN 108
THE ROMAN FORUM 114
A LAMB WITH A MILK CAN, FOUND IN THE CATACOMB OF SS. PETER
AND MARCELLIN 118
ST. IGNATIUS, BISHOP OF ANTIOCH 121
MONOGRAMS OF CHRIST, FOUND IN THE CATACOMBS, 128,
169, 264, 274, 279, 324, 334, 395, 436, 472.
ROMAN GARDENS, FROM AN OLD PAINTING 130
A LAMP, WITH THE MONOGRAM OF CHRIST 134
A DEACON, FROM DE ROSSI’S “ROMA SOTTERANEA” 137
A FISH CARRYING BREAD AND WINE, FROM THE CEMETERY OF ST. LUCINA 138
A WALL PAINTING, FROM THE CEMETERY OF ST. PRISCILLA 148
CHRIST IN THE MIDST OF HIS APOSTLES, FROM A PAINTING
IN THE CATACOMBS 182
INTERIOR OF A ROMAN THEATRE 185
HALLS IN THE BATHS OF CARACALLA 186
THE PEACOCK, AS AN EMBLEM OF THE RESURRECTION 189
A DOVE, AS AN EMBLEM OF THE SOUL 203
DIOGENES, THE EXCAVATOR, FROM A PAINTING IN THE CEMETERY OF
DOMITILLA 205
JONAS, AFTER A PAINTING IN THE CEMETERY OF CALLISTUS 206
LAZARUS RAISED FROM THE DEAD 207
TWO FOSSORES, OR EXCAVATORS, FROM A PICTURE AT THE CEMETERY OF
CALLISTUS 208
A GALLERY IN THE CEMETERY OF ST. AGNES, ON THE NOMENTAN WAY 211
INSCRIPTION OF THE CEMETERY OF ST. AGNES 212
AN ARCOSOLIUM 213
OUR SAVIOUR BLESSING THE BREAD, FROM A PICTURE IN THE CATACOMBS 218
A STAIRCASE IN THE CATACOMBS 220
A CHAPEL OF THE BLESSED SACRAMENT 224
UNDERGROUND GALLERY IN THE CATACOMBS, FROM TH. ROLLER’S “CATACOMBES
DE ROME” 225
A LOCULUS, CLOSED 231
“ “ OPEN 235
A LAMB WITH A MILK PAIL, EMBLEMATIC OF THE BLESSED EUCHARIST,
FOUND IN THE CATACOMBS 238
ST. CORNELIUS AND ST. CYPRIAN, FROM DE ROSSI’S “ROMA SOTTERANEA” 244
THE TOMB OF CORNELIUS 247
A LAMP WITH A REPRESENTATION OF THE GOOD SHEPHERD, FOUND AT
OSTIUM, PRIOR TO THE THIRD CENTURY, FROM ROLLER’S “CATACOMBES” 249
CUBICULUM, OR CRYPT, AS FOUND IN THE CATACOMBS 250
THE LAST SUPPER, FROM A PAINTING IN THE CEMETERY OF ST. CALLISTUS 251
A CEILING IN THE CATACOMBS, FROM DE ROSSI’S “ROMA SOTTERANEA” 252
OUR LORD UNDER THE SYMBOL OF ORPHEUS, FROM A PICTURE IN THE
CEMETERY OF DOMITILIUS 253
THE GOOD SHEPHERD, A WOMAN PRAYING, FROM THE ARCOSOLIUM OF THE
CEMETERY OF SS. NEREUS AND ACHILLEUS 254
A CEILING IN THE CATACOMBS, IN THE CEMETERY OF DOMITILLA, THIRD
CENTURY 255
THE FISHES AND ANCHOR, THE FISHES AND DOVES 256
THE BLESSED VIRGIN AND THE MAGI, FROM A PICTURE IN THE CEMETERY
OF CALLISTUS 258
MOSES STRIKING THE ROCK, FROM THE CEMETERY OF “INTER DUOS LAUROS” 260
MAXIMILIAN HERCULEUS, FROM A BRONZE MEDAL IN THE COLLECTION
OF FRANCE 266
THE PEACOCK, AS AN EMBLEM OF THE RESURRECTION, FOUND IN THE
CATACOMBS 284
CHRIST AND HIS APOSTLES, FROM A PICTURE IN THE CATACOMBS 290
ST. PUDENTIANA, ST. PRISCILLA, AND ST. PRAXEDES 293
OUR SAVIOUR REPRESENTED AS THE GOOD SHEPHERD, WITH A MILK CAN
AT HIS SIDE, AS FOUND IN THE CATACOMBS 299
CHAIR OF ST. PETER 304
THE ANCHOR AND FISHES, AN EMBLEM OF CHRISTIANITY, FOUND IN THE
CATACOMBS 307
“HAUGHTY ROMAN DAME! THOU SHALT BITTERLY RUE THIS DAY AND
HOUR” 313
A LAMB BETWEEN WOLVES, EMBLEMATIC OF THE CHURCH, FROM A PICTURE
IN THE CEMETERY OF ST. PRÆTEXTATUS 314
AN EMBLEM OF PARADISE, FOUND IN THE CATACOMBS 329
RUINS OF THE BASILICA OF ST. ALEXANDER, ON THE NOMENTAN WAY,
FROM ROLLER’S “CATACOMBES DE ROME” 342
PLAN OF SUBTERRANEAN CHURCH, IN THE CEMETERY OF ST. AGNES 345
A CATHEDRA, OR EPISCOPAL CHAIR, IN CATACOMB OF ST. AGNES 346
AN ALTAR WITH ITS EPISCOPAL CHAIR, IN THE CEMETERY OF ST. AGNES 348
AN ALTAR IN THE CEMETERY OF ST. SIXTUS 352
THE CURE OF THE MAN BORN BLIND, FROM A PICTURE IN THE CATACOMBS 355
THE WOMAN OF SAMARIA, FROM A PICTURE IN THE CEMETERY OF ST.
DOMITILLA 367
JESUS CURES THE BLIND MAN, FROM A PICTURE IN THE CEMETERY OF
ST. DOMITILLA 380
THE ANCHOR AND FISH, EMBLEMATIC OF CHRISTIANITY, FOUND IN THE
CATACOMBS 389
THE MAMERTINE PRISON 398
THE BLESSED VIRGIN, FROM A PORTRAIT FOUND IN THE CEMETERY OF
ST. AGNES 402
THE COLISEUM 420
A LAMP BEARING A MONOGRAM OF CHRIST, FOUND IN THE CATACOMBS 430
ELIAS CARRIED TO HEAVEN, FROM A PICTURE FOUND IN THE CATACOMBS 447
MOSES RECEIVING THE LAW, FROM A PICTURE IN THE CEMETERY OF
“INTER DUOS LAUROS” 456
CHRIST BLESSING A CHILD, FROM A PICTURE IN THE CEMETERY OF THE
LATIN WAY 463
CHAINS FOR THE MARTYRS, AFTER A PICTURE FOUND IN 1841, IN A CRYPT
AT MILAN 480
A BLOOD URN, USED AS A MARK FOR A MARTYR’S GRAVE 489
THE RESURRECTION OF LAZARUS, FROM THE CEMETERY OF ST. DOMITILLA 490
CEMETERY OF CALLISTUS 508
ORDINATION, FROM A PICTURE IN THE CATACOMBS 531
PORTRAIT OF OUR SAVIOUR, FROM THE CATACOMB OF ST. CALLISTUS 548
CONSTANTINE, THE FIRST CHRISTIAN EMPEROR, AFTER A MEDAL OF THE
TIME 549
DIOCLESIAN, AFTER A MEDAL IN THE CABINET OF FRANCE 550
LUCINIUS, MAXENTIUS, GALERIUS-MAXIMINUS, FROM GOLD AND SILVER
MEDALS IN THE FRENCH COLLECTION 550
THE LABARUM, OR CHRISTIAN STANDARD, FROM A COIN OF CONSTANTINE 552
NOE AND THE ARK, AS A SYMBOL OF THE CHURCH, FROM A PICTURE IN
THE CATACOMBS 557
THE SACRIFICE OF ABRAHAM, FROM A PICTURE IN THE CATACOMBS 563
[Illustration: Interior of a Roman dwelling at Pompeii.]
Part First.--Peace.
CHAPTER I.
THE CHRISTIAN HOUSE.
It is on an afternoon in September of the year 302, that we invite our
reader to accompany us through the streets of Rome. The sun has
declined, and is about two hours from his setting; the day is cloudless,
and its heat has cooled, so that multitudes are issuing from their
houses, and making their way towards Cæsar’s gardens on one side, or
Sallust’s on the other, to enjoy their evening walk, and learn the news
of the day.
[Illustration: Plan of Pansa’s house, at Pompeii.]
But the part of the city to which we wish to conduct our friendly reader
is that known by the name of the Campus Martius. It comprised the flat
alluvial plain between the seven hills of older Rome and the Tiber.
Before the close of the republican period, this field, once left bare
for the athletic and warlike exercises of the people, had begun to be
encroached upon by public buildings. Pompey had erected in it his
theatre; soon after, Agrippa raised the Pantheon and its adjoining
baths. But gradually it became occupied by private dwellings; while the
hills, in the early empire the aristocratic portion of the city, were
seized upon for greater edifices. Thus the Palatine, after Nero’s fire,
became almost too small for the Imperial residence and its adjoining
Circus Maximus. The Esquiline was usurped by Titus’s baths, built on the
ruins of the Golden House, the Aventine by Caracalla’s; and at the
period of which we write, the Emperor Dioclesian was covering the space
sufficient for many lordly dwellings, by the erection of his Thermæ[1]
on the Quirinal, not far from Sallust’s garden, just alluded to.
The particular spot in the Campus Martius to which we will direct our
steps, is one whose situation is so definite, that we can accurately
describe it to any one acquainted with the topography of ancient or
modern Rome. In republican times there was a large square space in the
Campus Martius, surrounded by boarding, and divided into pens, in which
the _Comitia_, or meetings of the tribes of the people, were held, for
giving their votes. This was called the _Septa_, or _Ovile_, from its
resemblance to a sheepfold. Augustus carried out a plan, described by
Cicero in a letter to Atticus,[2] of transforming this homely
contrivance into a magnificent and solid structure. The _Septa Julia_,
as it was thenceforth called, was a splendid portico of 1000 by 500
feet, supported by columns, and adorned with paintings. Its ruins are
clearly traceable; and it occupied the space now covered by the Doria
and Verospi palaces (running thus along the present Corso), the Roman
College, the Church of St. Ignatius, and the Oratory of the Caravita.
The house to which we invite our reader is exactly opposite, and on the
east side of this edifice, including in its area the present church of
St. Marcellus, whence it extended back towards the foot of the Quirinal
hill. It is thus found to cover, as noble Roman houses did, a
considerable extent of ground. From the outside it presents but a blank
and dead appearance. The walls are plain, without architectural
ornament, not high, and scarcely broken by windows. In the middle of one
side of this quadrangle is a door, _in antis_, that is, merely relieved
by a tympanum or triangular cornice, resting on two half columns. Using
our privilege as “artists of fiction,” of invisible ubiquity, we will
enter in with our friend, or “shadow,” as he would have been anciently
called. Passing through the porch, on the pavement of which we read with
pleasure, in mosaic, the greeting SALVE, or WELCOME, we find ourselves
in the _atrium_, or first court of the house, surrounded by a portico or
colonnade.[3]
[Illustration: Door of Pansa’s house, with the greeting SALVE or
WELCOME.]
In the centre of the marble pavement a softly warbling jet of pure
water, brought by the Claudian aqueduct from the Tusculan hills, springs
into the air, now higher, now lower, and falls into an elevated basin of
red marble, over the sides of which it flows in downy waves; and before
reaching its lower and wider recipient, scatters a gentle shower on the
rare and brilliant flowers placed in elegant vases around. Under the
portico we see furniture disposed, of a rich and sometimes rare
character; couches inlaid with ivory, and even silver; tables of
oriental woods, bearing candelabra, lamps, and other household
implements of bronze or silver; delicately chased busts, vases, tripods,
and objects of mere art. On the walls are paintings evidently of a
former period, still, however, retaining all their brightness of color
and freshness of execution. These are separated by niches with statues,
representing indeed, like the pictures, mythological or historical
subjects; but we cannot help observing that nothing meets the eye which
could offend the most delicate mind. Here and there an empty niche, or a
covered painting, proves that this is not the result of accident.
[Illustration: _Atrium_ of a Pompeian house.]
[Illustration: _Atrium_ of a house in Pompeii.]
As outside the columns, the coving roof leaves a large square opening in
its centre, called the _impluvium_, there is drawn across it a curtain,
or veil of dark canvas, which keeps out the sun and rain. An artificial
twilight therefore alone enables us to see all that we have described;
but it gives greater effect to what is beyond. Through an arch,
opposite to the one whereby we have entered, we catch a glimpse of an
inner and still richer court, paved with variegated marbles, and adorned
with bright gilding. The veil of the opening above, which, however, here
is closed with thick glass or talc (_lapis specularis_), has been partly
withdrawn, and admits a bright but softened ray from the evening sun on
to the place, where we see, for the first time, that we are in no
enchanted hall, but in an inhabited house.
Beside a table, just outside the columns of Phrygian marble, sits a
matron not beyond the middle of life, whose features, noble yet mild,
show traces of having passed through sorrow at some earlier period. But
a powerful influence has subdued the recollection of it, or blended it
with a sweeter thought; and the two always come together, and have long
dwelt united in her heart. The simplicity of her appearance strangely
contrasts with the richness of all around her; her hair, streaked with
silver, is left uncovered, and unconcealed by any artifice; her robes
are of the plainest color and texture, without embroidery, except the
purple ribbon sewed on, and called the _segmentum_, which denotes the
state of widowhood; and not a jewel or precious ornament, of which the
Roman ladies were so lavish, is to be seen upon her person. The only
thing approaching to this is a slight gold cord or chain round her neck,
from which apparently hangs some object, carefully concealed within the
upper hem of her dress.
At the time that we discover her she is busily engaged over a piece of
work, which evidently has no personal use. Upon a long rich strip of
gold cloth she is embroidering with still richer gold thread; and
occasionally she has recourse to one or another of several elegant
caskets upon the table, from which she takes out a pearl, or a gem set
in gold, and introduces it into the design. It looks as if the precious
ornaments of earlier days were being devoted to some higher purpose.
[Illustration: _Clepsydra_, or Water-clock, from a bas-relief in the
Mattei palace, Rome.]
But as time goes on, some little uneasiness may be observed to come over
her calm thoughts, hitherto absorbed, to all appearance, in her work.
She now occasionally raises her eyes from it towards the entrance;
sometimes she listens for footsteps, and seems disappointed. She looks
up towards the sun; then perhaps turns her glance towards a _clepsydra_
or water-clock, on a bracket near her, but just as a feeling of more
serious anxiety begins to make an impression on her countenance, a
cheerful rap strikes the house-door, and she bends forward with a
radiant look to meet the welcome visitor.
[Illustration: A Portrait of Christ, from the Catacomb of St.
Pontianus.]
CHAPTER II.
THE MARTYR’S BOY.
It is a youth full of grace, and sprightliness, and candor, that comes
forward with light and buoyant steps across the atrium, towards the
inner-hall; and we shall hardly find time to sketch him before he
reaches it. He is about fourteen years old, but tall for that age, with
elegance of form and manliness of bearing. His bare neck and limbs are
well developed by healthy exercise; his features display an open and
warm heart, while his lofty forehead, round which his brown hair
naturally curls, beams with a bright intelligence. He wears the usual
youth’s garment, the short _prætexta_, reaching below the knee, and a
golden _bulla_, or hollow spheroid of gold suspended round his neck. A
bundle of papers and vellum rolls fastened together, and carried by an
old servant behind him, shows us that he is just returning home from
school.[4]
While we have been thus noting him, he has received his mother’s
embrace, and has sat himself low by her feet. She gazes upon him for
some time in silence, as if to discover in his countenance the cause of
his unusual delay, for he is an hour late in his return. But he meets
her glance with so frank a look, and with such a smile of innocence,
that every cloud of doubt is in a moment dispelled, and she addresses
him as follows:
“What has detained you to-day, my dearest boy? No accident, I trust, has
happened to you on the way?”
“Oh, none, I assure you, sweetest[5] mother; on the contrary, all has
been delightful,--so much so, that I can scarcely venture to tell you.”
A look of smiling expostulation drew from the open-hearted boy a
delicious laugh, as he continued:
“Well, I suppose I must. You know I am never happy, and cannot sleep, if
I have failed to tell you all the bad and the good of the day about
myself.” (The mother smiled again, wondering what the bad was.) “I was
reading the other day that the Scythians each evening cast into an urn a
white or a black stone, according as the day had been happy or unhappy;
if I had to do so, it would serve to mark, in white or black, the days
on which I have, or have not, an opportunity of relating to you all that
I have done. But to-day, for the first time, I have a doubt, a fear of
conscience, whether I ought to tell you all.”
Did the mother’s heart flutter more than usual, as from a first anxiety,
or was there a softer solicitude dimming her eye, that the youth should
seize her hand and put it tenderly to his lips, while he thus replied?
“Fear nothing, mother most beloved, your son has done nothing that may
give you pain. Only say, do you wish to hear _all_ that has befallen me
to-day, or only the cause of my late return home?”
“Tell me all, dear Pancratius,” she answered; “nothing that concerns you
can be indifferent to me.”
“Well, then,” he began, “this last day of my frequenting school appears
to me to have been singularly blessed, and yet full of strange
occurrences. First, I was crowned as the successful competitor in a
declamation, which our good master Cassianus set us for our work during
the morning hours; and this led, as you will hear, to some singular
discoveries. The subject was, ‘That the real philosopher should be ever
ready to die for truth.’ I never heard anything so cold or insipid (I
hope it is not wrong to say so) as the compositions read by my
companions. It was not their fault, poor fellows! what truth can they
possess, and what inducements can they have, to die for any of their
vain opinions? But to a Christian, what charming suggestions such a
theme naturally makes! And so I felt it. My heart glowed, and all my
thoughts seemed to burn, as I wrote my essay, full of the lessons you
have taught me, and of the domestic examples that are before me. The son
of a martyr could not feel otherwise. But when my turn came to read my
declamation, I found that my feelings had nearly fatally betrayed me. In
the warmth of my recitation the word ‘Christian’ escaped my lips instead
of ‘philosopher,’ and ‘faith’ instead of ‘truth.’ At the first mistake I
saw Cassianus start; at the second, I saw a tear glisten in his eye, as
bending affectionately towards me, he said, in a whisper, ‘Beware, my
child; there are sharp ears listening.’”
“What, then,” interrupted the mother, “is Cassianus a Christian? I chose
his school for you because it was in the highest repute for learning and
for morality; and now indeed I thank God that I did so. But in these
days of danger and apprehension we are obliged to live as strangers in
our own land, scarcely knowing the faces of our brethren. Certainly, had
Cassianus proclaimed his faith, his school would soon have been
deserted. But go on, my dear boy. Were his apprehensions well grounded?”
“I fear so; for while the great body of my school-fellows, not noticing
these slips, vehemently applauded my hearty declamation, I saw the dark
eyes of Corvinus bent scowlingly upon me, as he bit his lip in manifest
anger.”
“And who is he, my child, that was so displeased, and wherefore?”
“He is the oldest and strongest, but, unfortunately, the dullest boy in
the school. But this, you know, is not his fault. Only, I know not why,
he seems ever to have had an ill-will and grudge against me, the cause
of which I cannot understand.”
“Did he say aught to you, or do?”
“Yes, and was the cause of my delay. For when we went forth from school
into the field by the river, he addressed me insultingly in the presence
of our companions, and said, ‘Come, Pancratius, this, I understand, is
the last time we meet _here_’ (he laid a particular emphasis on the
word); ‘but I have a long score to demand payment of from you. You have
loved to show your superiority in school over me and others older and
better than yourself; I saw your supercilious looks at me as you spouted
your high-flown declamation to-day; ay, and I caught expressions in it
which you may live to rue, and that very soon; for my father, you well
know, is Prefect of the city’ (the mother slightly started); ‘and
something is preparing which may nearly concern you. Before you leave us
I must have my revenge. If you are worthy of your name, and it be not an
empty word,[6] let us fairly contend in more manly strife than that of
the style and tables.[7] Wrestle with me, or try the cestus[8] against
me. I burn to humble you as you deserve, before these witnesses of your
insolent triumphs.’”
The anxious mother bent eagerly forward as she listened, and scarcely
breathed. “And what,” she exclaimed, “did you answer, my dear son?”
“I told him gently that he was quite mistaken; for never had I
consciously done anything that could give pain to him or any of my
school-fellows; nor did I ever dream of claiming superiority over them.
‘And as to what you propose,’ I added, ‘you know, Corvinus, that I have
always refused to indulge in personal combats, which, beginning in a
cool trial of skill, end in an angry strife, hatred, and wish for
revenge. How much less could I think of entering on them now, when you
avow that you are anxious to begin them with those evil feelings which
are usually their bad end?’ Our school-mates had now formed a circle
round us; and I clearly saw that they were all against me, for they had
hoped to enjoy some of the delights of their cruel games; I therefore
cheerfully added, ‘And now, my comrades, good-bye, and may all happiness
attend you. I part from you, as I have lived with you, in peace.’ ‘Not
so,’ replied Corvinus, now purple in the face with fury; ‘but’”--
The boy’s countenance became crimsoned, his voice quivered, his body
trembled, and, half choked, he sobbed out, “I cannot go on; I dare not
tell the rest!”
“I entreat you, for God’s sake, and for the love you bear your father’s
memory,” said the mother, placing her hand upon her son’s head, “conceal
nothing from me. I shall never again have rest if you tell me not all.
What further said or did Corvinus?”
The boy recovered himself by a moment’s pause and a silent prayer, and
then proceeded:
“‘Not so!’ exclaimed Corvinus, ‘not so do you depart, cowardly
worshipper of an ass’s head![9] You have concealed your abode from us,
but I will find you out; till then bear this token of my determined
purpose to be revenged!’ So saying he dealt me a furious blow upon the
face, which made me reel and stagger, while a shout of savage delight
broke forth from the boys around us.”
He burst into tears, which relieved him, and then went on:
“Oh, how I felt my blood boil at that moment! how my heart seemed
bursting within me; and a voice appeared to whisper in my ear scornfully
the name of ‘coward!’ It surely was an evil spirit. I felt that I was
strong enough--my rising anger made me so--to seize my unjust assailant
by the throat, and cast him gasping on the ground. I heard already the
shout of applause that would have hailed my victory and turned the
tables against him. It was the hardest struggle of my life; never were
flesh and blood so strong within me. O God! may they never be again so
tremendously powerful!”
“And what did you do, then, my darling boy?” gasped forth the trembling
matron.
He replied, “My good angel conquered the demon at my side. I thought of
my blessed Lord in the house of Caiphas, surrounded by scoffing enemies,
and struck ignominiously on the cheek, yet meek and forgiving. Could I
wish to be otherwise?[10] I stretched forth my hand to Corvinus, and
said, ‘May God forgive you, as I freely and fully do; and may He bless
you abundantly.’ Cassianus came up at that moment, having seen all from
a distance, and the youthful crowd quickly dispersed. I entreated him,
by our common faith, now acknowledged between us, not to pursue Corvinus
for what he had done; and I obtained his promise. And now, sweet
mother,” murmured the boy, in soft, gentle accents, into his parent’s
bosom, “do you not think I may call this a happy day?”
CHAPTER III.
THE DEDICATION.
While the foregoing conversation was held, the day had fast declined. An
aged female servant now entered unnoticed, and lighted the lamps placed
on marble and bronze candelabra, and quietly retired. A bright light
beamed upon the unconscious group of mother and son, as they remained
silent, after the holy matron Lucina had answered Pancratius’s last
question only by kissing his glowing brow. It was not merely a maternal
emotion that was agitating her bosom; it was not even the happy feeling
of a mother who, having trained her child to certain high and difficult
principles, sees them put to the hardest test, and nobly stand it.
Neither was it the joy of having for her son one, in her estimation, so
heroically virtuous at such an age; for surely, with much greater
justice than the mother of the Gracchi showed her boys to the astonished
matrons of republican Rome as her only jewels, could that Christian
mother have boasted to the Church of the son she had brought up.
But to her this was an hour of still deeper, or, shall we say, sublimer
feeling. It was a period looked forward to anxiously for years; a moment
prayed for with all the fervor of a mother’s supplication. Many a pious
parent has devoted her infant son from the cradle to the holiest and
noblest state
[Illustration: Ordination in the Early Ages of the Church.]
that earth possesses; has prayed and longed to see him grow up to be,
first a spotless Levite, and then a holy priest at the altar; and has
watched eagerly each growing inclination, and tried gently to bend the
tender thought towards the sanctuary of the Lord of Hosts. And if this
was an only child, as Samuel was to Anna, that dedication of all that is
dear to her keenest affection, may justly be considered as an act of
maternal heroism. What then must be said of ancient matrons,--Felicitas,
Symphorosa, or the unnamed mother of the Maccabees,--who gave up or
offered their children, not one, but many, yea all, to be victims
whole-burnt, rather than priests, to God?
It was some such thought as this which filled the heart of Lucina in
that hour; while, with closed eyes, she raised it high to heaven, and
prayed for strength. She felt as though called to make a generous
sacrifice of what was dearest to her on earth; and though she had long
foreseen it and desired it, it was not without a maternal throe that its
merit could be gained. And what was passing in that boy’s mind, as he
too remained silent and abstracted? Not any thought of a high destiny
awaiting him. No vision of a venerable Basilica, eagerly visited 1600
years later by the sacred antiquary and the devout pilgrim, and giving
his name, which it shall bear, to the neighboring gate of Rome.[11] No
anticipation of a church in his honor to rise in faithful ages on the
banks of the distant Thames, which, even after desecration, should be
loved and eagerly sought as their last resting-place, by hearts faithful
still to his dear Rome.[12] No forethought of a silver canopy or
_ciborium_, weighing 287 lbs., to be placed over the porphyry urn that
should contain his ashes, by Pope Honorius I.[13] No idea that his name
would be enrolled in every martyrology, his picture, crowned with rays,
hung over many altars, as the boy-martyr of the early Church. He was
only the simple-hearted Christian youth, who looked upon it as a matter
of course that he must always obey God’s law and His Gospel; and only
felt happy that he had that day performed his duty, when it came under
circumstances of more than usual trial. There was no pride, no
self-admiration in the reflection; otherwise there would have been no
heroism in his act.
When he raised again his eyes, after his calm reverie of peaceful
thoughts, in the new light which brightly filled the hall, they met his
mother’s countenance gazing anew upon him, radiant with a majesty and
tenderness such as he never recollected to have seen before. It was a
look almost of inspiration; her face was as that of a vision; her eyes
what he would have imagined an angel’s to be. Silently, and almost
unknowingly, he had changed his position, and was kneeling before her;
and well he might; for was she not to him as a guardian spirit, who had
shielded him ever from evil; or might he not well see in her the living
saint whose virtues had been his model from childhood? Lucina broke the
silence, in a tone full of grave emotion.
“The time is at length come, my dear child,” she said, “which has long
been the subject of my earnest prayer, which I have yearned for in the
exuberance of maternal love. Eagerly have I watched in thee the opening
germ of each Christian virtue, and thanked God as it appeared. I have
noted thy docility, thy gentleness, thy diligence, thy piety, and thy
love of God and man. I have seen with joy thy lively faith, and thy
indifference to worldly things, and thy tenderness to the poor. But I
have been waiting with anxiety for the hour which should decisively show
me whether thou wouldst be content with the poor legacy of thy mother’s
weakly virtue, or art the true inheritor of thy martyred father’s
nobler gifts. That hour, thank God, has come to-day!”
“What have I done, then, that should thus have changed or raised thy
opinion of me?” asked Pancratius.
“Listen to me, my son. This day, which was to be the last of thy school
education, methinks that our merciful Lord has been pleased to give thee
a lesson worth it all; and to prove that thou hast put off the things of
a child, and must be treated henceforth as a man; for thou canst think
and speak, yea, and act as one.”
“How dost thou mean, dear mother?”
“What thou hast told me of thy declamation this morning,” she replied,
“proves to me how full thy heart must have been of noble and generous
thoughts; thou art too sincere and honest to have written, and fervently
expressed, that it was a glorious duty to die for the faith, if thou
hadst not believed it and felt it.”
“And truly I do believe and feel it,” interrupted the boy. “What greater
happiness can a Christian desire on earth?”
“Yes, my child, thou sayest most truly,” continued Lucina. “But I should
not have been satisfied with words. What followed afterwards has proved
to me that thou canst bear intrepidly and patiently, not merely pain,
but what I know it must have been harder for thy young patrician blood
to stand, the stinging ignominy of a disgraceful blow, and the scornful
words and glances of an unpitying multitude. Nay more; thou hast proved
thyself strong enough to forgive and to pray for thine enemy. This day
thou hast trodden the higher paths of the mountain, with the cross upon
thy shoulders; one step more, and thou wilt plant it on its summit. Thou
hast proved thyself the genuine son of the martyr Quintinus. Dost thou
wish to be like him?”
“Mother, mother! dearest, sweetest mother!” broke out the panting youth;
“could I be his genuine son, and not wish to resemble him? Though I
never enjoyed the happiness of knowing him, has not his image been ever
before my mind? Has he not been the very pride of my thoughts? When each
year the solemn commemoration has been made of him, as of one of the
white-robed army that surrounds the Lamb, in whose blood he washed his
garments, how have my heart and my flesh exulted in his glory; and how
have I prayed to him, in the warmth of filial piety, that he would
obtain for me, not fame, not distinction, not wealth, not earthly joy,
but what he valued more than all these: nay, that the only thing which
he has left on earth may be applied, as I know he now considers it would
most usefully and most nobly be.”
“What is that, my son?”
“It is his blood,” replied the youth, “which yet remains flowing in my
veins, and in these only. I know he must wish that _it_ too, like what
he held in his own, may be poured out in love of his Redeemer, and in
testimony of his faith.”
“Enough, enough, my child!” exclaimed the mother, thrilling with a holy
emotion; “take from thy neck the badge of childhood, I have a better
token to give thee.”
He obeyed, and put away the golden bulla.
“Thou hast inherited from thy father,” spoke the mother, with still
deeper solemnity of tone, “a noble name, a high station, ample riches,
every worldly advantage. But there is one treasure which I have reserved
for thee from his inheritance, till thou shouldst prove thyself worthy
of it. I have concealed it from thee till now, though I valued it more
than gold and jewels. It is now time that I make it over to thee.”
With trembling hands she drew from her neck the golden chain which hung
round it, and for the first time her son saw that it supported a small
bag or purse richly embroidered and set with gems. She opened it, and
drew from it a sponge, dry indeed, but deeply stained.
[Illustration: “With trembling hands she drew from her neck the golden
chain.”]
“This, too, is thy father’s blood, Pancratius,” she said, with faltering
voice and streaming eyes. “I gathered it myself from his death-wound,
as, disguised, I stood by his side, and saw him die from the wounds he
had received for Christ.”
She gazed upon it fondly, and kissed it fervently; and her gushing tears
fell on it, and moistened it once more. And thus liquefied again, its
color glowed bright and warm, as if it had only just left the martyr’s
heart.
[Illustration: A piece of a “Gold glass” found in the Catacombs.]
The holy matron put it to her son’s quivering lips, and they were
empurpled with its sanctifying touch. He venerated the sacred relic with
the deepest emotions of a Christian and a son; and felt as if his
father’s spirit had descended into him, and stirred to its depths the
full vessel of his heart, that its waters might be ready freely to flow.
The whole family thus seemed to him once more united. Lucina replaced
her treasure in its shrine, and hung it round the neck of her son,
saying: “When next it is moistened, may it be from a nobler stream than
that which gushes from a weak woman’s eyes!” But heaven thought not so;
and the future combatant was anointed, and the future martyr was
consecrated, by the blood of his father mingled with his mother’s
tears.
CHAPTER IV.
THE HEATHEN HOUSEHOLD.
While the scenes described in the three last chapters were taking place,
a very different one presented itself in another house, situated in the
valley between the Quirinal and Esquiline hills. It was that of Fabius,
a man of the equestrian order, whose family, by farming the revenues of
Asiatic provinces, had amassed immense wealth. His house was larger and
more splendid than the one we have already visited. It contained a third
large peristyle, or court, surrounded by immense apartments; and besides
possessing many treasures of European art, it abounded with the rarest
productions of the East. Carpets from Persia were laid on the ground,
silks from China, many-colored stuffs from Babylon, and gold embroidery
from India and Phrygia covered the furniture; while curious works in
ivory and in metals, scattered about, were attributed to the inhabitants
of islands beyond the Indian ocean, of monstrous form and fabulous
descent.
Fabius himself, the owner of all this treasure and of large estates, was
a true specimen of an easy-going Roman, who was determined thoroughly to
enjoy this life. In fact, he never dreamt of any other. Believing in
nothing, yet worshipping, as a matter of course, on all proper
occasions, whatever deity happened to have its turn, he passed for a man
as good as his neighbors; and no one had a right to exact more. The
greater part of his day was passed at one or other of the great baths,
which, besides the purposes implied in their name, comprised in their
many adjuncts the equivalents of clubs, reading-rooms, gambling-houses,
tennis-courts, and gymnasiums. There he took his bath, gossiped, read,
and whiled away his hours; or sauntered for a time into the Forum to
hear some orator speaking, or some advocate pleading, or into one of the
many public gardens, whither the fashionable world of Rome repaired. He
returned home to an elegant supper, not later than our dinner; where he
had daily guests, either previously invited, or picked up during the
day, among the many parasites on the look-out for good fare.
At home he was a kind and indulgent master. His house was well kept for
him by an abundance of slaves; and, as trouble was what most he dreaded,
so long as every thing was comfortable, handsome, and well-served about
him, he let things go on quietly, under the direction of his freedmen.
It is not, however, so much to him that we wish to introduce our reader,
as to another inmate of his house, the sharer of its splendid luxury,
and the sole heiress of his wealth. This is his daughter, who, according
to Roman usage, bears the father’s name, softened, however, into the
diminutive Fabiola.[14] As we have done before, we will conduct the
reader at once into her apartment. A marble staircase leads to it from
the second court, over the sides of which extends a suite of rooms,
opening upon a terrace, refreshed and adorned by a graceful fountain,
and covered with a profusion of the rarest exotic plants. In these
chambers is concentrated whatever is most exquisite and curious, in
native and foreign art. A refined taste directing ample means, and
peculiar opportunities, has evidently presided over the collection and
arrangement of all around. At this moment, the hour of the evening
repast is approaching; and we discover the mistress of this dainty
abode engaged in preparing herself, to appear with becoming splendor.
[Illustration: Pompeian Couch.]
[Illustration: Table, after a painting in Herculaneum.]
She is reclining on a couch of Athenian workmanship, inlaid with silver,
in a room of Cyzicene form; that is, having glass windows to the ground,
and so opening on to the flowery terrace. Against the wall opposite to
her hangs a mirror of polished silver, sufficient to reflect a whole
standing figure; on a porphyry-table beside it is a collection of the
innumerable rare cosmetics and perfumes, of which the Roman ladies had
become so fond, and on which they lavished immense sums.[15] On another,
of Indian sandal-wood, was a rich display of jewels and trinkets in
their precious caskets, from which to select for the day’s use.
[Illustration: Couch from Herculaneum.]
It is by no means our intention, nor our gift, to describe persons or
features; we wish more to deal with minds. We will, therefore, content
ourselves with saying, that Fabiola, now at the age of twenty, was not
considered inferior in appearance to other ladies of her rank, age, and
fortune, and had many aspirants for her hand. But she was a contrast to
her father in temper and in character. Proud, haughty, imperious, and
irritable, she ruled like an empress all that surrounded her, with one
or two exceptions, and exacted humble homage from all that approached
her. An only child, whose mother had died in giving her birth, she had
been nursed and brought up in indulgence by her careless, good-natured
father; she had been provided with the best masters, had been adorned
with every accomplishment, and allowed to gratify every extravagant
wish. She had never known what it was to deny herself a desire.
Having been left so much to herself, she had read much, and especially
in profounder books. She had thus become a complete philosopher of the
refined, that is, the infidel and intellectual, epicureanism, which had
been long fashionable in Rome. Of Christianity she knew nothing, except
that she understood it to be something very low, material, and vulgar.
She despised it, in fact, too much to think of inquiring into it. And as
to paganism, with its gods, its vices, its fables, and its idolatry, she
merely scorned it, though outwardly she followed it. In fact, she
believed in nothing beyond the present life, and thought of nothing
except its refined enjoyment. But her very pride threw a shield over her
virtue; she loathed the wickedness of heathen society, as she despised
the frivolous youths who paid her jealously exacted attention, for she
found amusement in their follies. She was considered cold and selfish,
but she was morally irreproachable.
[Illustration: Elaborate Seat from Herculaneum.]
If at the beginning we seem to indulge in long descriptions, we trust
that our reader will believe that they are requisite, to put him in
possession of the state of material and social Rome at the period of our
narrative; and will make this the more intelligible. And should he be
tempted to think that we describe things as over splendid and refined
for an age of decline in arts and good taste, we beg to remind him, that
the year we are supposed to visit Rome is not as remote from the better
periods of Roman art, for example, that of the Antonines, as our age is
from that of Cellini, Raffaele, or Donatello. Yet in how many Italian
palaces are still preserved works by these great artists, fully prized,
though no longer imitated? So, no doubt, it was with the houses
belonging to the old and wealthy families of Rome.
We find, then, Fabiola reclining on her couch, holding in her left hand
a silver mirror with a handle, and in the other a strange instrument for
so fair a hand. It is a sharp-pointed stiletto, with a delicately carved
ivory handle, and a gold ring, to hold it by. This was the favorite
weapon with which Roman ladies punished their slaves, or vented their
passion on them, upon suffering the least annoyance, or when irritated
by pettish anger. Three female slaves are now engaged about their
mistress. They belong to different races, and have been purchased at
high prices, not merely on account of their appearance, but for some
rare accomplishment they are supposed to possess. One is a black; not of
the degraded negro stock, but from one of those races, such as the
Abyssinians and Numidians, in whom the features are as regular as in the
Asiatic people. She is supposed to have great skill in herbs, and their
cosmetic and healing properties, perhaps also in more dangerous uses--in
compounding philtres, charms, and possibly poisons. She is merely known
by her national designation as Afra. A Greek comes next, selected for
her taste in dress, and for the elegance and purity of her accent; she
is therefore called Graia. The name which the third bears, Syra, tells
us that she comes from Asia; and she is distinguished for her exquisite
embroidering, and for her assiduous diligence. She is quiet, silent, but
completely engaged with the duties which now devolve upon her. The other
two are garrulous, light, and make great pretence about any little thing
they do. Every moment they address the most extravagant flattery to
their young mistress, or try to promote the suit of one or other of the
profligate candidates for her hand, who has best or last bribed them.
[Illustration: A Slave. From a painting in Herculaneum.]
[Illustration: A Slave. From a painting in Pompeii.]
“How delighted I should be, most noble mistress,” said the black slave,
“if I could only be in the triclinium[16] this evening as you enter in,
to observe the brilliant effect of this new stibium[17] on your guests!
It has cost me many trials before I could obtain it so perfect: I am
sure nothing like it has been ever seen in Rome.”
“As for me,” interrupted the wily Greek, “I should not presume to aspire
to so high an honor. I should be satisfied to look from outside the
door, and see the magnificent effect of this wonderful silk tunic, which
came with the last remittance of gold from Asia. Nothing can equal its
beauty; nor, I may add, is its arrangement, the result of my study,
unworthy of the materials.”
“And you, Syra,” interposed the mistress, with a contemptuous smile,
“what would you desire? and what have you to praise of your own doing?”
“Nothing to desire, noble lady, but that you may be ever happy; nothing
to praise of my own doing, for I am not conscious of having done more
than my duty,” was the modest and sincere reply.
It did not please the haughty lady, who said, “Methinks, slave, that you
are not over given to praise. One seldom hears a soft word from your
mouth.”
“And what worth would it be from me,” answered Syra; “from a poor
servant to a noble dame, accustomed to hear it all day long from
eloquent and polished lips? Do you believe it when you hear it from
_them_? Do you not despise it when you receive it from _us_?”
A look of spite was darted at her from her two companions. Fabiola, too,
was angry at what she thought a reproof. A lofty sentiment in a slave!
“Have you yet to learn, then,” she answered haughtily, “that you are
mine, and have been bought by me at a high price, that you might serve
me as _I_ please? I have as good a right to the service of your tongue
as of your arms; and if it please me to be praised, and flattered, and
sung to, by you, do it you shall, whether _you_ like it or not. A new
idea, indeed, that a slave has to have any will but that of her
mistress, when her very life belongs to her!”
“True,” replied the handmaid, calmly but with dignity, “my life belongs
to you, and so does all else that ends with life,--time, health, vigor,
body, and breath. All this you have bought with your gold, and it has
become your property. But I still hold as my own what no emperor’s
wealth can purchase, no chains of slavery fetter, no limit of life
contain.”
“And pray what is that?”
“A soul.”
“A soul!” re-echoed the astonished Fabiola, who had never before heard a
slave claim ownership of such a property. “And pray, let me ask you,
what you mean by the word?”
“I cannot speak philosophical sentences,” answered the servant, “but I
mean that inward living consciousness within me, which makes me feel to
have an existence with, and among, better things than surround me, which
shrinks sensitively from destruction, and instinctively from what is
allied to it, as disease is to death. And therefore it abhors all
flattery, and it detests a lie. While I possess that unseen gift, and
die it cannot, either is impossible to me.”
The other two could understand but little of all this; so they stood in
stupid amazement at the presumption of their companion. Fabiola too was
startled; but her pride soon rose again, and she spoke with visible
impatience.
“Where did you learn all this folly? Who has taught you to prate in this
manner? For my part, I have studied for many years, and have come to the
conclusion, that all ideas of spiritual existences are the dreams of
poets, or sophists; and as such I despise them. Do you, an ignorant,
uneducated slave, pretend to know better than your mistress? Or do you
really fancy, that when, after death, your corpse will be thrown on the
heap of slaves who have drunk themselves, or have been scourged, to
death, to be burnt in one ignominious pile, and when the mingled ashes
have been buried in a common pit, _you_ will survive as a conscious
being, and have still a life of joy and freedom to be lived?”
“‘_Non omnis moriar_,’[18] as one of your poets says,” replied
[Illustration: “Fabiola grasped the style in her right hand, and made an
almost blind thrust at the unflinching handmaid.”]
modestly, but with a fervent look that astonished her mistress, the
foreign slave; “yes, I hope, nay, I _intend_ to survive all this. And
more yet; I believe, and know, that out of that charnel-pit which you
have so vividly described, there is a hand that will pick out each
charred fragment of my frame. And there is a power that will call to
reckoning the four winds of heaven, and make each give back every grain
of my dust that it has scattered; and I shall be built up once more in
this my body, not as yours, or any one’s, bondwoman, but free, and
joyful, and glorious, loving for ever, and beloved. This certain hope is
laid up in my bosom.”[19]
“What wild visions of an eastern fancy are these, unfitting you for
every duty? You must be cured of them. In what school did you learn all
this nonsense? I never read of it in any Greek or Latin author.”
“In one belonging to my own land; a school in which there is no
distinction known, or admitted, between Greek or barbarian, freeman or
slave.”
“What!” exclaimed, with strong excitement, the haughty lady, “without
waiting even for that future ideal existence after death; already, even
now, you presume to claim equality with me? Nay, who knows, perhaps
superiority over me. Come, tell me at once, and without daring to
equivocate or disguise, if you do so or not?” And she sat up in an
attitude of eager expectation. At every word of the calm reply her
agitation increased; and violent passions seemed to contend within her,
as Syra said:
“Most noble mistress, far superior are you to me in place, and power,
and learning, and genius, and in all that enriches and embellishes life;
and in every grace of form and lineament, and in every charm of act and
speech, high are you raised above all rivalry, and far removed from
envious thought, from one so lowly and so insignificant as I. But if I
must answer simple truth to your authoritative question”--she paused, as
faltering; but an imperious gesture from her mistress bade her
continue--“then I put it to your own judgment, whether a poor slave, who
holds an unquenchable consciousness of possessing within her a spiritual
and living intelligence, whose measure of existence is immortality,
whose only true place of dwelling is above the skies, whose only
rightful prototype is the Deity, can hold herself inferior in moral
dignity, or lower in greatness of thought, than one who, however gifted,
owns that she claims no higher destiny, recognizes in herself no
sublimer end, than what awaits the pretty irrational songsters that
beat, without hope of liberty, against the gilded bars of that
cage.”[20]
Fabiola’s eyes flashed with fury; she felt herself, for the first time
in her life, rebuked, humbled by a slave. She grasped the style in her
right hand, and made an almost blind thrust at the unflinching handmaid.
Syra instinctively put forward her arm to save her person, and received
the point, which, aimed upwards from the couch, inflicted a deeper gash
than she had ever before suffered. The tears started into her eyes
through the smart of the wound, from which the blood gushed in a stream.
Fabiola was in a moment ashamed of her cruel, though unintentional, act,
and felt still more humbled before her servants.
“Go, go,” she said to Syra, who was stanching the blood with her
handkerchief, “go to Euphrosyne, and have the wound dressed. I did not
mean to hurt you so grievously. But stay a moment, I must make you some
compensation.” Then, after turning over her trinkets on the table, she
continued, “Take this ring; and you need not return here again this
evening.”
Fabiola’s conscience was quite satisfied; she had made
[Illustration: “He who watched with beaming eye, the alms-coffers of
Jerusalem, and noted the widow’s mite, alone saw dropped into the chest,
by the bandaged arm of a foreign female slave, a valuable emerald
ring.”]
[Illustration: A Lamp, found in the Catacombs.]
what she considered ample atonement for the injury she had inflicted, in
the shape of a costly present to a menial dependant. And on the
following Sunday, in the title[21] of St. Pastor, not far from her
house, among the alms collected for the poor was found a valuable
emerald ring, which the good priest Polycarp thought must have been the
offering of some very rich Roman lady; but which He who watched, with
beaming eye, the alms-coffers of Jerusalem, and noted the widow’s mite,
alone saw dropped into the chest by the bandaged arm of a foreign female
slave.
CHAPTER V.
THE VISIT.
During the latter part of the dialogue just recorded, and the
catastrophe which closed it, there took place an apparition in Fabiola’s
room, which, if seen by her, would probably have cut short the one and
prevented the other. The interior chambers in a Roman house were more
frequently divided by curtains across their entrances than by doors; and
thus it was easy, especially during such an excited scene as had just
taken place, to enter unobserved. This was the case now; and when Syra
turned to leave the room she was almost startled at seeing standing, in
bright relief before the deep crimson door-curtain, a figure which she
immediately recognized, but which we must briefly describe.
It was that of a lady, or rather a child not more than twelve or
thirteen years old, dressed in pure and spotless white, without a single
ornament about her person. In her countenance might be seen united the
simplicity of childhood with the intelligence of a maturer age. There
not merely dwelt in her eyes that dove-like innocence which the sacred
poet describes,[22] but often there beamed from them rather an intensity
of pure affection, as though they were looking beyond all surrounding
objects, and rested upon one, unseen by all else, but to her really
present and exquisitely dear. Her forehead was the very seat of candor,
open and bright with undisguising truthfulness; a kindly smile played
about the lips, and the fresh, youthful features varied their sensitive
expression with guileless earnestness, passing rapidly from one feeling
to the other, as her warm and tender heart received it. Those who knew
her believed that she never thought of herself, but was divided entirely
between kindness to those about her, and affection for her unseen love.
When Syra saw this beautiful vision, like that of an angel, before her,
she paused for a moment. But the child took her hand and reverently
kissed it, saying, “I have seen all; meet me in the small chamber near
the entrance, when I go out.”
She then advanced; and as Fabiola saw her, a crimson blush mantled in
her cheek; for she feared the child had been witness of her undignified
burst of passion. With a cold wave of her hand she dismissed her slaves,
and then greeted her kinswoman, for such she was, with cordial
affection. We have said that Fabiola’s temper made a few exceptions in
its haughty exercise. One of these was her old nurse and freed-woman
Euphrosyne, who directed all her private household, and whose only creed
was, that Fabiola was the most perfect of beings, the wisest, most
accomplished, most admirable lady in Rome. Another was her young
visitor, whom she loved, and ever treated with gentlest affection, and
whose society she always coveted.
“This is really kind of you, dear Agnes,” said the softened Fabiola, “to
come at my sudden request, to join our table to-day. But the fact is, my
father has called in one or two new people to dine, and I was anxious to
have some one with whom I could have the excuse of a duty to converse.
Yet I own I have some curiosity about one of our new guests. It is
Fulvius, of whose grace, wealth, and accomplishments I hear so much;
though nobody seems to know who or what he is, or whence he has sprung
up.”
“My dear Fabiola,” replied Agnes, “you know I am always happy to visit
you, and my kind parents willingly allow me; therefore, make no
apologies about that.”
[Illustration: Saint Agnes. From an old vase.]
“And so you have come to me as usual,” said the other playfully, “in
your own snow-white dress, without jewel or ornament, as if you were
every day a bride. You always seem to me to be celebrating one eternal
espousal. But, good heavens! what is this? Are you hurt? Or are you
aware that there is, right on the bosom of your tunic, a large red
spot--it looks like blood. If so, let me change your dress at once.”
“Not for the world, Fabiola; it is the jewel, the only ornament I mean
to wear this evening. It _is_ blood, and that of a slave; but nobler, in
my eyes, and more generous, than flows in your veins or mine.”
The whole truth flashed upon Fabiola’s mind. Agnes had seen all; and
humbled almost to sickening, she said somewhat pettishly, “Do you then
wish to exhibit proof to all the world of my hastiness of temper, in
over-chastising a forward slave?”
“No, dear cousin, far from it. I only wish to preserve for myself a
lesson of fortitude, and of elevation of mind, learnt from a slave, such
as few patrician philosophers can teach us.”
“What a strange idea! Indeed, Agnes, I have often thought that you make
too much of that class of people. After all, what are they?”
[Illustration: Saint Agnes. From an old vase preserved in the Vatican
Museum.]
“Human beings as much as ourselves, endowed with the same reason, the
same feelings, the same organization. Thus far you will admit, at any
rate, to go no higher. Then they form part of the same family; and if
God, from whom comes _our_ life, is thereby our Father, He is theirs as
much, and consequently they are our brethren.”
“A slave my brother or sister, Agnes? The gods forbid it! They are our
property and our goods; and I have no notion of their being allowed to
move, to act, to think, or to feel, except as it suits their masters, or
is for _their_ advantage.”
“Come, come,” said Agnes, with her sweetest tones, “do not let us get
into a warm discussion. You are too candid and honorable not to feel,
and to be ready to acknowledge, that to-day you have been outdone by a
slave in all that you most admire,--in mind, in reasoning, in
truthfulness, and in heroic fortitude. Do not answer me; I see it in
that tear. But, dearest cousin, I will save you from a repetition of
your pain. Will you grant me my request?”
“Any in my power.”
“Then it is, that you will allow me to purchase Syra--I think that is
her name. You will not like to see her about you.”
“You are mistaken, Agnes. I will master pride for once, and own, that I
shall now esteem her, perhaps almost admire her. It is a new feeling in
me towards one in her station.”
“But I think, Fabiola, I could make her happier than she is.”
“No doubt, dear Agnes; you have the power of making every body happy
about you. I never saw such a household as yours. You seem to carry out
in practice that strange philosophy which Syra alluded to, in which
there is no distinction of freeman and slave. Every body in your house
is always smiling, and cheerfully anxious to discharge his duty. And
there seems to be no one who thinks of commanding. Come, tell me your
secret.” (Agnes smiled.) “I suspect, you little magician, that in that
mysterious chamber, which you will never open for me, you keep your
charms and potions by which you make every body and every thing love
you. If you were a Christian, and were exposed in the amphitheatre, I am
sure the very leopards would crouch and nestle at your feet. But why do
you look so serious, child? You know I am only joking.”
Agnes seemed absorbed; and bent forward that keen and tender look which
we have mentioned, as though she saw before her, nay, as if she heard
speaking to her, some one delicately beloved. It passed away, and she
gaily said, “Well, well, Fabiola, stranger things have come to pass; and
at any rate, if aught so dreadful had to happen, Syra would just be the
sort of person one would like to see near one; so you really must let me
have her.”
“For heaven’s sake, Agnes, do not take my words so seriously. I assure
you they were spoken in jest. I have too high an opinion of your good
sense to believe such a calamity possible. But as to Syra’s devotedness,
you are right. When last summer you were away, and I was so dangerously
ill of contagious fever, it required the lash to make the other slaves
approach me; while that poor thing would hardly leave me, but watched by
me, and nursed me day and night, and I really believe greatly promoted
my recovery.”
“And did you not love her for this?”
“Love her! Love a slave, child! Of course, I took care to reward her
generously; though I cannot make out what she does with what I give her.
The others tell me she has nothing put by, and she certainly spends
nothing on herself. Nay, I have even heard that she foolishly shares her
daily allowance of food with a blind beggar-girl. What a strange fancy,
to be sure!”
“Dearest Fabiola,” exclaimed Agnes, “she must be mine! You promised me
my request. Name your price, and let me take her home this evening.”
“Well, be it so, you most irresistible of petitioners. But we will not
bargain together. Send some one to-morrow, to see my father’s steward,
and all will be right. And now this great piece of business being
settled between us, let us go down to our guests.”
“But you have forgotten to put on your jewels.”
“Never mind them; I will do without them for once; I feel no taste for
them to-day.”
CHAPTER VI.
THE BANQUET.
They found, on descending, all the guests assembled in a hall below. It
was not a state banquet which they were going to share, but the usual
meal of a rich house, where preparation for a tableful of friends was
always made. We will therefore content ourselves with saying that every
thing was elegant and exquisite in arrangement and material; and we will
confine ourselves entirely to such incidents as may throw a light upon
our story.
When the two ladies entered the exedra or hall, Fabius, after saluting
his daughter, exclaimed, “Why, my child, you have come down, though
late, still scarcely fittingly arranged! You have forgotten your usual
trinkets.”
Fabiola was confused. She knew not what answer to make: she was ashamed
of her weakness about her angry display; and still more of what she now
thought a silly way of punishing herself for it. Agnes stepped in to the
rescue, and blushingly said: “It is my fault, cousin Fabius, both that
she is late and that she is so plainly dressed. I detained her with my
gossip, and no doubt she wishes to keep me in countenance by the
simplicity of her attire.”
“You, dear Agnes,” replied the father, “are privileged to do as you
please. But, seriously speaking, I must say that, even with you, this
may have answered while you were a mere child; now that you are
marriageable,[23] you must begin to make a little more display, and try
to win the affections of some handsome and eligible youth. A beautiful
necklace, for instance, such as you have plenty of at home, would not
make you less attractive. But you are not attending to me. Come, come, I
dare say you have some one already in view.”
During most of this address, which was meant to be thoroughly
good-natured, as it was perfectly worldly, Agnes appeared in one of her
abstracted moods, her bewitched looks, as Fabiola called them,
transfixed, in a smiling ecstasy, as if attending to some one else, but
never losing the thread of the discourse, nor saying any thing out of
place. She therefore at once answered Fabius: “Oh, yes, most certainly,
one who has already pledged me to him by his betrothal-ring, and has
adorned me with immense jewels.”[24]
“Really!” asked Fabius, “with what?”
“Why,” answered Agnes, with a look of glowing earnestness, and in tones
of artless simplicity, “he has girded my hand and neck with precious
gems, and has set in my ears rings of peerless pearls.”[25]
“Goodness! who can it be? Come, Agnes, some day you must tell me your
secret. Your first love, no doubt; may it last long and make you happy!”
“For ever!” was her reply, as she turned to join Fabiola, and enter with
her into the dining-room. It was well she had not overheard this
dialogue, or she would have been hurt to the quick, as thinking that
Agnes had concealed the most important thought of her age, as she would
have considered it, from her most loving friend. But while Agnes was
defending her, she had turned away from her father, and had been
attending to the other guests. One was a heavy, thick-necked Roman
sophist, or dealer in universal knowledge, named Calpurnius; another,
Proculus, a mere lover of good fare, often at the house. Two more
remain, deserving further notice. The first of them, evidently a
favorite both with Fabiola and Agnes, was a tribune, a high officer of
the imperial or prætorian guard. Though not above thirty years of age,
he had already distinguished himself by his valor, and enjoyed the
highest favor with the emperors Dioclesian in the East, and Maximian
Herculius in Rome. He was free from all affectation in manner or dress,
though handsome in person; and though most engaging in conversation, he
manifestly scorned the foolish topics which generally occupied society.
In short, he was a perfect specimen of a noble-hearted youth, full of
honor and generous thoughts; strong and brave, without a particle of
pride or display in him.
Quite a contrast to him was the last guest, already alluded to by
Fabiola, the new star of society, Fulvius. Young, and almost effeminate
in look, dressed with most elaborate elegance, with brilliant rings on
every finger and jewels in his dress, affected in his speech, which had
a slightly foreign accent, overstrained in his courtesy of manners, but
apparently good-natured and obliging, he had in a short time quietly
pushed his way into the highest society of Rome. This was, indeed, owing
partly to his having been seen at the imperial court, and partly to the
fascination of his manner. He had arrived in Rome accompanied by a
single elderly attendant, evidently deeply attached to him; whether
slave, freedman, or friend, nobody well knew. They spoke together always
in a strange tongue, and the swarthy features, keen fiery eye, and
unamiable expression of the domestic, inspired a certain degree of fear
in his dependants; for Fulvius had taken an apartment in what was called
an _insula_, or house let out in parts, had furnished it luxuriously,
and had peopled it with a sufficient bachelor’s establishment of slaves.
Profusion rather than abundance distinguished all his domestic
arrangements; and, in the corrupted and degraded circle of pagan Rome,
the obscurity of his history, and the suddenness of his apparition, were
soon forgotten in the evidence of his riches, and the charm of his loose
conversation. A shrewd observer of character, however, would soon notice
a wandering restlessness of eye, and an eagerness of listening attention
for all sights and sounds around him, which betrayed an insatiable
curiosity; and in moments of forgetfulness, a dark scowl under his knit
brows, from his flashing eyes, and a curling of the upper lip, which
inspired a feeling of mistrust, and gave an idea that his exterior
softness only clothed a character of feline malignity.
[Illustration: Banquet Table, from a Pompeian painting.]
The guests were soon at table; and as ladies sat, while men reclined on
couches during the repast, Fabiola and Agnes were together on one side,
the two younger guests last described were opposite, and the master,
with his two elder friends, in the middle--if these terms can be used to
describe their position about three parts of a round table; one side
being left unencumbered by the _sigma_,[26] or semi-circular couch, for
the convenience of serving. And we may observe, in passing, that a
table-cloth, a luxury unknown in the times of Horace, was now in
ordinary use.
When the first claims of hunger, or the palate, had been satisfied,
conversation grew more general.
“What news to-day at the baths?” asked Calpurnius; “I have no leisure
myself to look after such trifles.”
“Very interesting news indeed,” answered Proculus. “It seems quite
certain that orders have been received from the divine Dioclesian, to
finish his Thermæ in three years.”
“Impossible!” exclaimed Fabius. “I looked in at the works the other day,
on my way to Sallust’s gardens, and found them very little advanced in
the last year. There is an immense deal of heavy work to be done, such
as carving marbles and shaping columns.”
“True,” interposed Fulvius; “but I know that orders have been sent to
all parts, to forward hither all prisoners, and all persons condemned to
the mines in Spain, Sardinia, and even Chersonesus, who can possibly be
spared, to come and labor at the Thermæ. A few thousand Christians, thus
set to the work, will soon finish it.”
“And why Christians better than other criminals?” asked, with some
curiosity, Fabiola.
“Why, really,” said Fulvius, with his most winning smile, “I can hardly
give a reason for it; but the fact is so. Among fifty workmen so
condemned, I would engage to pick out a single Christian.”
“Indeed!” exclaimed several at once; “pray how?”
“Ordinary convicts,” answered he, “naturally do not love their work, and
they require the lash at every step to compel them to perform it; and
when the overseer’s eye is off them, no work is done. And, moreover,
they are, of course, rude, sottish, quarrelsome, and querulous. But the
Christians, when condemned to these public works, seem, on the contrary,
to be glad, and are always cheerful and obedient. I have seen young
patricians so occupied in Asia, whose hands had never before handled a
pickaxe, and whose weak shoulders had never borne a weight, yet working
hard, and as happy, to all appearance, as when at home. Of course, for
all that, the overseers apply the lash and the stick very freely to
them; and most justly; because it is the will of the divine emperors
that their lot should be made as hard as possible; but still they never
complain.”
“I cannot say that I admire this sort of justice,” replied Fabiola; “but
what a strange race they must be! I am most curious to know what can be
the motive or cause of this stupidity, or unnatural insensibility, in
these Christians?”
Proculus replied, with a facetious look: “Calpurnius here no doubt can
tell us; for he is a philosopher, and I hear could declaim for an hour
on any topic, from the Alps to an ant-hill.”
Calpurnius, thus challenged, and thinking himself highly complimented,
solemnly gave mouth: “The Christians,” said he, “are a foreign sect, the
founder of which flourished many ages ago in Chaldea. His doctrines were
brought to Rome at the time of Vespasian by two brothers named Peter and
Paul. Some maintain that these were the same twin brothers as the Jews
call Moses and Aaron, the second of whom sold his birthright to his
brother for a kid, the skin of which he wanted to make _chirothecæ_[27]
of. But this identity I do not admit; as it is recorded in the mystical
books of the Jews, that the second of these brothers, seeing the other’s
victims give better omens of birds than his own, slew him, as our
Romulus did Remus, but with the jaw-bone of an ass; for which he was
hung by King Mardochæus of Macedon, upon a gibbet fifty cubits high, at
the suit of their sister Judith. However, Peter and Paul coming, as I
said, to Rome, the former was discovered to be a fugitive slave of
Pontius Pilate, and was crucified by his master’s orders on the
Janiculum. Their followers, of whom they had many, made the cross their
symbol, and adore it; and they think it the greatest honor to suffer
stripes, and even ignominious death, as the best means of being like
their teachers, and, as they fancy, of going to them in a place
somewhere among the clouds.”[28]
This lucid explanation of the origin of Christianity was listened to
with admiration by all except two. The young officer gave a piteous look
towards Agnes, which seemed to say, “Shall I answer the goose, or shall
I laugh outright?” But she put her finger on her lips, and smiled
imploringly for silence.
“Well, then, the upshot of it is,” observed Proculus, “that the Thermæ
will be finished soon, and we shall have glorious sport. Is it not said
Fulvius, that the divine Dioclesian will himself come to the
dedication?”
“It is quite certain; and so will there be splendid festivals and
glorious games. But we shall not have to wait so long; already, for
other purposes, have orders been sent to Numidia for an unlimited supply
of lions and leopards to be ready before winter.” Then turning round
sharp to his neighbor, he said, bending a keen eye upon his countenance:
“A brave soldier like you, Sebastian, must be delighted with the noble
spectacles of the amphitheatre, especially when directed against the
enemies of the august emperors, and of the republic.”
The officer raised himself upon his couch, looked on his interrogator
with an unmoved, majestic countenance, and answered calmly:
“Fulvius, I should not deserve the title which you give me, could I
contemplate with pleasure, in cold blood, the struggle, if it deserve
the name, between a brute beast and a helpless child or woman, for such
are the spectacles which you call noble. No, I will draw my sword
willingly against any enemy of the princes or the state; but I would as
readily draw it against the lion or the leopard that should rush, even
by imperial order, against the innocent and defenceless.” Fulvius was
starting up; but Sebastian placed his strong hand upon his arm, and
continued: “Hear me out. I am not the first Roman, nor the noblest, who
has thought thus before me. Remember the words of Cicero: ‘Magnificent
are these games, no doubt; but what delight can it be to a refined mind
to see either a feeble man torn by a most powerful beast, or a noble
animal pierced through by a javelin?’[29] I am not ashamed of agreeing
with the greatest of Roman orators.”
“Then shall we never see you in the amphitheatre, Sebastian?” asked
Fulvius, with a bland but taunting tone.
“If you do,” the soldier replied, “depend upon it, it will be on the
side of the defenceless, not on that of the brutes that would destroy
them.”
[Illustration: David with his Sling, from the Catacomb of St.
Petronilla.]
“Sebastian is right,” exclaimed Fabiola, clapping her hands, “and I
close the discussion by my applause. I have never heard Sebastian speak,
except on the side of generous and high-minded sentiments.”
Fulvius bit his lip in silence, and all rose to depart.
CHAPTER VII.
POOR AND RICH.
During the latter part of the conversation just recorded, Fabius had
been quite abstracted, speculating upon his conversation with Agnes. How
quietly she had kept her secret to herself! But who could this favored
person be, who had already won her heart? He thought over many, but
could find no answer. The gift of rich jewels particularly perplexed
him. He knew no young Roman nobleman likely to possess them; and
sauntering, as he did, every day into the great shops, he was sure to
have heard if any such costly order had been given. Suddenly the bright
idea flashed through his mind, that Fulvius, who daily exhibited new and
splendid gems, brought from abroad, could be the only person able to
make her such presents. He moreover noticed such occasional looks darted
towards his cousin by the handsome foreigner, as left him no doubt that
he was deeply enamored of her; and if Agnes did not seem conscious of
the admiration, this of course was part of her plan. Once convinced of
this important conclusion, he determined to favor the wishes of the two,
and astonish his daughter one day by the sagacity he had displayed.
But we must leave our nobler guests for more humble scenes, and follow
Syra from the time that she left her young mistress’s apartment. When
she presented herself to Euphrosyne, the good-natured nurse was shocked
at the cruel wound, and uttered an exclamation of pity. But immediately
recognizing in it the work of Fabiola, she was divided between two
contending feelings. “Poor thing!” she said, as she went on first
washing, then closing and dressing, the gash; “it is a dreadful cut!
What did you do to deserve it? How it must have hurt you, my poor girl!
But how wicked you must have been to bring it upon yourself! It is a
savage wound, yet inflicted by the gentlest of creatures! (You must be
faint from loss of blood; take this cordial to support you): and no
doubt she found herself obliged to strike.”
“No doubt,” said Syra, amused, “it was all my fault; I had no business
to argue with my mistress.”
“_Argue_ with her!--argue!--O ye gods! who ever heard before of a slave
arguing with a noble mistress, and such a learned one! Why, Calpurnius
himself would be afraid of disputing with her. No wonder, indeed, she
was so--so agitated as not to know that she was hurting you. But this
must be concealed; it must not be known that you have been so wrong.
Have you no scarf or nice veil that we could throw round the arm, as if
for ornament? All the others I know have plenty, given or bought; but
you never seem to care for these pretty things. Let us look.”
She went into the maid-slave’s dormitory, which was within her room,
opened Syra’s _capsa_ or box, and after turning over in vain its scanty
contents, she drew forth from the bottom a square kerchief of richest
stuff, magnificently embroidered, and even adorned with pearls. Syra
blushed deeply, and entreated not to be obliged to wear this most
disproportioned piece of dress, especially as it was a token of better
days, long and painfully preserved. But Euphrosyne, anxious to hide her
mistress’s fault, was inexorable; and the rich scarf was gracefully
fastened round the wounded arm.
This operation performed, Syra proceeded to the little parlor opposite
the porter’s room, where the higher slaves could see their friends. She
held in her hand a basket covered with a napkin. The moment she entered
the door a light step came bounding across the room to meet her. It was
that of a girl of about sixteen or seventeen, dressed in the poorest
attire, but clean and neat, who threw her arms round Syra’s neck with
such a bright countenance and such hearty glee, that a bystander would
hardly have supposed that her sightless eyes had never communed with the
outer world.
“Sit down, dear Cæcilia,” said Syra, with a most affectionate tone, and
leading her to a seat; “to-day I have brought you a famous feast; you
will fare sumptuously.”
“How so? I think I do every day.”
“No, but to-day my mistress has kindly sent me out a dainty dish from
her table, and I have brought it here for you.”
“How kind of her; yet how much kinder of you, my sister! But why have
you not partaken of it yourself? It was meant for you and not for me.”
“Why, to tell the truth, it is a greater treat to me, to see you enjoy
any thing, than to enjoy it myself.”
“No, dear Syra, no; it must not be. God has wished me to be poor, and I
must try to do His will. I could no more think of eating the food, than
I could of wearing the dress, of the rich, so long as I can obtain that
of the poor. I love to share with you your _pulmentum_,[30] which I know
is given me in charity by one poor like myself. I procure for you the
merit of alms-deeds; you give me the consolation of feeling that I am,
before God, still only a poor blind thing. I think He will love me
better thus, than if feeding on luxurious fare. I would rather be with
Lazarus at the gate, than with Dives at the table.”
“How much better and wiser you are than I, my good child! It shall be as
you wish. I will give the dish to my companions, and, in the meantime,
here I set before you your usual humble fare.”
“Thanks, thanks, dear sister; I will await your return.”
Syra went to the maids’ apartment, and put before her jealous but greedy
companions the silver dish. As their mistress occasionally showed them
this little kindness, it did not much surprise them. But the poor
servant was weak enough to feel ashamed of appearing before her comrades
with the rich scarf round her arm. She took it off before she entered;
then, not wishing to displease Euphrosyne, replaced it as well as she
could with one hand, on coming out. She was in the court below,
returning to her blind friend, when she saw one of the noble guests of
her mistress’s table alone, and, with a mortified look, crossing towards
the door, and she stepped behind a column to avoid any possible, and not
uncommon, rudeness. It was Fulvius; and no sooner did she, unseen, catch
a glimpse of him, than she stood for a moment as one nailed to the spot.
Her heart beat against her bosom, then quivered as if about to cease its
action; her knees struck against one another, a shiver ran through her
frame, while perspiration started on her brow. Her eyes, wide open, were
fascinated, like the bird’s before the snake. She raised her hand to her
breast, made upon it the sign of life, and the spell was broken. She
fled in an instant, still unnoticed, and had hardly stepped noiselessly
behind a curtain that closed the stairs, when Fulvius, with downcast
eyes, reached the spot on which she had stood. He started back a step,
as if scared by something lying before him. He trembled violently; but
recovering himself by a sudden effort, he looked around him and saw that
he was alone. There was no eye upon him--except One which he did not
heed, but which read his evil heart in that hour. He gazed again upon
the object, and stooped to pick it up, but drew back his hand, and that
more than once. At last he heard footsteps approaching, he recognized
the martial tread of Sebastian, and hastily he snatched up from the
ground the rich scarf which had dropped from Syra’s arm. He shook as he
folded it up; and when, to his horror, he found upon it spots of fresh
blood, which had oozed through the bandages, he reeled like a drunken
man to the door, and rushed to his lodgings.
Pale, sick, and staggering, he went into his chamber, repulsing roughly
the officious advances of his slaves; and only beckoned to his faithful
domestic to follow him, and then signed to him to bar the door. A lamp
was burning brightly by the table, on which Fulvius threw the
embroidered scarf in silence, and pointed to the stains of blood. That
dark man said nothing; but his swarthy countenance was blanched, while
his master’s was ashy and livid.
“It is the same, no doubt,” at length spoke the attendant in their
foreign tongue; “but _she_ is certainly dead.”
“Art thou quite sure, Eurotas?” asked the master, with the keenest of
his hawk’s looks.
“As sure as man can be of what he has not seen himself. Where didst thou
find this? And whence this blood?”
“I will tell thee all to-morrow; I am too sick to-night. As to those
stains, which were liquid when I found it, I know not whence they came,
unless they are warnings of vengeance--nay, a vengeance themselves, deep
as the Furies could meditate, fierce as they could launch. That blood
has not been shed _now_.”
“Tut, tut! this is no time for dreams or fancies. Did any one see thee
pick the--the thing up?”
“No one, I am sure.”
“Then we are safe; better in our hands than in others’. A good night’s
rest will give us better counsel.”
“True, Eurotus; but do thou sleep this night in my chamber.”
Both threw themselves on their couches; Fulvius on a rich bed, Eurotus
on a lowly pallet, from which, raised upon his elbow, with dark but
earnest eye, he long watched, by the lamp’s light, the troubled slumbers
of the youth--at once his devoted guardian and his evil genius. Fulvius
tossed about and moaned in his sleep, for his dreams were gloomy and
heavy. First he sees before him a beautiful city in a distant land, with
a river of crystal brightness flowing through it. Upon it is a galley
weighing anchor, with a figure on deck, waving towards him, in farewell,
an embroidered scarf. The scene changes; the ship is in the midst of the
sea, battling with a furious storm, while on the summit of the mast the
same scarf streams out, like a pennant, unruffled and uncrumpled by the
breeze. The vessel is now dashed upon a rock, and all with a dreadful
shriek are buried in the deep. But the topmast stands above the billows,
with its calm and brilliant flag; till, amidst the sea-birds that shriek
around, a form with a torch in her hand, and black flapping wings, flies
by, snatches it from the staff, and with a look of stern anger displays
it, as in her flight she pauses before him. He reads upon it, written in
fiery letters, NEMESIS.[31]
But it is time to return to our other acquaintances in the house of
Fabius.
After Syra had heard the door close on Fulvius she paused to compose
herself, offered up a secret prayer, and returned to her blind friend.
She had finished her frugal meal, and was waiting patiently the slave’s
return. Syra then commenced her daily duties of kindness and
hospitality; she brought water, washed her hands and feet in obedience
to Christian practice, and combed and dressed her hair, as if the poor
creature had been her own child. Indeed, though not much older, her look
was so tender, as she hung over her poor friend, her tones were so soft,
her whole action so motherly, that one would have thought it was a
parent ministering to her daughter, rather than a slave serving a
beggar. And this beggar, too, looked so happy, spoke so cheerily, and
said such beautiful things, that Syra lingered over her work to listen
to her, and gaze on her.
It was at this moment that Agnes came for her appointed interview, and
Fabiola insisted on accompanying her to the door. But when Agnes softly
raised the curtain, and caught a sight of the scene before her, she
beckoned to Fabiola to look in, enjoining silence by her gesture. The
blind girl was opposite, and her voluntary servant on one side,
unconscious of witnesses. The heart of Fabiola was touched; she had
never imagined that there was such a thing as disinterested love on
earth between strangers; as to charity, it was a word unknown to Greece
or Rome. She retreated quietly, with a tear in her eye, and said to
Agnes, as she took leave:
“I must retire; that girl, as you know, proved to me this afternoon that
a slave may have a head; she has now shown me that she may have a heart.
I was amazed, when, a few hours ago, you asked me if I did not love a
slave. I think, now, I could almost love Syra. I half regret that I have
agreed to part with her.”
As she went back into the court, Agnes entered the room, and laughing,
said:
“So, Cæcilia, I have found out your secret at last. This is the friend
whose food you have always said was so much better than mine, that you
would never eat at my house. Well, if the dinner is not better, at any
rate I agree that you have fallen in with a better hostess.”
“Oh, don’t say so, sweet Lady Agnes,” answered the blind girl: “it is
the dinner indeed that is better. You have plenty of opportunities for
exercising charity; but a poor slave can only do so by finding some one
still poorer, and helpless, like me. That thought makes her food by far
the sweetest.”
“Well, you are right,” said Agnes, “and I am not sorry to have you
present, to hear the good news I bring to Syra. It will make _you_ happy
too. Fabiola has allowed me to become your mistress, Syra, and to take
you with me. To-morrow you shall be free, and a dear sister to me.”
Cæcilia clapped her hands with joy, and throwing her arms round Syra’s
neck, exclaimed: “Oh, how good! How happy you will now be, dear Syra!”
But Syra was deeply troubled, and replied with faltering voice, “O good
and gentle lady, you have been kind indeed, to think so much about one
like me. But pardon me if I entreat you to remain as I am; I assure you,
dear Cæcilia, I am quite happy here.”
“But why wish to stay?” asked Agnes.
“Because,” rejoined Syra, “it is most perfect to abide with God, in the
state wherein we have been called.[32] I own this is not the one in
which I was born; I have been brought to it by others.” A burst of tears
interrupted her for a moment, and then she went on. “But so much the
more clear is it to me, that God has willed me to serve Him in this
condition. How can I wish to leave it?”
“Well then,” said Agnes, still more eagerly, “we can easily manage it. I
will not free you, and you shall be my bondwoman. That will be just the
same.”
“No, no,” said Syra, smiling, “that will never do. Our great Apostle’s
instructions to us are: ‘Servants be subject to your masters with all
fear, not only to the good and gentle, but also to the froward.’[33] I
am far from saying that my mistress is one of these; but you, noble
Lady Agnes, are too good and gentle for me. Where would be my cross, if
I lived with you? You do not know how proud and headstrong I am by
nature; and I should fear for myself, if I had not some pain and
humiliation.”
Agnes was almost overcome; but she was more eager than ever to possess
such a treasure of virtue, and said, “I see, Syra, that no motive
addressed to your own interest can move you, I must therefore use a more
selfish plea. I want to have you with me, that I may improve by your
advice and example. Come, you will not refuse such a request.”
“Selfish,” replied the slave, “you can never be. And therefore I will
appeal to yourself from your request. You know Fabiola, and you love
her. What a noble soul, and what a splendid intellect she possesses!
What great qualities and high accomplishments, if they only reflected
the light of truth! And how jealously does she guard in herself that
pearl of virtues, which only we know how to prize! What a truly great
Christian she would make!”
“Go on, for God’s sake, dear Syra,” broke out Agnes, all eagerness. “And
do you hope for it?”
“It is my prayer day and night; it is my chief thought and aim; it is
the occupation of my life. I will try to win her by patience, by
assiduity, even by such unusual discussions as we have held to-day. And
when all is exhausted, I have one resource more.”
“What is that?” both asked.
“To give my life for her conversion. I know that a poor slave like me
has few chances of martyrdom. Still, a fiercer persecution is said to be
approaching, and perhaps it will not disdain such humble victims. But be
that as God pleases, my life for her soul is placed in His hands. And
oh, dearest, best of ladies,” she exclaimed, falling on her knees and
bedewing Agnes’s hand with tears, “do not come in thus between me and my
prize.”
“You have conquered, sister Syra (oh! never again call me lady),” said
Agnes. “Remain at your post; such single-hearted, generous virtue must
triumph. It is too sublime for so homely a sphere as my household.”
“And I, for my part,” subjoined Cæcilia, with a look of arch gravity,
“say that she has said one very wicked thing, and told a great story,
this evening.”
“What is that, my pet?” asked Syra, laughing.
“Why, you said that I was wiser and better than you, because I declined
eating some trumpery delicacy, which would have gratified my palate for
a few minutes, at the expense of an act of greediness; while you have
given up liberty, happiness, the free exercise of your religion, and
have offered to give up life itself, for the salvation of one who is
your tyrant and tormentor. Oh, fie! how could you tell me such a thing!”
[Illustration: A Dove, as a Symbol of the Soul, found in the Catacombs.]
The servant now announced that Agnes’s litter was waiting at the door;
and any one who could have seen the affectionate farewell of the
three,--the noble lady, the slave, and the beggar, would have justly
exclaimed, as people had often done before, “See how these Christians
love one another!”
CHAPTER VIII.
THE FIRST DAY’S CONCLUSION.
If we linger a little time about the door, and see Agnes fairly off, and
listen to the merry conversation between her and Cæcilia, in which Agnes
asks her to allow herself to be accompanied home by one of her
attendants, as it has grown dark, and the girl is amused at the lady’s
forgetfulness that day and night are the same to her, and that on this
very account she is the appointed guide to thread the mazes of the
catacombs, familiar to her as the streets of Rome, which she walks in
safety at all hours; if thus we pass a little time before re-entering,
to inquire how the mistress within fares after the day’s adventures, we
shall find the house turned topsy-turvy. Slaves, with lamps and torches,
are running about in every direction, looking for something or other
that is lost, in every possible and impossible place. Euphrosyne insists
it must be found; till at last the search is given up in despair. The
reader will probably have anticipated the solution of the mystery. Syra
had presented herself to have her wound re-dressed, according to orders,
and the scarf which had bound it was no longer there. She could give no
account of it, further than that she had taken it off, and put it on,
certainly not so well as Euphrosyne had done it, and she gave the
reason, for she scorned to tell a lie. Indeed she had never missed it
till now. The kind-hearted old nurse was much grieved at the loss,
which she considered must be heavy to a poor slave-girl, as she probably
reserved that object for the purchase of her liberty. And Syra too was
sorry, but for reasons which she could not have made the good
housekeeper comprehend.
Euphrosyne had all the servants interrogated, and many even searched, to
Syra’s great pain and confusion; and then ordered a grand general battue
through every part of the house where Syra had been. Who for a moment
could have dreamt of suspecting a noble guest at the master’s table of
purloining any article, valuable or not? The old lady therefore came to
the conclusion, that the scarf had been spirited away by some magical
process; and greatly suspected that the black slave Afra, who she knew
could not bear Syra, had been using some spell to annoy the poor girl.
For she believed the Moor to be a very Canidia,[34] being often obliged
to let her go out alone at night, under pretence of gathering herbs at
full moon for her cosmetics, as if plucked at any other time, they would
not possess the same virtues; to procure deadly poisons Euphrosyne
suspected, but in reality to join in the hideous orgies of Fetichism[35]
with others of her race, or to hold interviews with such as consulted
her imaginary art. It was not till all was given up, and Syra found
herself alone, that on more coolly recollecting the incidents of the
day, she remembered the pause in Fulvius’s walk across the court, at the
very spot where she had stood, and his hurried steps, after this, to the
door. The conviction then flashed on her mind, that she must have there
dropped her kerchief, and that he must have picked it up. That he should
have passed it with indifference she believed impossible. She was
confident, therefore, that it was now in his possession. After
attempting to speculate on the possible consequences of this
misadventure, and coming to no satisfactory conclusion, she determined
to commit the matter entirely to God, and sought that repose which a
good conscience was sure to render balmy and sweet.
Fabiola, on parting with Agnes, retired to her apartment; and after the
usual services had been rendered to her by her other two servants and
Euphrosyne, she dismissed them with a gentler manner than ever she had
shown before. As soon as they had retired, she went to recline upon the
couch where first we found her; when, to her disgust, she discovered
lying on it the style with which she had wounded Syra. She opened a
chest, and threw it in with horror; nor did she ever again use any such
weapon.
[Illustration: _Volumina_, from a painting of Pompeii. _Scrinium_, from
a picture in the Cemetery of St. Callistus.]
She took up the volume which she had last laid down, and which had
greatly amused her; but it was quite insipid, and seemed most frivolous
to her. She laid it down again, and gave free course to her thoughts on
all that had happened. It struck her first what a wonderful child her
cousin Agnes was,--how unselfish, how pure, how simple; how sensible,
too, and even wise! She determined to be her protector, her elder sister
in all things. She had observed, too, as well as her father, the
frequent looks which Fulvius had fixed upon her; not, indeed, those
libertine looks which she herself had often borne with scorn, but
designing, cunning glances, such as she thought betrayed some scheme or
art, of which Agnes might become the victim. She resolved to frustrate
it, whatever it might be, and arrived at exactly the opposite conclusion
to her father’s about him. She made up her mind to prevent Fulvius
having any access to Agnes, at least at her house; and even blamed
herself for having brought one so young into the strange company which
often met at her father’s table, especially as she now found that her
motives for doing so had been decidedly selfish. It was nearly at the
same moment that Fulvius, tossing on his couch, had come to the
determination never again, if possible, to go inside Fabius’s door, and
to resist or elude every invitation from him.
Fabiola had measured his character; had caught, with her penetrating
eye, the affectation of his manner, and the cunning of his looks; and
could not help contrasting him with the frank and generous Sebastian.
“What a noble fellow that Sebastian is!” she said to herself. “How
different from all the other youths that come here. Never a foolish word
escapes his lips, never an unkind look darts from his bright and
cheerful eye. How abstemious, as becomes a soldier, at the table; how
modest, as befits a hero, about his own strength and bold actions in
war, which others speak so much about. Oh, if _he_ only felt towards me
as others pretend to do--” She did not finish the sentence, but a deep
melancholy seemed to steal over her whole soul.
Then Syra’s conversation, and all that had resulted from it, passed
again through her mind; it was painful to her, yet she could not help
dwelling on it; and she felt as if that day were a crisis in her life.
Her pride had been humbled by a slave, and her mind softened, she knew
not how. Had her eyes been opened in that hour; and had she been able to
look up above this world, she would have seen a soft cloud like incense,
but tinged with a rich carnation, rising from the bed-side of a kneeling
slave (prayer and willing sacrifice of life breathed upwards together),
which, when it struck the crystal footstool of a mercy-seat in heaven,
fell down again as a dew of gentlest grace upon her arid heart.
She could not indeed see this; yet it was no less true; and wearied, at
length she sought repose. But she too had a distressing dream. She saw a
bright spot as in a delicious garden, richly illuminated by a light like
noonday, but inexpressibly soft; while all around was dark. Beautiful
flowers formed the sward, plants covered with richest bloom grew
festooned from tree to tree, on each of which glowed golden fruit. In
the midst of this space she saw the poor blind girl, with her look of
happiness on her cheerful countenance, seated on the ground; while on
one side, Agnes, with her sweetest simple looks, and on the other, Syra,
with her quiet patient smile, hung over her and caressed her. Fabiola
felt an irresistible desire to be with them; it seemed to her that they
were enjoying some felicity which she had never known or witnessed; and
she thought they even beckoned her to join them. She ran forward to do
so, when to her horror she found a wide, and black, and deep ravine, at
the bottom of which roared a torrent between herself and them. By
degrees its waters rose, till they reached the upper margin of the dyke,
and there flowed, though so deep, yet sparkling and brilliant, and most
refreshing. Oh, for courage to plunge into this stream, through which
alone the gorge could be crossed, and land in safety on the other side!
And still they beckoned, urging her on to try it. But as she was
standing on the brink, clasping her hands in despair, Calpurnius seemed
to emerge from the dark air around, with a thick heavy curtain stretched
out, on which were worked all sorts of monstrous and hideous chimeras,
most curiously running into, and interwoven with, each other; and this
dark veil grew and grew, till it shut out the beautiful vision from her
sight. She felt disconsolate, till she seemed
[Illustration: Our Saviour, from a representation found in the
Catacombs.]
to see a bright genius (as she called him), in whose features she
fancied she traced a spiritualized resemblance to Sebastian, and whom
she had noticed standing sorrowful at a distance, now approach her, and,
smiling on her, fan her fevered face with his gold and purple wing; when
she lost her vision in a calm and refreshing sleep.
CHAPTER IX.
MEETINGS.
Of all the Roman hills, the most distinctly traceable on every side is
undoubtedly the Palatine. Augustus having chosen it for his residence,
successive emperors followed his example; but gradually transformed his
modest residence into a _palace_, which covered the entire hill. Nero,
not satisfied with its dimensions, destroyed the neighborhood by fire,
and then extended the imperial residence to the neighboring Esquiline;
taking in the whole space now occupied between the two hills by the
Coliseum. Vespasian threw down that “golden house,” of which the
magnificent vaults remain, covered with beautiful paintings; and built
the amphitheatre just mentioned, and other edifices, with its materials.
The entrance to the palace was made, soon after this period, from the
_Via Sacra_, or Sacred Way, close to the arch of Titus. After passing
through a vestibule, the visitor found himself in a magnificent court,
the plan of which can be distinctly traced. Turning from this, on the
left side, he entered into an immense square space, arranged and
consecrated to Adonis by Domitian, and planted with trees, shrubs, and
flowers.
Still keeping to the left, you would enter into sets of chambers,
constructed by Alexander Severus in honor of his
[Illustration: The Ruins of the Coliseum, as seen from the Palatine of
St. Bonaventure.]
mother Mammæa, whose name they bore. They looked out opposite to the
Cœlian hill, just at the angle of it, which abuts upon the later
triumphal arch of Constantine, and the fountain called the _Meta
Sudans_.[36] Here was the apartment occupied by Sebastian as a tribune,
or superior officer, of the imperial guard. It consisted of a few rooms,
most modestly furnished, as became a soldier and a Christian. His
household was limited to a couple of freedmen, and a venerable matron,
who had been his nurse, and loved him as a child. They were Christians,
as were all the men in his cohort; partly by conversion, but chiefly by
care in recruiting new soldiers.
[Illustration: _Meta Sudans_, after a bronze of Vespasian.]
It was a few evenings after the scenes described in the last chapter,
that Sebastian, a couple of hours after dark, ascended the steps of the
vestibule just described, in company with another youth, of whom we have
already spoken. Pancratius admired and loved Sebastian with the sort of
affection that an ardent young officer may be supposed to bear towards
an older and gallant soldier, who receives him into his friendship. But
it was not as to a soldier of Cæsar, but as to a champion of Christ,
that the civilian boy looked up to the young tribune, whose generosity,
noble-mindedness, and valor, were enshrouded in such a gentle, simple
bearing, and were accompanied by such prudence and considerateness, as
gave confidence and encouragement to all that dealt with him. And
Sebastian loved Pancratius no less, on account of his single-hearted
ardor, and the innocence and candor of his mind. But he well saw the
dangers to which his youthful warmth and impetuosity might lead him; and
he encouraged him to keep close to himself, that he might guide, and
perhaps sometimes restrain him.
[Illustration: The Arch of Titus.]
As they were entering the palace, that part of which Sebastian’s cohort
guarded, he said to his companion: “Every time that I enter here, it
strikes me how kind an act of Divine Providence it was, to plant almost
at the very gate of Cæsar’s palace, the arch which commemorates at once
the downfall of the first great system that was antagonistic to
Christianity, and the completion of the greatest prophecy of the
Gospel,--the destruction of Jerusalem by the Roman power.[37] I cannot
but believe that another arch will one day arise to commemorate no less
a victory, over the second enemy of our religion, the heathen Roman
empire itself.”
“What! do you contemplate the overthrow of this vast empire, as the
means of establishing Christianity?”
“God forbid! I would shed the last drop of my blood, as I shed my first,
to maintain it. And depend upon it, when the empire is converted, it
will not be by such gradual growth as we now witness, but by some means,
so unhuman, so divine, as we shall never, in our most sanguine longings,
forecast; but all will exclaim, ‘This is the change of the right hand of
the Most High!’”
“No doubt; but your idea of a Christian triumphal arch supposes an
earthly instrument; where do you imagine this to lie?”
“Why, Pancratius, my thoughts, I own, turn towards the family of one of
the Augusti, as showing a slight germ of better thoughts: I mean,
Constantius Chlorus.”
“But, Sebastian, how many of even our learned and good men will say,
nay, do say, if you speak thus to them, that similar hopes were
entertained in the reigns of Alexander, Gordian, or Aurelian; yet ended
in disappointment. Why, they ask, should we not expect the same results
now?”
“I know it too well, my dear Pancratius, and bitterly have I often
deplored those dark views which damp our energies; that lurking thought
that vengeance is perpetual, and mercy temporary, that martyr’s blood,
and virgin’s prayer have no power even to shorten times of visitation,
and hasten hours of grace.”
By this time they had reached Sebastian’s apartment, the principal room
of which was lighted, and evidently prepared for some assembly. But
opposite the door was a window open to the ground, and leading to a
terrace that ran along that side of the building. The night looked so
bright through it, that they both instinctively walked across the room,
and stood upon the terrace. A lovely and splendid view presented itself
to them. The moon was high in the heavens, swimming in them, as an
Italian moon does; a round, full globe, not a flat surface, bathed all
round in its own refulgent atmosphere. It dimmed, indeed, the stars near
itself; but they seemed to have retired, in thicker and more brilliant
clusters, into the distant corners of the azure sky. It was just such an
evening as, years after, Monica and Augustine enjoyed from a window at
Ostia, as they discoursed of heavenly things.
It is true that, below and around, all was beautiful and grand. The
Coliseum, or Flavian amphitheatre, rose at one side, in all its
completeness; and the gentle murmur of the fountain, while its waters
glistened in a silvery column, like the refluent sea-wave gliding down a
slanting rock, came soothingly on the ear. On the other side, the lofty
building called the Septizonium of Severus, in front, towering above the
Cœlian, the sumptuous baths of Caracalla, reflected from their marble
walls and stately pillars the radiance of the autumn moon. But all these
massive monuments of earthly glory rose unheeded before the two
Christian youths, as they stood silent; the elder with his right arm
round his youthful companion’s neck, and resting on his shoulder. After
a long pause, he took up the thread of his last discourse, and said, in
a softer tone: “I was going to show you, when we stepped out here, the
very spot just below our feet, where I have often fancied the triumphal
arch, to which I have alluded, would stand.[38] But who can think of
such paltry things below, with the splendid vault above us, lighted up
so brilliantly, as if on purpose to draw upwards our eyes and hearts?”
“True, Sebastian; and I have sometimes thought, that, if
[Illustration: “Hark!” said Pancratius, “these are the trumpet-notes
that summon us.”]
the under-side of that firmament up to which the eye of man, however
wretched and sinful, may look, be so beautiful and bright, what must
that upper-side be, down upon which the eye of boundless Glory deigns to
glance! I imagine it to be like a richly-embroidered veil, through the
texture of which a few points of golden thread may be allowed to pass;
and these only reach us. How transcendently royal must be that upper
surface, on which tread the lightsome feet of angels, and of the just
made perfect!”
“A graceful thought, Pancratius, and no less true. It makes the veil,
between us laboring here and the triumphal church above, thin and easily
to be passed.”
“And pardon me, Sebastian,” said the youth, with the same look up to his
friend, as a few evenings before had met his mother’s inspired gaze,
“pardon me if, while you wisely speculate upon a future arch to record
the triumph of Christianity, I see already before me, built and open,
the arch through which we, feeble as we are, may lead the Church
speedily to the triumph of glory, and ourselves to that of bliss.”
“Where, my dear boy, where do you mean?”
Pancratius pointed steadily with his hand towards the left, and said:
“There, my noble Sebastian; any of those open arches of the Flavian
amphitheatre, which lead to its arena; over which, not denser than the
outstretched canvas which shades our spectators, is that veil of which
you spoke just now. But hark!”
“That was a lion’s roar from beneath the Cœlian!” exclaimed Sebastian,
surprised. “Wild beasts must have arrived at the _vivarium_[39] of the
amphitheatre; for I know there were none there yesterday.”
“Yes, hark!” continued Pancratius, not noticing the interruption. “These
are the trumpet-notes that summon us; that is the music that must
accompany us to our triumph!”
Both paused for a time, when Pancratius again broke the silence, saying:
“This puts me in mind of a matter on which I want to take your advice,
my faithful counsellor; will your company be soon arriving?”
“Not immediately; and they will drop in one by one; till they assemble,
come into my chamber, where none will interrupt us.”
They walked along the terrace, and entered the last room of the suite.
It was at the corner of the hill, exactly opposite the fountain; and was
lighted only by the rays of the moon, streaming through the open window
on that side. The soldier stood near this, and Pancratius sat upon his
small military couch.
“What is this great affair, Pancratius,” said the officer, smiling,
“upon which you wish to have my sage opinion?”
“Quite a trifle, I dare say,” replied the youth, bashfully, “for a bold
and generous man like you; but an important one to an unskilful and weak
boy like me.”
“A good and virtuous one, I doubt not; do let me hear it; and I promise
you every assistance.”
“Well, then, Sebastian--now don’t think me foolish,” proceeded
Pancratius, hesitating and blushing at every word. “You are aware I have
a quantity of useless plate at home--mere lumber, you know, in our plain
way of living; and my dear mother, for any thing I can say, won’t wear
the lots of old-fashioned trinkets, which are lying locked up, and of no
use to any body. I have no one to whom all this should descend. I am,
and shall be, the last of my race. You have often told me, who in that
case are a Christian’s natural heirs,--the widow and the fatherless, the
helpless and the indigent. Why should these wait my death, to have what
by reversion is theirs? And if a persecution is coming, why run the
risk of confiscation seizing them, or of plundering lictors stealing
them, whenever our lives are wanted, to the utter loss of our rightful
heirs?”
“Pancratius,” said Sebastian, “I have listened without offering a remark
to your noble suggestion. I wished you to have all the merit of uttering
it yourself. Now, just tell me, what makes you doubt or hesitate about
what I know you wish to do?”
“Why, to tell the truth, I feared it might be highly presumptuous and
impertinent in one of my age to offer to do what people would be sure to
imagine was something grand or generous; while I assure you, dear
Sebastian, it is no such thing. For I shall not miss these things a bit;
they are of no value to me whatever. But they will be to the poor,
especially in the hard times coming.”
“Of course Lucina consents?”
“Oh, no fear about that! I would not touch a grain of gold-dust without
her even wishing it. But why I require your assistance is principally
this. I should never be able to stand its being known that I presumed to
do any thing considered out of the way, especially in a boy. You
understand me? So I want you, and beg of you, to get the distribution
made at some other house; and as from a--say from one who needs much the
prayers of the faithful, especially the poor, and desires to remain
unknown.”
“I will serve you with delight, my good and truly noble boy! Hush! did
you not hear the Lady Fabiola’s name just mentioned? There again, and
with an epithet expressive of no good will.”
Pancratius approached the window; two voices were conversing together so
close under them that the cornice between prevented their seeing the
speakers, evidently a woman and a man. After a few minutes they walked
out into the moonlight, almost as bright as day.
“I know that Moorish woman,” said Sebastian; “it is Fabiola’s black
slave, Afra.”
“And the man,” added Pancratius, “is my late school-fellow, Corvinus.”
They considered it their duty to catch, if possible, the thread of what
seemed a plot; but, as the speakers walked up and down, they could only
make out a sentence here and there. We will not, however, confine
ourselves to these parts, but give the entire dialogue. Only, a word
first about the interlocutors.
Of the slave we know enough for the present. Corvinus was son, as we
have said, to Tertullus, originally prefect of the Prætorium. This
office, unknown in the republic, and of imperial creation, had, from the
reign of Tiberius, gradually absorbed almost all civil as well as
military power; and he who held it often discharged the duties of chief
criminal judge in Rome. It required no little strength of nerve to
occupy this post to the satisfaction of despotic and unsparing masters.
To sit all day in a tribunal, surrounded with hideous implements of
torture, unmoved by the moans or the shrieks of old men, youths, or
women, on whom they were tried; to direct a cool interrogatory to one
stretched upon the rack, and quivering in agony on one side, while the
last sentence of beating to death with bullet-laden scourges was being
executed on the other; to sleep calmly after such scenes, and rise with
appetite for their repetition, was not an occupation to which every
member of the bar could be supposed to aspire. Tertullus had been
brought from Sicily to fill the office, not because he was a cruel, but
because he was a cold-hearted, man, not susceptible of pity or
partiality. His tribunal, however, was Corvinus’s early school; he could
sit, while quite a boy, for hours at his father’s feet, thoroughly
enjoying the cruel spectacles before him, and angry when any one got
off. He grew up sottish, coarse, and brutal; and not yet arrived at
man’s estate, his bloated and freckled countenance and blear eyes, one
of which was half closed, announced him to be already a dissolute and
dissipated character. Without taste for any thing refined, or ability
for any learning, he united in himself a certain amount of animal
courage and strength, and a considerable measure of low cunning. He had
never experienced in himself a generous feeling, and he had never curbed
an evil passion. No one had ever offended him, whom he did not hate, and
pursue with vengeance. Two, above all, he had sworn never to
forgive--the school-master who had often chastised him for his sulky
idleness, and the school-fellow who had blessed him for his brutal
contumely. Justice and mercy, good and evil done to him, were equally
odious to him.
Tertullus had no fortune to give him, and he seemed to have little
genius to make one. To become possessed of one, however, was
all-important to his mind; for wealth, as the means of gratifying his
desires, was synonymous with him to supreme felicity. A rich heiress, or
rather her dower, seemed the simplest object at which to aim. Too
awkward, shy, and stupid to make himself a way in society, he sought
other means, more kindred to his mind, for the attainment of his
ambitious or avaricious desires. What these means were, his conversation
with the black slave will best explain.
“I have come to meet you at the Meta Sudans again, for the fourth time,
at this inconvenient hour. What news have you for me?”
“None, except that after to-morrow my mistress starts for her villa at
Cajeta,[40] and of course I go with her. I shall want more money to
carry on my operations in your favor.”
“More still? You have had all I have received from my father for
months.”
“Why, do you know what Fabiola is?”
“Yes, to be sure, the richest match in Rome.”
“The haughty and cold-hearted Fabiola is not so easily to be won.”
“But yet you promised me that your charms and potions would secure me
her acceptance, or at any rate her fortune. What expense can these
things cause?”
[Illustration: The Appian Way, as it was.]
“Very great indeed. The most precious ingredients are requisite, and
must be paid for. And do you think I will go out at such an hour as this
amidst the tombs of the Appian Way, to gather my simples, without being
properly rewarded? But how do you mean to second my efforts? I have told
you this would hasten their success.”
“And how can I? You know I am not cut out by nature, or fitted by
accomplishments, to make much impression on any one’s affections. I
would rather trust to the power of your black art.”
“Then let me give you one piece of advice; if you have no grace or gift
by which you can gain Fabiola’s heart----”
“Fortune, you mean.”
“They cannot be separated;--depend upon it, there is one thing which you
may bring with you that is irresistible.”
“What is that?”
“Gold.”
“And where am I to get it? it is that I seek.”
The black slave smiled maliciously, and said:
“Why cannot you get it as Fulvius does?”
“How does he get it?”
“By blood!”
“How do you know it?”
“I have made acquaintance with an old attendant that he has, who, if not
as dark as I am in skin, fully makes up for it in his heart. His
language and mine are sufficiently allied for us to be able to converse.
He has asked me many questions about poisons, and pretended he would
purchase my liberty, and take me back home as his wife; but I have
something better than that in prospect, I trust. However, I got all that
I wanted out from him.”
“And what was that?”
“Why, that Fulvius had discovered a great conspiracy against Dioclesian;
and from the wink of the old man’s awful eye, I understood he had
hatched it first; and he has been sent with strong recommendations to
Rome to be employed in the same line.”
“But I have no ability either to make or to discover conspiracies,
though I may have to punish them.”
“One way, however, is easy.”
“What is that?”
“In my country there are large birds, which you may attempt in vain to
run down with the fleetest horses; but which, if you look about for them
quietly, are the first to betray themselves, for they only hide their
heads.”
“What do you wish to represent by this?”
“The Christians. Is there not going to be a persecution of them soon?”
“Yes, and a most fierce one; such as has never been before.”
“Then follow my advice. Do not tire yourself with hunting them down, and
catching, after all, but mean prey; keep your eyes open and look about
for one or two good fat ones, half trying to conceal themselves; pounce
upon them, get a good share of their confiscation, and come with one
good handful to get two in return.”
“Thank you, thank you; I understand you. You are not fond of these
Christians, then?”
“Fond of them? I hate the entire race. The spirits which I worship are
the deadly enemies of their very name.” And she grinned horrible a
ghastly smile as she proceeded: “I suspect one of my fellow-servants is
one. Oh, how I detest her!”
“What makes you think it?”
“In the first place, she would not tell a lie for anything, and gets us
all into dreadful scrapes by her absurd truthfulness.”
“Good! what next?”
“Then she cares not for money or gifts; and so prevents our having them
offered.”
“Better!”
“And moreover she is--” the last word died in the ear of Corvinus, who
replied:
“Well, indeed, I have to-day been out of the gate to meet a caravan of
your countryfolk coming in; but you beat them all!”
“Indeed!” exclaimed Afra with delight, “who were they?”
“Simply Africans,”[41] replied Corvinus, with a laugh: “lions, panthers,
leopards.”
“Wretch! do you insult me thus?”
“Come, come, be pacified. They are brought expressly to rid you of your
hateful Christians. Let us part friends. Here is your money. But let it
be the last; and let me know when the philtres begin to work. I will not
forget your hint about Christian money. It is quite to my taste.”
As he departed by the Sacred Way, she pretended to go along the Carinæ,
the street between the Palatine and the Cœlian mounts; then turned back,
and looking after him, exclaimed: “Fool! to think that I am going to try
experiments for you on a person of Fabiola’s character!”
She followed him at a distance; but as Sebastian, to his amazement,
thought, turned into the vestibule of the palace. He determined at once
to put Fabiola on her guard against this new plot; but this could not be
done till her return from the country.
[Illustration: Emblematic representation of Paradise, found in the
Catacombs.]
CHAPTER X.
OTHER MEETINGS.
When the two youths returned to the room by which they had entered the
apartment, they found the expected company assembled. A frugal repast
was laid upon the table, principally as a blind to any intruder who
might happen unexpectedly to enter. The assembly was large and varied,
containing clergy and laity, men and women. The purpose of the meeting
was to concert proper measures, in consequence of something which had
lately occurred in the palace. This we must briefly explain.
Sebastian, enjoying the unbounded confidence of the emperor, employed
all his influence in propagating the Christian faith within the palace.
Numerous conversions had gradually been made; but shortly before this
period there had been a wholesale one effected, the particulars of which
are recorded in the genuine Acts of this glorious soldier. In virtue of
former laws, many Christians were seized and brought to trial, which
often ended in death. Two brothers, Marcus and Marcellianus, had been so
accused, and were expecting execution; when their friends, admitted to
see them, implored them with tears to save their lives by apostasy. They
seemed to waver; they promised to deliberate. Sebastian heard of this,
and rushed to save them. He was too well known to be refused
admittance, and he entered into their gloomy prison like an angel of
light. It consisted of a strong room in the house of the magistrate to
whose care they had been intrusted. The place of confinement was
generally left to that officer; and here Tranquillinus, the father of
the two youths, had obtained a respite for them of thirty days to try to
shake their constancy; and, to second his efforts, Nicostratus, the
magistrate, had placed them in custody in his own house. Sebastian’s was
a bold and perilous office. Besides the two Christian captives, there
were gathered in the place sixteen heathen prisoners; there were the
parents of the unfortunate youths weeping over them, and caressing them,
to allure them from their threatened doom; there was the gaoler,
Claudius, and there was the magistrate, Nicostratus, with his wife, Zoë,
drawn thither by the compassionate wish of seeing the youths snatched
from their fate. Could Sebastian hope, that of this crowd not one would
be found, whom a sense of official duty, or a hope of pardon, or hatred
of Christianity, might impel to betray him, if he avowed himself a
Christian? And did he not know that such a betrayal involved his death?
[Illustration: Saint Sebastian, from the “Roma Sotteranea” of De Rossi.]
He knew it well; but what cared he? If three victims would thus be
offered to God instead of two, so much the better; all that he dreaded
was, that there should be none. The room was a banqueting-hall but
seldom opened in the day, and consequently requiring very little light;
what it had, entered only, as in the Pantheon, by an opening in the
roof; and Sebastian, anxious to be seen by all, stood in the ray which
now darted through it, strong and brilliant where it beat, but leaving
the rest of the apartment almost dark. It broke against the gold and
jewels of his rich tribune’s armor, and, as he moved, scattered itself
in sparks of brilliant hues into the darkest recesses of that gloom;
while it beamed with serene steadiness upon his uncovered head, and
displayed his noble features, softened by an emotion of tender grief, as
he looked upon the two vacillating confessors. It was some moments
before he could give vent in words to the violence of his grief, till at
length it broke forth in impassioned tones.
[Illustration: Military Tribunes, after a bas-relief on Trajan’s
Column.]
“Holy and venerable brothers,” he exclaimed, “who have borne witness to
Christ; who are imprisoned for Him; whose limbs are marked by chains
worn for His sake; who have tasted torments with Him,--I ought to fall
at your feet and do you homage, and ask your prayers; instead of
standing before you as your exhorter, still less as your reprover. Can
this be true which I have heard, that while angels were putting the last
flower to your crowns, you have bid them pause, and even thought of
telling them to unweave them, and scatter their blossoms to the winds?
Can I believe that you who have already your feet on the threshold of
Paradise, are thinking of drawing them back, to tread once more the
valley of exile and of tears?”
The two youths hung down their heads and wept in humble confession of
their weakness. Sebastian proceeded:
“You cannot meet the eye of a poor soldier like me, the least of
Christ’s servants: how then will you stand the angry glance of the Lord
whom you are about to deny before men (but cannot in your hearts deny),
on that terrible day, when He, in return, will deny you before His
angels? When, instead of standing manfully before Him, like good and
faithful servants, as to-morrow ye might have done, you shall have to
come into His presence after having crawled through a few more years of
infamy, disowned by the Church, despised by its enemies, and, what is
worse, gnawed by an undying worm, and victims of a sleepless remorse?”
“Cease; oh, in pity cease, young man, whoever thou art,” exclaimed
Tranquillinus, the father of the youths. “Speak not thus severely to my
sons; it was, I assure thee, to their mother’s tears and to my
entreaties that they had begun to yield, and not to the tortures which
they have endured with such fortitude. Why should they leave their
wretched parents to misery and sorrow? does thy religion command this,
and dost thou call it holy?”
“Wait in patience, my good old man,” said Sebastian, with the kindest
look and accent, “and let me speak first with thy sons. They know what I
mean, which thou canst not yet; but with God’s grace thou too shalt
soon. Your father, indeed, is right in saying, that for his sake and
your mother’s you have been deliberating whether you should not prefer
them to Him who told you, ‘He that loveth father or mother more than Me,
is not worthy of Me.’ You cannot hope to purchase for these your aged
parents, eternal life by your own loss of it. Will you make them
Christians by abandoning Christianity? will you make them soldiers of
the Cross by deserting its standard? will you teach them that its
doctrines are more precious than life, by preferring life to them? Do
you want to gain for them, not the mortal life of the perishable body,
but the eternal life of the soul? then hasten yourselves to its
acquisition; throw down at the feet of your Saviour the crowns you will
receive, and entreat for your parents’ salvation.”
“Enough, enough, Sebastian, we are resolved,” cried out together both
the brothers.
“Claudius,” said one, “put on me again the chains you have taken off.”
“Nicostratus,” added the other, “give orders for the sentence to be
carried out.”
Yet neither Claudius nor Nicostratus moved.
“Farewell, dear father; adieu, dearest mother,” they in turn said,
embracing their parents.
“No,” replied the father, “we part no more. Nicostratus, go tell
Chromatius that I am from this moment a Christian with my sons; I will
die with them for a religion which can make heroes thus of boys.” “And
I,” continued the mother, “will not be separated from my husband and
children.”
The scene which followed baffles description. All were moved; all wept;
the prisoners joined in the tumult of these new affections; and
Sebastian saw himself surrounded by a group of men and women smitten by
grace, softened by its influences, and subdued by its power; yet all was
lost if one remained behind. He saw the danger, not to himself, but to
the Church, if a sudden discovery were made, and to those souls
fluttering upon the confines of life. Some hung upon his arms; some
clasped his knees; some kissed his feet, as though he had been a spirit
of peace, such as visited Peter in his dungeon at Jerusalem.
Two alone had expressed no thought. Nicostratus was indeed moved, but by
no means conquered. His feelings were agitated, but his convictions
unshaken. His wife, Zoë, knelt before Sebastian with a beseeching look
and outstretched arms, but she spoke not a word.
“Come, Sebastian,” said the keeper of the records, for such was
Nicostratus’s office; “it is time for thee to depart. I cannot but
admire the sincerity of belief, and the generosity of heart, which can
make thee act as thou hast done, and which impel these young men to
death; but my duty is imperative, and must overweigh my private
feelings.”
“And dost not thou believe with the rest?”
“No, Sebastian, I yield not so easily; I must have stronger evidences
than even thy virtue.”
“Oh, speak to him then, thou!” said Sebastian to Zoë; “speak, faithful
wife; speak to thy husband’s heart; for I am mistaken indeed, if those
looks of thine tell me not that _thou_ at least believest.”
Zoë covered her face with her hands, and burst into a passion of tears.
“Thou hast touched her to the quick, Sebastian,” said her husband;
“knowest thou not that she is dumb?”
“I knew it not, noble Nicostratus; for when last I saw her in Asia she
could speak.”
“For six years,” replied the other, with a faltering voice, “her once
eloquent tongue has been paralyzed, and she has not uttered a single
word.”
Sebastian was silent for a moment; then suddenly he threw out his arms,
and stretched them forth, as the Christians always did in prayer, and
raised his eyes to heaven; then burst forth in these words:
“O God! Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the beginning of this work is
Thine; let its accomplishment be Thine alone. Put forth Thy power, for
it is needed; intrust it for once to the weakest and poorest of
instruments. Let me, though most unworthy, so wield the sword of Thy
victorious Cross, as that the spirits of darkness may fly before it, and
Thy salvation may embrace us all! Zoë, look up once more to me.”
All were hushed in silence, when Sebastian, after a moment’s silent
prayer, with his right hand made over her mouth the sign of the cross,
saying: “Zoë, speak; dost thou believe?”
“I believe in the Lord Jesus Christ,” she replied, in a clear and firm
voice, and fell upon Sebastian’s feet.
It was almost a shriek that Nicostratus uttered, as he threw himself on
his knees, and bathed Sebastian’s right hand with tears.
The victory was complete. Every one was gained; and immediate steps were
taken to prevent discovery. The person responsible for the prisoners
could take them where he wished; and Nicostratus transferred them all,
with Tranquillinus and his wife, to the full liberty of his house.
Sebastian lost no time in putting them under the care of the holy priest
Polycarp, of the title of St. Pastor. It was a case so peculiar, and
requiring such concealment, and the times were so threatening, and all
new irritations had so much to be avoided, that the instruction was
hurried, and continued night and day: so that baptism was quickly
administered.
The new Christian flock was encouraged and consoled by a fresh wonder.
Tranquillinus, who was suffering severely from the gout, was restored to
instant and complete health by baptism. Chromatius was the prefect of
the city, to whom Nicostratus was liable for his prisoners; and this
officer could not long conceal from him what had happened. It was indeed
a matter of life or death to them all; but, strengthened now by faith,
they were prepared for either. Chromatius was a man of upright
character, and not fond of persecution; and listened with interest to
the account of what had occurred. But when he heard of Tranquillinus’s
cure, he was greatly struck. He was himself a victim to the same
disease, and suffered agonies of pain. “If,” he said, “what you relate
be true, and if I can have personal experience of this healing power, I
certainly will not resist its evidence.”
Sebastian was sent for. To have administered baptism without faith
preceding, as an experiment of its healing virtue, would have been a
superstition. Sebastian took another course, which will be later
described, and Chromatius completely recovered. He received baptism soon
after, with his son Tibertius.
It was clearly impossible for him to continue in his office, and he had
accordingly resigned it to the emperor. Tertullus, the father of the
hopeful Corvinus, and prefect of the Prætorium, had been named his
successor; so the reader will perceive that the events just related from
the Acts of St. Sebastian, had occurred a little before our narrative
begins; for in an early chapter we spoke of Corvinus’s father as already
prefect of the city.
Let us now come down again to the evening in which Sebastian and
Pancratius met most of the persons above enumerated in the officer’s
chamber. Many of them resided in, or about, the palace; and besides them
were present Castulus, who held a high situation at court,[42] and his
wife Irene. Several previous meetings had been held, to decide upon some
plan for securing the completer instruction of the converts, and for
withdrawing from observation so many persons, whose change of life and
retirement from office would excite wonder and inquiry. Sebastian had
obtained permission from the emperor for Chromatius to retire to a
country-house in Campania; and it had been arranged that a considerable
number of the neophytes should join him there, and, forming one
household, should go on with religious instruction, and unite in common
offices of piety. The season was come when every body retired to the
country, and the emperor himself was going to the coast of Naples, and
thence would take a journey to southern Italy. It was therefore a
favorable moment for carrying out the preconcerted plan. Indeed the
Pope, we are told, on the Sunday following this conversion, celebrated
the divine mysteries in the house of Nicostratus, and proposed this
withdrawal from the city.
[Illustration: The Roman Forum.]
At this meeting all details were arranged; different parties were to
start, in the course of the following days, by various roads--some
direct by the Appian, some along the Latin, others round by Tibur and a
mountain road, through Arpinum; but all were to meet at the villa, not
far from Capua. Through the whole discussion of these somewhat tedious
arrangements, Torquatus, one of the former prisoners, converted by
Sebastian’s visit, showed himself forward, impatient, and impetuous. He
found fault with every plan, seemed discontented with the directions
given him, spoke almost contemptuously of this flight from danger, as he
called it; and boasted that, for his part, he was ready to go into the
Forum on the morrow, and overthrow any altar, or confront any judge, as
a Christian. Every thing was said and done to soothe, and even to cool
him; and it was felt to be most important that he should be taken with
the rest into the country. He insisted, however, upon going his own way.
Only one more point remained to be decided: it was, who should head the
little colony, and direct its operations. Here was renewed a contest of
love between the holy priest Polycarp and Sebastian; each wishing to
remain in Rome, and have the first chance of martyrdom. But now the
difference was cut short by a letter brought in, from the Pope,
addressed to his “Beloved son Polycarp, priest of the title of St.
Pastor,” in which he commanded him to accompany the converts, and leave
Sebastian to the arduous duty of encouraging confessors, and protecting
Christians in Rome. To hear was to obey; and the meeting broke up with a
prayer of thanksgiving.
Sebastian, after bidding affectionate farewell to his friends, insisted
upon accompanying Pancratius home. As they were leaving the room, the
latter remarked, “Sebastian, I do not like that Torquatus. I fear he
will give us trouble.”
“To tell the truth,” answered the soldier, “I would rather he were
different; but we must remember that he is a neophyte, and will improve
in time, and by grace.”
As they passed into the entrance-court of the palace, they heard a Babel
of uncouth sounds, with coarse laughter and occasional yells, proceeding
from the adjoining yard, in which were the quarters of the Mauritanian
archers. A fire seemed to be blazing in the midst of it, for the smoke
and sparks rose above the surrounding porticoes.
Sebastian accosted the sentinel in the court where they were, and asked:
“Friend, what is going on there among our neighbors?”
“The black slave,” he replied, “who is their priestess, and who is
betrothed to their captain, if she can purchase her freedom, has come in
for some midnight rites, and this horrid turmoil takes place every time
she comes.”
“Indeed!” said Pancratius, “and can you tell me what is the religion
these Africans follow?”
“I do not know, sir,” replied the legionary, “unless they be what are
called Christians.”
“What makes you think so?”
“Why, I have heard that the Christians meet by night, and sing
detestable songs, and commit all sorts of crimes; and cook and eat the
flesh of a child murdered for the purpose[43]--just what might seem to
be going on here.”
“Good night, comrade,” said Sebastian; and then exclaimed, as they were
issuing from the vestibule, “Is it not strange, Pancratius, that, in
spite of all our efforts, we who are conscious that we worship only the
One living God in spirit and truth, who know what care we take to keep
ourselves undefiled by sin, and who would die rather than speak an
unclean word, should yet, after 300 years, be confounded by the people
with the followers of the most degraded superstitions, and have our
worship ranked with the very idolatry, which above all things we abhor?
‘How long, O Lord! how long?’”
“So long,” said Pancratius, pausing on the steps outside the vestibule,
and looking at the now declining moon, “so long as we shall continue to
walk in this pale light, and until the Sun of Justice shall rise upon
our country in His beauty, and enrich it with His splendor. Sebastian,
tell me, whence do you best like to see the sun rise?”
“The most lovely sunrise I have ever seen,” replied the soldier, as if
humoring his companion’s fanciful question, “was from the top of the
Latial mountain,[44] by the temple of Jupiter. The sun rose behind the
mountain, and projected its huge shadow like a pyramid over the plain,
and far upon the sea; then, as it rose higher, this lessened and
withdrew; and every moment some new object caught the light, first the
galleys and skiffs upon the water, then the shore with its dancing
waves; and by degrees one white edifice after the other sparkled in the
fresh beams, till at last majestic Rome itself, with its towering
pinnacles, basked in the effulgence of day. It was a glorious sight,
indeed; such as could not have been witnessed or imagined by those
below.”
“Just what I should have expected, Sebastian,” observed Pancratius; “and
so it will be when that more brilliant sun rises fully upon this
benighted country. How beautiful will it then be to behold the shades
retiring, and each moment one and another of the charms, as yet
concealed, of our holy faith and worship starting into light, till the
imperial city itself shines forth a holy type of the city of God. Will
they who live in those times see these beauties, and worthily value
them? Or, will they look only at the narrow space around them, and hold
their hands before their eyes, to shade them from the sudden glare? I
know not, dear Sebastian, but I hope that you and I will look down upon
that grand spectacle, from where alone it can be duly appreciated, from
a mountain higher than Jupiter’s, be he Alban or be he
Olympian,--dwelling on that holy mount, whereon stands the Lamb, from
whose feet flow the streams of life.”[45]
They continued their walk in silence through the brilliantly-lighted
streets;[46] and when they had reached Lucina’s house, and had
affectionately bid one another good-night, Pancratius seemed to hesitate
a moment, and then said:
“Sebastian, you said something this evening, which I should much like to
have explained.”
“What was it?”
“When you were contending with Polycarp, about going into Campania, or
remaining in Rome, you promised that if you stayed you would be most
cautious, and not expose yourself to unnecessary risks; then you added,
that there was one purpose in your mind which would effectually restrain
you; but that when that was accomplished, you would find it difficult to
check your longing ardor to give your life for Christ.”
“And why, Pancratius, do you desire so much to know this foolish thought
of mine?”
“Because I own I am really curious to learn what can be the object high
enough to check in you the aspiration, after what I know you consider to
be the very highest of a Christian’s aim.”
“I am sorry, my dear boy, that it is not in my power to tell you now.
But you shall know it sometime.”
“Do you promise me?”
“Yes, most solemnly. God bless you!”
[Illustration: A Lamb with a Milk-can, found in the Catacomb of SS.
Peter and Marcellin.]
CHAPTER XI.
A TALK WITH THE READER.
We will take advantage of the holiday which Rome is enjoying, sending
out its inhabitants to the neighboring hills, or to the whole line of
sea-coast from Genoa to Pæstum, for amusement on land and water: and, in
a merely didactic way, endeavor to communicate to our reader some
information, which may throw light on what we have already written, and
prepare him for what will follow.
From the very compressed form in which the early history of the Church
is generally studied, and from the unchronological arrangement of the
saints’ biographies, as we usually read them, we may easily be led to an
erroneous idea of the state of our first Christian ancestors. This may
happen in two different ways.
We may come to imagine, that during the first three centuries the Church
was suffering unrespited, under active persecution; that the faithful
worshipped in fear and trembling, and almost lived in the catacombs;
that bare existence, with scarcely an opportunity for outward
development or inward organization, none for splendor, was all that
religion could enjoy; that, in fine, it was a period of conflict and of
tribulation, without an interval of peace or consolation. On the other
hand, we may suppose, that those three centuries were divided into
epochs by ten distinct persecutions, some of longer and some of shorter
duration, but definitely separated from one another by breathing times
of complete rest.
Either of these views is erroneous; and we desire to state more
accurately the real condition of the Christian Church, under the various
circumstances of that most pregnant portion of her history.
When once persecution had broken loose upon the Church, it may be said
never entirely to have relaxed its hold, till her final pacification
under Constantine. An edict of persecution once issued by an emperor was
seldom recalled; and though the rigor of its enforcement might gradually
relax or cease, through the accession of a milder ruler, still it never
became completely a dead letter, but was a dangerous weapon in the hands
of a cruel or bigoted governor of a city or province. Hence, in the
intervals between the greater general persecutions, ordered by a new
decree, we find many martyrs, who owed their crowns either to popular
fury, or to the hatred of Christianity in local rulers. Hence also we
read of a bitter persecution being carried on in one part of the empire,
while other portions enjoyed complete peace.
Perhaps a few examples of the various phases of persecution will
illustrate the real relations of the primitive Church with the State,
better than mere description; and the more learned reader can pass over
this digression, or must have the patience to hear repeated, what he is
so familiar with, that it will seem commonplace.
Trajan was by no means one of the cruel emperors; on the contrary, he
was habitually just and merciful. Yet, though he published no new edicts
against the Christians, many noble martyrs--amongst them St. Ignatius,
bishop of Antioch, at Rome, and St. Simeon at Jerusalem--glorified their
Lord in his reign. Indeed, when Pliny the younger consulted him on the
manner in which he should deal with
[Illustration: St. Ignatius, bishop of Antioch.]
Christians, who might be brought before him as governor of Bithynia, the
emperor gave him a rule which exhibits the lowest standard of justice:
that they were not to be sought out; but if accused, they were to be
punished. Adrian, who issued no decree of persecution, gave a similar
reply to a similar question from Serenius Granianus, pro-consul of Asia.
And under him, too, and even by his own orders, cruel martyrdom was
suffered by the intrepid Symphorosa and her seven sons at Tibur, or
Tivoli. A beautiful inscription found in the catacombs mentions Marius,
a young officer, who shed his blood for Christ under this emperor.[47]
Indeed, St. Justin Martyr, the great apologist of Christianity, informs
us that he owed his conversion to the constancy of the martyrs under
this emperor.
In like manner, before the Emperor Septimus Severus had published his
persecuting edicts, many Christians had suffered torments and death.
Such were the celebrated martyrs of Scillita in Africa, and SS. Perpetua
and Felicitas, with their companions; the Acts of whose martyrdom,
containing the diary of the first noble lady, twenty years of age,
brought down by herself to the eve of her death, form one of the most
touching, and exquisitely beautiful, documents preserved to us from the
ancient Church.
From these historical facts it will be evident, that while there was
from time to time a more active, severe, and general persecution of the
Christian name all through the empire, there were partial and local
cessations, and sometimes even a general suspension, of its rigor. An
occurrence of this sort has secured for us most interesting information,
connected with our subject. When the persecution of Severus had relaxed
in other parts, it happened that Scapula, pro-consul of Africa,
prolonged it in his province with unrelenting cruelty. He had condemned,
among others, Mavilus of Adrumetum to be devoured by beasts, when he was
seized with a severe illness. Tertullian, the oldest Christian Latin
writer, addressed a letter to him, in which he bids him take warning
from this visitation, and repent of his crimes; reminding him of many
judgments which had befallen cruel judges of the Christians, in various
parts of the world. Yet such was the charity of those holy men, that he
tells him they were offering up earnest prayers for their enemy’s
recovery!
He then goes on to inform him, that he may very well fulfil his duties
without practising cruelty, by acting as other magistrates had done.
For instance, Cincius Severus suggested to the accused the answers they
should make, to be acquitted. Vespronius Candidus dismissed a Christian,
on the ground that his condemnation would encourage tumults. Asper,
seeing one ready to yield upon the application of slight torments, would
not press him further; and expressed regret that such a case should have
been brought before him. Pudens, on reading an act of accusation,
declared the title informal, because calumnious, and tore it up.
We thus see how much might depend upon the temper, and perhaps the
tendencies, of governors and judges, in the enforcing even of imperial
edicts of persecution. And St. Ambrose tells us that some governors
boasted that they had brought back from their provinces their swords
unstained with blood (_incruentos enses_).
We can also easily understand how, at any particular time, a savage
persecution might rage in Gaul, or Africa, or Asia, while the main part
of the Church was enjoying peace. But Rome was undoubtedly the place
most subject to frequent outbreaks of the hostile spirit; so that it
might be considered as the privilege of its pontiffs, during the first
three centuries, to bear the witness of blood to the faith which they
taught. To be elected Pope was equivalent to being promoted to
martyrdom.
At the period of our narrative, the Church was in one of those longer
intervals of comparative peace, which gave opportunity for great
development. From the death of Valerian, in 268, there had been no new
formal persecution, though the interval is glorified by many noble
martyrdoms. During such periods, the Christians were able to carry out
their religious system with completeness, and even with splendor. The
city was divided into districts or parishes, each having its title, or
church, served by priests, deacons, and inferior ministers. The poor
were supported, the sick visited, catechumens instructed; the
Sacraments were administered, daily worship was practised, and the
penitential canons were enforced by the clergy of each title; and
collections were made for these purposes, and others connected with
religious charity, and its consequence, hospitality. It is recorded,
that in 250, during the pontificate of Cornelius, there were in Rome
forty-six priests, a hundred and fifty-four inferior ministers, who were
supported by the alms of the faithful, together with fifteen hundred
poor.[48] This number of the priests pretty nearly corresponds to that
of the titles, which St. Optatus tells us there were in Rome.
Although the tombs of the martyrs in the catacombs continued to be
objects of devotion during these more peaceful intervals, and these
asylums of the persecuted were kept in order and repair, they did not
then serve for the ordinary places of worship. The churches to which we
have already alluded were often public, large, and even splendid; and
heathens used to be present at the sermons delivered in them, and such
portions of the liturgy as were open to catechumens. But generally they
were in private houses, probably made out of the large halls, or
_triclinia_, which the nobler mansions contained. Thus we know that many
of the titles in Rome were originally of that character. Tertullian
mentions Christian cemeteries under a name, and with circumstances,
which show that they were above ground, for he compares them to
“threshing-floors,” which were necessarily exposed to the air.
A custom of ancient Roman life will remove an objection which may arise,
as to how considerable multitudes could assemble in these places without
attracting attention, and consequently persecution. It was usual for
what may be called a levée to be held every morning by the rich,
attended by dependents, or clients, and messengers from their friends,
either slaves or freedmen, some of whom were admitted into
[Illustration: The Sacrament of Penance, in the Early Ages of the
Church.]
the inner court, to the master’s presence, while others only presented
themselves, and were dismissed. Hundreds might thus go in and out of a
great house, in addition to the crowd of domestic slaves, tradespeople
and others who had access to it, through the principal or the back
entrance, and little or no notice would be taken of the circumstance.
There is another important phenomenon in the social life of the early
Christians, which one would hardly know how to believe, were not
evidence of it brought before us in the most authentic Acts of the
martyrs, and in ecclesiastical history. It is, the concealment which
they contrived to practise. No doubt can be entertained, that persons
were moving in the highest society, were occupying conspicuous public
situations, were near the persons of the emperors, who were Christians;
and yet were not suspected to be such by their most intimate heathen
friends. Nay, cases occurred where the nearest relations were kept in
total ignorance on this subject. No lie, no dissembling, no action
especially, inconsistent with Christian morality or Christian truth, was
ever permitted to ensure such secrecy. But every precaution compatible
with complete uprightness was taken to conceal Christianity from the
public eye.[49]
However necessary this prudential course might be, to prevent any wanton
persecution, its consequences fell often heavily upon those who held it.
The heathen world, the world of power, of influence, and of state, the
world which made laws as best suited it, and executed them, the world
that loved earthly prosperity and hated faith, felt itself surrounded,
filled, compenetrated by a mysterious system, which spread, no one could
see how, and exercised an influence derived no one knew whence. Families
were startled at finding a son or daughter to have embraced this new
law, with which they were not aware that they had been in contact, and
which, in their heated fancies and popular views, they considered
stupid, grovelling, and anti-social. Hence the hatred of Christianity
was political as well as religious; the system was considered as
un-Roman, as having an interest opposed to the extension and prosperity
of the empire, and as obeying an unseen and spiritual power. The
Christians were pronounced _irreligiosi in Cæsares_, “disloyal to the
emperors,” and that was enough. Hence their security and peace depended
much upon the state of popular feeling; when any demagogue or fanatic
could succeed in rousing this, neither their denial of the charges
brought against them, nor their peaceful demeanor, nor the claims of
civilized life, could suffice to screen them from such measure of
persecution as could be safely urged against them.
After these digressive remarks, we will resume, and unite again the
broken thread of our narrative.
[Illustration: A Monogram of Christ.]
CHAPTER XII.
THE WOLF AND THE FOX.
The hints of the African slave had not been thrown away upon the sordid
mind of Corvinus. Her own hatred of Christianity arose from the
circumstance, that a former mistress of hers had become a Christian and
had manumitted all her other slaves; but, feeling it wrong to turn so
dangerous a character as Afra, or rather Jubala (her proper name), upon
the world, had transferred her to another proprietor.
Corvinus had often seen Fulvius at the baths and other places of public
resort, had admired and envied him, for his appearance, his dress, his
conversation. But with his untoward shyness, or moroseness, he could
never have found courage to address him, had he not now discovered, that
though a more refined, he was not a less profound, villain than himself.
Fulvius’s wit and cleverness might supply the want of these qualities in
his own sottish composition, while his own brute force, and unfeeling
recklessness, might be valuable auxiliaries to those higher gifts. He
had the young stranger in his power, by the discovery which he had made
of his real character. He determined, therefore, to make an effort, and
enter into alliance with one who otherwise might prove a dangerous
rival.
It was about ten days after the meeting last described, that Corvinus
went to stroll in Pompey’s gardens. These covered the space round his
theatre, in the neighborhood of the present Piazza Farnese. A
conflagration in the reign of Carinus had lately destroyed the scene, as
it was called, of the edifice, and Dioclesian had repaired it with great
magnificence. The gardens were distinguished from others by rows of
plane-trees, which formed a delicious shade. Statues of wild beasts,
fountains, and artificial brooks, profusely adorned them. While
sauntering about, Corvinus caught a sight of Fulvius, and made up to
him.
[Illustration: Roman Gardens, from an old painting.]
“What do you want with me?” asked the foreigner, with a look of surprise
and scorn at the slovenly dress of Corvinus.
“To have a talk with you, which may turn out to your advantage--and
mine.”
“What can you propose to me, with the first of these recommendations? No
doubt at all as to the second.”
“Fulvius, I am a plain-spoken man, and have no pretensions to your
cleverness and elegance; but we are both of one trade, and both
consequently of one mind.”
Fulvius started, and deeply colored; then said, with a contemptuous air,
“What do you mean, sirrah?”
“If you double your fist,” rejoined Corvinus, “to show me the fine rings
on your delicate fingers, it is very well. But if you mean to threaten
by it, you may as well put your hand again into the folds of your toga.
It is more graceful.”
“Cut this matter short, sir. Again I ask, what do you mean?”
“This, Fulvius,” and he whispered into his ear, “that you are a spy and
an informer.”
Fulvius was staggered; then rallying, said, “What right have you to make
such an odious charge against me?”
“You _discovered_” (with a strong emphasis) “a conspiracy in the East,
and Dioclesian--”
Fulvius stopped him, and asked, “What is your name, and who are you?”
“I am Corvinus, the son of Tertullus, prefect of the city.”
This seemed to account for all; and Fulvius said, in subdued tones, “No
more here; I see friends coming. Meet me disguised at daybreak to-morrow
in the Patrician Street,[50] under the portico of the Baths of Novatus.
We will talk more at leisure.”
Corvinus returned home, not ill-satisfied with his first attempt at
diplomacy; he procured a garment shabbier than his own from one of his
father’s slaves, and was at the appointed spot by the first dawn of day.
He had to wait a long time, and had almost lost patience, when he saw
his new friend approach.
Fulvius was well wrapped up in a large overcoat, and wore its hood over
his face. He thus saluted Corvinus:
“Good morning, comrade; I fear I have kept you waiting in the cold
morning air, especially as you are thinly clad.”
“I own,” replied Corvinus, “that I should have been tired, had I not
been immensely amused and yet puzzled, by what I have been observing.”
“What is that?”
“Why, from an early hour, long, I suspect, before my coming, there have
been arriving here from every side, and entering into that house, by the
back door in the narrow street, the rarest collection of miserable
objects that you ever saw; the blind, the lame, the maimed, the
decrepit, the deformed of every possible shape; while by the front door
several persons have entered, evidently of a different class.”
“Whose dwelling is it, do you know? It looks a large old house, but
rather out of condition.”
“It belongs to a very rich, and, it is said, very miserly old patrician.
But look! there come some more.”
At that moment a very feeble man, bent down by age, was approaching,
supported by a young and cheerful girl, who chatted most kindly to him
as she supported him.
“We are just there,” she said to him; “a few more steps, and you shall
sit down and rest.”
“Thank you, my child,” replied the poor old man, “how kind of you to
come for me so early!”
“I knew,” she said, “you would want help; and as I am the most useless
person about, I thought I would go and fetch you.”
“I have always heard that blind people are selfish, and it seems but
natural; but you, Cæcilia, are certainly an exception.”
“Not at all; this is only _my_ way of showing selfishness.”
“How do you mean?”
“Why, first, I get the advantage of your eyes, and then I get the
satisfaction of supporting you. ‘I was an eye to the blind,’ that is
you; and ‘a foot to the lame,’ that is myself.”[51]
They reached the door as she spoke these words.
“That girl is blind,” said Fulvius to Corvinus. “Do you not see how
straight she walks, without looking right or left?”
“So she is,” answered the other. “Surely this is not the place so often
spoken of, where beggars meet, and the blind see, and the lame walk,
and all feast together? But yet I observed these people were so
different from the mendicants on the Arician bridge.[52] They appeared
respectable and even cheerful; and not one asked me for alms as he
passed.”
“It is very strange; and I should like to discover the mystery. A good
job might, perhaps, be got out of it. The old patrician, you say, is
very rich?”
“Immensely!”
“Humph! How could one manage to get in?”
“I have it! I will take off my shoes, screw up one leg like a cripple,
and join the next group of queer ones that come, and go boldly in, doing
as they do.”
“That will hardly succeed; depend upon it every one of these people is
known at the house.”
“I am sure not, for several of them asked me if this was the house of
the Lady Agnes.”
“Of whom?” asked Fulvius, with a start.
“Why do you look so?” said Corvinus. “It is the house of her parents:
but she is better known than they, as being a young heiress, nearly as
rich as her cousin Fabiola.”
Fulvius paused for a moment; a strong suspicion, too subtle and
important to be communicated to his rude companion, flashed through his
mind. He said, therefore, to Corvinus:
“If you are sure that these people are not familiar at the house, try
your plan. I have met the lady before, and will venture by the front
door. Thus we shall have a double chance.”
“Do you know what I am thinking, Fulvius?”
“Something very bright, no doubt.”
“That when you and I join in any enterprise, we shall _always_ have two
chances.”
“What are they?”
“The fox’s and the wolf’s, when they conspire to rob a fold.”
Fulvius cast on him a look of disdain, which Corvinus returned by a
hideous leer; and they separated for their respective posts.
[Illustration: A Lamp, with the Monogram of Christ.]
CHAPTER XIII.
CHARITY.
As we do not choose to enter the house of Agnes, either with the wolf or
with the fox, we will take a more spiritual mode of doing so, and find
ourselves at once inside.
The parents of Agnes represented noble lines of ancestry, and her family
was not one of recent conversion, but had for several generations
professed the faith. As in heathen families was cherished the memory of
ancestors who had won a triumph, or held high offices in the state, so
in this, and other Christian houses, was preserved with pious reverence
and affectionate pride, the remembrance of those relations who had, in
the last hundred and fifty years or more, borne the palm of martyrdom,
or occupied the sublimer dignities of the Church. But, though ennobled
thus, and with a constant stream of blood poured forth for Christ,
accompanying the waving branches of the family-tree, the stem had never
been hewn down, but had survived repeated storms. This may appear
surprising; but when we reflect how many a soldier goes through a whole
campaign of frequent actions and does not receive a wound; or how many a
family remains untainted through a plague, we cannot be surprised if
Providence watched over the well-being of the Church, by preserving in
it, through old family successions, long unbroken chains of tradition,
and so enabling the faithful to say: “Unless the Lord of Hosts had left
us seed, we had been as Sodom, and we should have been like to
Gomorrha.”[53]
All the honors and the hopes of this family centred now in one, whose
name is already known to our readers, Agnes, the only child of that
ancient house. Given to her parents as they had reached the very verge
of hope that their line could be continued, she had been from infancy
blest with such a sweetness of disposition, such a docility and
intelligence of mind, and such simplicity and innocence of character,
that she had grown up the common object of love, and almost of
reverence, to the entire house, from her parents down to the lowest
servant. Yet nothing seemed to spoil, or warp, the compact virtuousness
of her nature; but her good qualities expanded, with a well-balanced
adjustment, which at the early age in which we find her, had ripened
into combined grace and wisdom. She shared all her parents’ virtuous
thoughts, and cared as little for the world as they. She lived with them
in a small portion of the mansion, which was fitted up with elegance,
though not with luxury; and their establishment was adequate to all
their wants. Here they received the few friends with whom they preserved
familiar relations; though, as they did not entertain, nor go out, these
were few. Fabiola was an occasional visitor, though Agnes preferred
going to see her at her house; and she often expressed to her young
friend her longing for the day, when, meeting with a suitable match, she
would re-embellish and open all the splendid dwelling. For,
notwithstanding the Voconian law “on the inheritance of women,”[54] now
quite obsolete, Agnes had received, from collateral sources, large
personal additions to the family property.
In general, of course, the heathen world, who visited, attributed
appearances to avarice, and calculated what immense accumulations of
wealth the miserly parents must be putting by; and concluded that all
beyond the solid screen which shut up the second court, was left to fall
into decay and ruin.
It was not so, however. The inner part of the house, consisting of a
large court, and the garden, with a detached dining-hall, or triclinium,
turned into a church, and the upper portion of the house, accessible
from those parts, were devoted to the administration of that copious
charity, which the Church carried on as a _business_ of its life. It was
under the care and direction of the deacon Reparatus, and his exorcist
Secundus, officially appointed by the supreme Pontiff to take care of
the sick, poor, and strangers, in one of the seven regions into which
Pope Cajus, about five years before, had divided the city for this
purpose; committing each region to one of the seven deacons of the Roman
Church.
[Illustration: A deacon, from De Rossi’s “Roma Sotteranea.”]
Rooms were set apart for lodging strangers who came from a distance,
recommended by other churches; and a frugal table was provided for them.
Upstairs were apartments for an hospital for the bed-ridden, the
decrepit, and the sick, under the care of the deaconesses, and such of
the faithful as loved to assist in this work of charity. It was here
that the blind girl had her cell, though she refused to take her food,
as we have seen, in the house. The _tablinum_, or muniment-room, which
generally stood detached in the middle of the passage between the inner
courts, served as the office and archives for transacting the business
of this charitable establishment, and preserving all local documents,
such as the acts of martyrs, procured or compiled by the one of the
seven notaries kept for that purpose, by institution of St. Clement I.,
who was attached to that region.
A door of communication allowed the household to assist in these works
of charity; and Agnes had been accustomed from childhood to run in and
out, many times a day, and to pass hours there; always beaming, like an
angel of light, consolation and joy on the suffering and distressed.
This house, then, might be called the almonry of the region, or
district, of charity and hospitality in which it was situated, and it
was accessible for these purposes through the _posticum_ or back door,
situated in a narrow lane little frequented. No wonder that with such an
establishment, the fortune of the inmates should find an easy
application.
We heard Pancratius request Sebastian, to arrange for the distribution
of his plate and jewels among the poor, without its being known to whom
they belonged. He had not lost sight of the commission, and had fixed on
the house of Agnes as the fittest for this purpose. On the morning which
we have described the distribution had to take place; other regions had
sent their poor, accompanied by their deacons; while Sebastian,
Pancratius, and other persons of higher rank had come in through the
front door, to assist in the division. Some of these had been seen to
enter by Corvinus.
[Illustration: A Fish carrying Bread and Wine, from the Cemetery of St.
Lucina.]
CHAPTER XIV.
EXTREMES MEET.
A group of poor coming opportunely towards the door, enabled Corvinus to
tack himself to them,--an admirable counterfeit, in all but the modesty
of their deportment. He kept sufficiently close to them to hear that
each of them, as he entered in, pronounced the words, “_Deo gratias_,”
“Thanks be to God.” This was not merely a Christian, but a Catholic
pass-word; for St. Augustine tells us that heretics ridiculed Catholics
for using it, on the ground that it was not a salutation but rather a
reply; but that Catholics employed it, because consecrated by pious
usage. It is yet heard in Italy on similar occasions.
Corvinus pronounced the mystic words, and was allowed to pass. Following
the others closely, and copying their manners and gestures, he found
himself in the inner court of the house, which was already filled with
the poor and infirm. The men were ranged on one side, the women on the
other. Under the portico at the end were tables piled with costly plate,
and near them was another covered with brilliant jewelry. Two silver and
goldsmiths were weighing and valuing most conscientiously this property;
and beside them was the money which they would give, to be distributed
amongst the poor, in just proportion.
Corvinus eyed all this with a gluttonous heart. He would have given
anything to get it all, and almost thought of making a dash at
something, and running out. But he saw at once the folly or madness of
such a course, and resolved to wait for a share, and in the meantime
take note for Fulvius of all he saw. He soon, however, became aware of
the awkwardness of his present position. While the poor were all mixed
up together and moving about, he remained unnoticed. But he soon saw
several young men of peculiarly gentle manners, but active, and
evidently in authority, dressed in the garment known to him by the name
of Dalmatic, from its Dalmatian origin; that is, having over the tunic,
instead of the toga, a close-fitting shorter tunicle, with ample, but
not over long or wide sleeves; the dress adopted and worn by the
deacons, not only at their more solemn ministrations in church, but also
when engaged in the discharge of their secondary duties about the sick
and poor.
These officers went on marshalling the attendants, each evidently
knowing those of his own district, and conducting them to a peculiar
spot within the porticoes. But as no one recognized or claimed Corvinus
for one of his poor, he was at length left alone in the middle of the
court. Even his dull mind could feel the anomalous situation into which
he had thrust himself. Here he was, the son of the prefect of the city,
whose duty it was to punish such violators of domestic rights, an
intruder into the innermost parts of a nobleman’s house, having entered
by a cheat, dressed like a beggar, and associating himself with such
people, of course for some sinister, or at least unlawful, purpose. He
looked towards the door, meditating an escape; but he saw it guarded by
an old man named Diogenes and his two stout sons, who could hardly
restrain their hot blood at this insolence, though they only showed it
by scowling looks, and repressive biting of their lips. He saw that he
was a subject of consultation among the young deacons, who cast
occasional glances towards him; he imagined that even the blind were
staring at him, and the decrepit ready to wield their crutches like
battle-axes against him. He had only one consolation; it was evident he
was not known, and he hoped to frame some excuse for getting out of the
scrape.
At length the Deacon Reparatus came up to him, and thus courteously
accosted him:
“Friend, you probably do not belong to one of the regions invited here
to-day. Where do you live?”
“In the region of the Alta Semita.”[55]
This answer gave the civil, not the ecclesiastical, division of Rome;
still Reparatus went on: “The Alta Semita is in my region, yet I do not
remember to have seen you.”
While he spoke these words, he was astonished to see the stranger turn
deadly pale, and totter as if about to fall, while his eyes were fixed
upon the door of communication with the dwelling-house. Reparatus looked
in the same direction, and saw Pancratius, just entered, and gathering
some hasty information from Secundus. Corvinus’s last hope was gone. He
stood the next moment confronted with the youth (who asked Reparatus to
retire), much in the same position as they had last met in, only that,
instead of a circle round him of applauders and backers, he was here
hemmed in on all sides by a multitude who evidently looked with
preference upon his rival. Nor could Corvinus help observing the
graceful development and manly bearing, which a few weeks had given his
late school-mate. He expected a volley of keen reproach, and, perhaps,
such chastisement as he would himself have inflicted in similar
circumstances. What was his amazement when Pancratius thus addressed him
in the mildest tone:
“Corvinus, are you really reduced to distress and lamed by some
accident? Or how have you left your father’s house?”
“Not quite come to that yet, I hope,” replied the bully, encouraged to
insolence by the gentle address, “though, no doubt, you would be
heartily glad to see it.”
“By no means, I assure you; I hold you no grudge. If, therefore, you
require relief, tell me; and though it is not right that you should be
here, I can take you into a private chamber where you can receive it
unknown.”
“Then I will tell you the truth: I came in here merely for a freak; and
I should be glad if you could get me quietly out.”
“Corvinus,” said the youth, with some sternness, “this is a serious
offence. What would your father say, if I desired these young men, who
would instantly obey, to take you as you are, barefoot, clothed as a
slave, counterfeiting a cripple, into the Forum before his tribunal, and
publicly charge you with what every Roman would resent, forcing your way
into the heart of a patrician’s house?”
“For the gods’ sakes, good Pancratius, do not inflict such frightful
punishment.”
“You know, Corvinus, that your own father would be obliged to act
towards you the part of Junius Brutus, or forfeit his office.”
“I entreat you by all that you love, by all that you hold sacred, not to
dishonor me and mine so cruelly. My father and his house, not I, would
be crushed and ruined for ever. I will go on my knees and beg your
pardon for my former injuries, if you will only be merciful.”
“Hold, hold, Corvinus, I have told you that was long forgotten. But hear
me now. Every one but the blind around you is a witness to this outrage.
There will be a hundred evidences to prove it. If ever, then, you speak
of this assembly, still more if you attempt to molest any one for it, we
shall have it in our power to bring you to trial at your own father’s
judgment-seat. Do you understand me, Corvinus?”
“I do, indeed,” replied the captive in a whining tone. “Never, as long
as I live, will I breathe to mortal soul that I came into this dreadful
place. I swear it by the--”
“Hush, hush! we want no such oaths here. Take my arm, and walk with me.”
Then turning to the others, he continued: “I know this person; his
coming here is quite a mistake.”
The spectators, who had taken the wretch’s supplicating gestures and
tone for accompaniments to a tale of woe, and strong application for
relief, joined in crying out, “Pancratius, you will not send him away
fasting and unsuccored?”
“Leave that to me,” was the reply. The self-appointed porters gave way
before Pancratius, who led Corvinus, still pretending to limp, into the
street, and dismissed him, saying: “Corvinus, we are now quits; only,
take care of your promise.”
Fulvius, as we have seen, went to try his fortune by the front door. He
found it, according to Roman custom, unlocked; and, indeed, no one could
have suspected the possibility of a stranger entering at such an hour.
Instead of a porter, he found, guarding the door, only a simple-looking
girl about twelve or thirteen years of age, clad in a peasant’s garment.
No one else was near; and he thought it an excellent opportunity to
verify the strong suspicion which had crossed his mind. Accordingly, he
thus addressed the little portress:
“What is your name, child, and who are you?”
“I am,” she replied, “Emerentiana, the Lady Agnes’s foster-sister.”
“Are you a Christian?” he asked her sharply.
The poor little peasant opened her eyes in the amazement of ignorance,
and replied: “No, sir.” It was impossible to resist the evidence of her
simplicity; and Fulvius was satisfied that he was mistaken. The fact
was, that she was the daughter of a peasant who had been Agnes’s nurse.
The mother had just died, and her kind sister had sent for the orphan
daughter, intending to have her instructed and baptized. She had only
arrived a day or two before, and was yet totally ignorant of
Christianity.
Fulvius stood embarrassed what to do next. Solitude made him feel as
awkwardly situated, as a crowd was making Corvinus. He thought of
retreating, but this would have destroyed all his hopes; he was going to
advance, when he reflected that he might commit himself unpleasantly. At
this critical juncture, whom should he see coming lightly across the
court, but the youthful mistress of the house, all joy, all spring, all
brightness and sunshine. As soon as she saw him, she stood, as if to
receive his errand, and he approached with his blandest smile and most
courtly gesture, and thus addressed her:
“I have anticipated the usual hour at which visitors come, and, I fear,
must appear an intruder, Lady Agnes; but I was impatient to inscribe
myself as an humble client of your noble house.”
“Our house,” she replied, smiling, “boasts of no clients, nor do we seek
them; for we have no pretensions to influence or power.”
“Pardon me; with such a ruler, it possesses the highest of influences
and the mightiest of powers, those which reign, without effort, over the
heart as a most willing subject.”
Incapable of imagining that such words could allude to herself, she
replied, with artless simplicity:
“Oh, how true are your words! the Lord of this house is indeed the
sovereign over the affections of all within it.”
“But I,” interposed Fulvius, “allude to that softer and benigner
dominion, which graceful charms alone can exercise on those who from
near behold them.”
Agnes looked as one entranced; her eyes beheld a very different image
before them from that of her wretched flatterer; and with an impassioned
glance towards heaven, she exclaimed:
“Yes, He whose beauty sun and moon in their lofty firmament gaze on and
admire, to Him is pledged my service and my love.”[56]
Fulvius was confounded and perplexed. The inspired look, the rapturous
attitude, the music of the thrilling tones in which she uttered these
words, their mysterious import, the strangeness of the whole scene,
fastened him to the spot, and sealed his lips; till, feeling that he was
losing the most favorable opportunity he could ever expect of opening
his mind (affection it could not be called) to her, he boldly said, “It
is of you I am speaking; and I entreat you to believe my expression of
sincerest admiration of you, and of unbounded attachment to you.” As he
uttered these words, he dropt on his knee, and attempted to take her
hand; but the maiden bounded back with a shudder, and turned away her
burning countenance.
Fulvius started in an instant to his feet; for he saw Sebastian, who was
come to summon Agnes to the poor, impatient of her absence, striding
forward towards him, with an air of indignation.
“Sebastian,” said Agnes to him, as he approached, “be not angry; this
gentleman has probably entered here by some unintentional mistake, and
no doubt will quietly retire.” Saying this, she withdrew.
Sebastian, with his calm but energetic manner, now addressed the
intruder, who quailed beneath his look, “Fulvius, what do you here? what
business has brought you?”
“I suppose,” answered he, regaining courage, “that having met the lady
of the house at the same place with you, her noble cousin’s table, I
have a right to wait upon her, in common with other voluntary clients.”
“But not at so unreasonable an hour as this, I presume?”
“The hour that is not unreasonable for a young officer,” retorted
Fulvius insolently, “is not, I trust, so for a civilian.”
Sebastian had to use all his power of self-control to check his
indignation, as he replied:
“Fulvius, be not rash in what you say; but remember that two persons may
be on a very different footing in a house. Yet not even the longest
familiarity, still less a one dinner’s acquaintance, can authorize or
justify the audacity of your bearing towards the young mistress of this
house, a few moments ago.”
“Oh, you are jealous, I suppose, brave captain!” replied Fulvius, with
his most refined sarcastic tone. “Report says that you are the
acceptable, if not accepted, candidate for Fabiola’s hand. She is now in
the country; and, no doubt, you wish to make sure for yourself of the
fortune of one or the other of Rome’s richest heiresses. There is
nothing like having two strings to one’s bow.”
This coarse and bitter sarcasm wounded the noble officer’s best feelings
to the quick; and had he not long before disciplined himself to
Christian meekness, his blood would have proved too powerful for his
reason.
“It is not good for either of us, Fulvius, that you remain longer here.
The courteous dismissal of the noble lady whom you have insulted has not
sufficed; I must be the ruder executor of her command.” Saying this, he
took the unbidden guest’s arm in his powerful grasp, and conducted him
to the door. When he had put him outside, still holding him fast, he
added: “Go now, Fulvius, in peace; and remember that you have this day
made yourself amenable to the laws of the state by this unworthy
conduct. I will spare you, if you know how to keep your own counsel;
but it is well that you should know, that I am acquainted with your
occupation in Rome; and that I hold this morning’s insolence over your
head, as a security that you will follow it discreetly. Now, again I
say, go in peace.”
But he had no sooner let go his grasp, than he felt himself seized from
behind by an unseen, but evidently an athletic, assailant. It was
Eurotas, from whom Fulvius durst conceal nothing, and to whom he had
confided the intended interview with Corvinus, that had followed and
watched him. From the black slave he had before learnt the mean and
coarse character of this client of her magical arts; and he feared some
trap. When he saw the seeming struggle at the door, he ran stealthily
behind Sebastian, who, he fancied, must be his pupil’s new ally, and
pounced upon him with a bear’s rude assault. But he had no common rival
to deal with. He attempted in vain, though now helped by Fulvius, to
throw the soldier heavily down; till, despairing of success in this way,
he detached from his girdle a small but deadly weapon, a steel mace of
finished Syrian make, and was raising it over the back of Sebastian’s
head, when he felt it wrenched in a trice from his hand, and himself
twirled two or three times round, in an iron gripe, and flung flat in
the middle of the street.
“I am afraid you have hurt the poor fellow, Quadratus,” said Sebastian
to his centurion, who was coming up at that moment to join his
fellow-Christians, and was of most Herculean make and strength.
“He well deserves it, tribune, for his cowardly assault,” replied the
other, as they re-entered the house.
The two foreigners, crest-fallen, slunk away from the scene of their
defeat; and as they turned the corner, caught a glimpse of Corvinus, no
longer limping, but running as fast as his legs would carry him, from
his discomfiture at the back-door. However often they may have met
afterwards, neither ever alluded to their feats of that morning. Each
knew that the other had incurred only failure and shame; and they came
both to the conclusion, that there was one fold at least in Rome, which
either fox or wolf would assail in vain.
[Illustration: A wall painting from the Cemetery of St. Priscilla.]
CHAPTER XV.
CHARITY RETURNS.
When calm had been restored, after this twofold disturbance, the work of
the day went quietly on. Besides the distribution of greater alms, such
as was made by St. Laurence, from the Church, it was by no means so
uncommon in early ages, for fortunes to be given away at once, by those
who wished to retire from the world.[57] Indeed we should naturally
expect to find that the noble charity of the Apostolic Church at
Jerusalem would not be a barren example to that of Rome. But this
extraordinary charity would be most naturally suggested at periods when
the Church was threatened with persecution; and when Christians, who
from position and circumstances might look forward to martyrdom, would,
to use a homely phrase, clear their hearts and houses for action, by
removing from both whatever could attach themselves to earth, and become
the spoil of the impious soldier, instead of having been made the
inheritance of the poor.[58]
Nor would the great principles be forgotten, of making the light of
good works to shine before men, while the hand which filled the lamp,
poured in its oil in the secret, which only He who seeth in secret can
penetrate. The plate and jewels of a noble family publicly valued, sold,
and, in their price, distributed to the poor, must have been a bright
example of charity, which consoled the Church, animated the generous,
shamed the avaricious, touched the heart of the catechumen, and drew
blessings and prayers from the lips of the poor. And yet the individual
right hand that gave them remained closely shrouded from the scrutiny or
consciousness of the left; and the humility and modesty of the noble
giver remained concealed in His bosom, into which these earthly
treasures were laid up, to be returned with boundless and eternal usury.
And such was the case in the instance before us. When all was prepared,
Dionysius the priest, who at the same time was the physician to whom the
care of the sick was committed, and who had succeeded Polycarp in the
title of St. Pastor, made his appearance, and seated in a chair at one
end of the court, thus addressed the assembly:
“Dear brethren, our merciful God has touched the heart of some
charitable brother, to have compassion on his poorer brethren, and strip
himself of much worldly possession, for Christ’s sake. Who he is I know
not; nor would I seek to know. He is some one who loves not to have his
treasures where rust consumes, and thieves break in and steal, but
prefers, like the blessed Laurence, that they should be borne up, by the
hands of Christ’s poor, into the heavenly treasury.
“Accept then, as a gift from God, who has inspired this charity, the
distribution which is about to be made, and which may be a useful help,
in the days of tribulation which are preparing for us. And as the only
return which is desired from you, join all in that familiar prayer which
we daily recite for those who give, or do us good.”
During this brief address poor Pancratius knew not which
[Illustration: St. Laurence displaying his Treasures.]
way to look. He had shrunk into a corner behind the assistants, and
Sebastian had compassionately stood before him, making himself as large
as possible. And his emotion did all but betray him, when the whole of
that assembly knelt down, and with outstretched hands, uplifted eyes,
and fervent tone, cried out, as if with one voice:
“_Retribuere dignare, Domine, omnibus nobis bona facientibus, propter
Nomen tuum, vitam æternam. Amen._”[59]
The alms were then distributed, and they proved unexpectedly large.
Abundant food was also served out to all, and a cheerful banquet closed
the edifying scene. It was yet early: indeed many partook not of food,
as a still more delicious, and spiritual, feast was about to be prepared
for them in the neighboring titular church.
When all was over, Cæcilia insisted upon _seeing_ her poor old cripple
safe home, and upon carrying for him his heavy canvas purse; and chatted
so cheerfully to him that he was surprised when he found they had
reached the door of his poor but clean lodging. His blind guide then
thrust his purse into his hand, and giving him a hurried good day,
tripped away most lightly, and was soon lost to his sight. The bag
seemed uncommonly full; so he counted carefully its contents, and found,
to his amazement, that he had a double portion. He tried again, and
still it was so. At the first opportunity, he made inquiries from
Reparatus, but could get no explanation. If he had seen Cæcilia, when
she had turned the corner, laugh outright, as if she had been playing
some one a good trick, and running as lightly as if she had nothing
heavy about her, he might have discovered a solution of the problem of
his wealth.
CHAPTER XVI.
THE MONTH OF OCTOBER.
The month of October in Italy is certainly a glorious season. The sun
has contracted his heat, but not his splendor; he is less scorching, but
not less bright. As he rises in the morning, he dashes sparks of
radiance over awakening nature, as an Indian prince, upon entering his
presence chamber, flings handfuls of gems and gold into the crowd; and
the mountains seem to stretch forth their rocky heads, and the woods to
wave their lofty arms, in eagerness to catch his royal largess. And
after careering through a cloudless sky, when he reaches his goal and
finds his bed spread with molten gold on the western sea, and canopied
above with purple clouds, edged with burnished yet airy fringes, more
brilliant than Ophir supplied to the couch of Solomon, he expands
himself into a huge disk of most benignant effulgence, as if to bid
farewell to his past course; but soon sends back, after disappearing,
radiant messengers from the world he is visiting and cheering, to remind
us he will soon come back, and gladden us again. If less powerful, his
ray is certainly richer and more active. It has taken months to draw out
of the sapless, shrivelled vine-stem, first green leaves, then crisp
slender tendrils, and last little clusters of hard sour berries; and the
growth has been provokingly slow. But now the leaves are large and
mantling, and worthy in vine-countries to have a name of their own;[60]
and the separated little knots have swelled up into luxurious bunches of
grapes. And of these some are already assuming their bright amber tint,
while those which are to glow in rich imperial purple, are passing
rapidly to it, through a changing opal hue, scarcely less beautiful.
It is pleasant then to sit in a shady spot, on a hill-side, and look
ever and anon, from one’s book, over the varied and varying landscape.
For, as the breeze sweeps over the olives on the hill-side, and turns
over their leaves, it brings out from them light and shade, for their
two sides vary in sober tint; and as the sun shines, or the cloud
darkens, on the vineyards, in the rounded hollows between, the brilliant
web of unstirring vine-leaves displays a yellower or browner shade of
its delicious green. Then, mingle with these the innumerable other
colors that tinge the picture, from the dark cypress, the duller ilex,
the rich chestnut, the reddening orchard, the adust stubble, the
melancholy pine--to Italy what the palm-tree is to the East--towering
above the box, and the arbutus, and laurels of villas, and these
scattered all over the mountain, hill, and plain, with fountains leaping
up, and cascades gliding down, porticoes of glittering marble, statues
of bronze and stone, painted fronts of rustic dwellings, with flowers
innumerable, and patches of greensward; and you have a faint idea of the
attractions which, for this month, as in our days, used to draw out the
Roman patrician and knight, from what Horace calls the clatter and smoke
of Rome, to feast his eyes upon the calmer beauties of the country.
And so, as the happy month approached, villas were seen open to let in
air; and innumerable slaves were busy, dusting and scouring, trimming
the hedges into fantastic shapes, clearing the canals for the artificial
brooklets, and plucking up the weeds from the gravel-walks. The
_villicus_ or country steward superintends all; and with sharp word, or
sharper lash, makes many suffer, that perhaps one only may enjoy.
At last the dusty roads become encumbered with every species of vehicle,
from the huge wain carrying furniture, and slowly drawn by oxen, to the
light chariot or gig, dashing on behind spirited barbs; and as the best
roads were narrow, and the drivers of other days were not more
smooth-tongued than those of ours, we may imagine what confusion and
noise and squabbling filled the public ways. Nor was there a favored one
among these. Sabine, Tusculan, and Alban hills were all studded over
with splendid villas, or humbler cottages, such as a Mæcenas or a Horace
might respectively occupy; even the flat Campagna of Rome is covered
with the ruins of immense country residences; while from the mouth of
the Tiber, along the coast of Laurentum, Lanuvium, and Antium, and so on
to Cajeta, Bajæ, and other fashionable watering-places round Vesuvius, a
street of noble residences may be said to have run. Nor were these
limits sufficient to satisfy the periodical fever for rustication in
Rome. The borders of Benacus (now the Lago Maggiore, north of Milan),
Como, and the beautiful banks of the Brenta, received their visitors not
from neighboring cities only, still less from wanderers of Germanic
origin, but rather from the inhabitants of the imperial capital.
It was to one of these “tender eyes of Italy,” as Pliny calls its
villas,[61] because forming its truest beauty, that Fabiola had
hastened, before the rush on the road, the day after her black slave’s
interview with Corvinus. It was situated on the slope of the hill which
descends to the bay of Gaeta, and was remarkable, like her house, for
the good taste which arranged the most costly, though not luxurious,
elements of comfort. From the terrace in front of the elegant villa
could be seen the calm azure bay, embowered in the richest of shores,
like a mirror in an embossed and enamelled frame, relieved by the white
sun-lit sails of yachts, galleys, pleasure-boats, and fishing-skiffs;
from some of which rose the roaring laugh of excursionists, from others
the song or harp-notes of family parties, or the loud, sharp, and not
over-refined ditties of the various ploughmen of the deep. A gallery of
lattice, covered with creepers, led to the baths on the shore; and half
way down was an opening on a favorite spot of green, kept ever fresh by
the gush, from an out-cropping rock, of a crystal spring, confined for a
moment in a natural basin, in which it bubbled and fretted, till,
rushing over its ledge, it went down murmuring and chattering, in the
most good-natured way imaginable, along the side of the trellis, into
the sea. Two enormous plane-trees cast their shade over this classic
ground, as did Plato’s and Cicero’s over their choice scenes of
philosophical disquisition. The most beautiful flowers and plants from
distant climates had been taught to make this spot their home,
sheltered, as it was, equally from sultriness and from frost.
Fabius, for reasons which will be explained later, seldom paid more than
a flying visit for a couple of days to this villa; and even then it was
generally on his way to some gayer resort of Roman fashion, where he
had, or pretended to have, business. His daughter was, therefore, mostly
alone, and enjoyed a delicious solitude. Besides a well-furnished
library always kept at the villa, chiefly containing works on
agriculture, or of a local interest, a stock of books, some old
favorites, other lighter productions of the season (of which she
generally procured an early copy at a high price), was brought every
year from Rome, together with a quantity of smaller familiar works of
art, such as, distributed through new apartments, make them become a
home. Most of her morning hours were spent in the cherished retreat just
described, with a book-casket at her side, from which she selected
first one volume, and then another. But any visitor calling upon her
this year, would have been surprised to find her almost always with a
companion--and that a slave!
We may imagine how amazed she was when, the day following the dinner at
her house, Agnes informed her that Syra had declined leaving her
service, though tempted by a bribe of liberty. Still more astonished was
she at learning, that the reason was attachment to herself. She could
feel no pleasurable consciousness of having earned this affection by any
acts of kindness, nor even by any decent gratitude for her servant’s
care of her in illness. She was therefore at first inclined to think
Syra a fool for her pains. But it would not do in her mind. It was true
she had often read or heard of instances of fidelity and devotedness in
slaves, even towards oppressive masters;[62] but these were always
accounted as exceptions to the general rule; and what were a few dozen
cases, in as many centuries, of love, compared with the daily ten
thousand ones of hatred around her? Yet here was a clear and palpable
one at hand, and it struck her forcibly. She waited a time, and watched
her maid eagerly, to see if she could discover in her conduct any airs,
any symptom of thinking she had done a grand thing, and that her
mistress must feel it. Not in the least. Syra pursued all her duties
with the same simple diligence, and never betrayed any signs of
believing herself less a slave than before. Fabiola’s heart softened
more and more; and she now began to think that not quite so difficult,
which, in her conversation with Agnes, she had pronounced impossible--to
love a slave. And she had also discovered a second evidence, that there
_was_ such a thing in the world as disinterested love, affection that
asked for no return.
Her conversations with her slave, after the memorable one which we have
recounted, had satisfied her that she had received a superior education.
She was too delicate to question her on her early history; especially as
masters often had young slaves highly educated, to enhance their value.
But she soon discovered that she read Greek and Latin authors with ease
and elegance, and wrote well in both languages. By degrees she raised
her position, to the great annoyance of her companions: she ordered
Euphrosyne to give her a separate room, the greatest of comforts to the
poor maid; and she employed her near herself as a secretary and reader.
Still she could perceive no change in her conduct, no pride, no
pretensions; for the moment any work presented itself of the menial
character formerly allotted to her, she never seemed to think of turning
it over to any one else, but at once naturally and cheerfully set
herself about it.
The reading generally pursued by Fabiola was, as has been previously
observed, of rather an abstruse and refined character, consisting of
philosophical literature. She was surprised, however, to find how her
slave, by a simple remark, would often confute an apparently solid
maxim, bring down a grand flight of virtuous declamation, or suggest a
higher view of moral truth, or a more practical course of action, than
authors whom she had long admired proposed in their writings. Nor was
this done by any apparent shrewdness of judgment or pungency of wit; nor
did it seem to come from much reading, or deep thought, or superiority
of education. For though she saw traces of this in Syra’s words, ideas,
and behavior, yet the books and doctrines which she was reading now,
were evidently new to her. But there seemed to be in her maid’s mind
some latent but infallible standard of truth, some master-key, which
opened equally every closed deposit of moral knowledge, some
well-attuned chord, which vibrated in unfailing unison with what was
just and right, but jangled in dissonance with whatever was wrong,
vicious, or even inaccurate. What this secret was, she wanted to
discover; it was more like an intuition than any thing she had before
witnessed. She was not yet in a condition to learn, that the meanest and
least in the Kingdom of Heaven (and what lower than a slave?) was
greater in spiritual wisdom, intellectual light, and heavenly
privileges, than even the Baptist Precursor.[63]
It was on a delicious morning in October, that, reclining by the spring,
the mistress and slave were occupied in reading; when the former,
wearied with the heaviness of the volume, looked for something lighter
and newer; and, drawing out a manuscript from her casket, said:
“Syra, put that stupid book down. Here is something, I am told, very
amusing, and only just come out. It will be new to both of us.”
The handmaid did as she was told, looked at the title of the proposed
volume, and blushed. She glanced over the few first lines, and her fears
were confirmed. She saw that it was one of those trashy works, which
were freely allowed to circulate, as St. Justin complained, though
grossly immoral, and making light of all virtue; while every Christian
writing was suppressed, or as much as possible discountenanced. She put
down the book with a calm resolution, and said:
“Do not, my good mistress, ask me to read to you from that book. It is
fit neither for me to recite, nor for you to hear.”
Fabiola was astonished. She had never heard, or even thought, of such a
thing as restraint put upon her studies. What in our days would be
looked upon as unfit for common perusal, formed part of current and
fashionable literature. From Horace to Ausonius, all classical writers
demonstrate this. And what rule of virtue could have made that reading
seem indelicate, which only described by the pen a system of morals,
which the pencil and the chisel made hourly familiar to every eye?
Fabiola had no higher standard of right and wrong than the system under
which she had been educated could give her.
“What possible harm can it do either of us?” she asked, smiling. “I have
no doubt there are plenty of foul crimes and wicked actions described in
the book; but it will not induce us to commit them. And, in the
meantime, it is amusing to read them of others.”
“Would you yourself, for any consideration, do them?”
“Not for the world.”
“Yet, as you hear them read, their image must occupy your mind; as they
amuse you, your thoughts must dwell upon them with pleasure.”
“Certainly. What then?”
“That image is foulness, that thought is wickedness.”
“How is that possible? Does not wickedness require an action, to have
any existence?”
“True, my mistress; and what is the action of the mind, or as I call it
the soul, but thought? A passion which wishes death, is the action of
this invisible power, like it, unseen; the blow which inflicts it is but
the mechanical action of the body, discernible like its origin. But
which power commands, and which obeys? In which resides the
responsibility of the final effect?”
“I understand you,” said Fabiola, after a pause of some little
mortification. “But one difficulty remains. There is responsibility, you
maintain, for the inward, as well as the outward act. To whom? If the
second follow, there is joint responsibility for both, to society, to
the laws, to principles of justice, to self; for painful results will
ensue. But if only the inward action exist, to whom can there be
responsibility? Who sees it? Who can presume to judge it? Who to
control it?”
“God,” answered Syra, with simple earnestness.
Fabiola was disappointed. She expected some new theory, some striking
principle, to come out. Instead, they had sunk down into what she feared
was mere superstition, though not so much as she once had deemed it.
“What, Syra, do you then really believe in Jupiter, and Juno, or perhaps
Minerva, who is about the most respectable of the Olympian family? Do
you think they have any thing to do with our affairs?”
“Far indeed from it; I loathe their very names, and I detest the
wickedness which their histories or fables symbolize on earth. No, I
spoke not of gods and goddesses, but of one only God.”
“And what do you call Him, Syra, in your system?”
“He has no name but GOD; and that only men have given Him, that they may
speak of Him. It describes not His nature, His origin, His attributes.”
“And what are these?” asked the mistress, with awakened curiosity.
“Simple as light is His nature, one and the same every where,
indivisible, undefilable, penetrating yet diffusive, ubiquitous and
unlimited. He existed before there was any beginning; He will exist
after all ending has ceased. Power, wisdom, goodness, love, justice too,
and unerring judgment belong to Him by His nature, and are as unlimited
and unrestrained as it. He alone can create, He alone preserve, and He
alone destroy.”
Fabiola had often read of the inspired looks which animated a sibyl, or
the priestess of an oracle; but she had never witnessed them till now.
The slave’s countenance glowed, her eyes shone with a calm brilliancy,
her frame was immovable, the words flowed from her lips, as if these
were but the opening of a musical reed, made vocal by another’s breath.
[Illustration: Interior of the Temple of Jupiter.]
Her expression and manner forcibly reminded Fabiola of that abstracted
and mysterious look, which she had so often noticed in Agnes; and though
in the child it was more tender and graceful, in the maid it seemed more
earnest and oracular. “How enthusiastic and excitable an Eastern
temperament is, to be sure!” thought Fabiola, as she gazed upon her
slave. “No wonder the East should be thought the land of poetry and
inspiration.” When she saw Syra relaxed from the evident tension of her
mind, she said, in as light a tone as she could assume: “But, Syra, can
you think that a Being such as you have described, far beyond all the
conception of ancient fable, can occupy Himself with constantly watching
the actions, still more the paltry thoughts, of millions of creatures?”
“It is no occupation, lady, it is not even choice. I called Him light.
Is it occupation or labor to the sun to send his rays through the
crystal of this fountain, to the very pebbles in its bed? See how, of
themselves they disclose, not only the beautiful, but the foul that
harbors there; not only the sparkles that the falling drops strike from
its rough sides; not only the pearly bubbles that merely rise, glisten
for a moment, then break against the surface; not only the golden fish
that bask in their light, but black and loathsome creeping things, which
seek to hide and bury themselves in dark nooks below, and cannot; for
the light pursues them. Is there toil or occupation in all this, to the
sun that thus visits them? Far more would it appear so, were he to
restrain his beams at the surface of the transparent element, and hold
them back from throwing it into light. And what he does here he does in
the next stream, and in that which is a thousand miles off, with equal
ease; nor can any imaginable increase of their number, or bulk, lead us
to fancy, or believe, that rays would be wanting, or light would fail,
to scrutinize them all.”
“Your theories are beautiful always, Syra, and, if true, most
wonderful,” observed Fabiola, after a pause, during which her eyes were
fixedly contemplating the fountain, as though she were testing the truth
of Syra’s words.
“And they sound like truth,” she added; “for could falsehood be more
beautiful than truth? But what an awful idea, that one has _never_ been
alone, has never had a wish to oneself, has never held a single thought
in secret, has never hidden the most foolish fancy of a proud or
childish brain, from the observation of One that knows no imperfection.
Terrible thought, that one is living, if you say true, under the steady
gaze of an Eye, of which the sun is but a shadow, for he enters not the
soul! It is enough to make one any evening commit self-destruction, to
get rid of the torturing watchfulness! Yet it sounds so true!”
Fabiola looked almost wild as she spoke these words. The pride of her
pagan heart rose strong within her, and she rebelled against the
supposition that she could never again feel alone with her own thoughts,
or that any power should exist which could control her inmost desires,
imaginings, or caprices. Still the thought came back: “Yet it seems so
true!” Her generous intellect struggled against the writhing passion,
like an eagle with a serpent; more with eye, than with beak and talons,
subduing the quailing foe. After a struggle, visible in her countenance
and gestures, a calm came over her. She seemed for the first time to
feel the presence of One greater than herself, some one whom she feared,
yet whom she would wish to love. She bowed down her mind, she bent her
intelligence to His feet; and her heart too owned, for the first time,
that it had a Master, and a Lord.
Syra, with calm intensity of feeling, silently watched the workings of
her mistress’s mind. She knew how much depended on their issue, what a
mighty step in her unconscious pupil’s religious progress was involved
in the recognition of the truth before her; and she fervently prayed for
this grace.
At length Fabiola raised her head, which seemed to have been bowed down
in accompaniment to her mind, and with graceful kindness said:
“Syra, I am sure I have not yet reached the depths of your knowledge;
you must have much more to teach me.” (A tear and a blush came to the
poor handmaid’s relief.) “But to-day you have opened a new world, and a
new life, to my thoughts. A sphere of virtue beyond the opinions and the
judgments of men, a consciousness of a controlling, an approving, and a
_rewarding_ Power too; am I right?” (Syra expressed approbation,)
“standing by us when no other eye can see, or restrain, or encourage us;
a feeling that, were we shut up forever in solitude, we should be ever
the same, because that influence on us must be so superior to that of
any amount of human principles, in guiding us, and could not leave us;
such, if I understand your theory, is the position of moral elevation,
in which it would place each individual. To fall below it, even with an
outwardly virtuous life, is mere deceit, and positive wickedness. Is
this so?”
“O my dear mistress,” exclaimed Syra, “how much better you can express
all this than I!”
“You have never flattered me yet, Syra,” replied Fabiola, smilingly; “do
not begin now. But you have thrown a new light upon other subjects, till
to-day obscure to me. Tell me, now, was it not this you meant, when you
once told me that in your view there was no distinction between mistress
and slave; that is, that as the distinction is only outward, bodily and
social, it is not to be put in comparison with that equality which
exists before your Supreme Being, and that possible moral superiority
which He might see of the one over the other, inversely of their visible
rank?”
“It was in a great measure so, my noble lady; though there are other
considerations involved in the idea, which would hardly interest you at
present.”
“And yet, when you stated that proposition, it seemed to me so
monstrous, so absurd, that pride and anger overcame me. Do you remember
that, Syra?”
“Oh, no, no!” replied the gentle servant; “do not allude to it, I pray!”
“Have you forgiven me that day, Syra?” said the mistress, with an
emotion quite new to her.
The poor maid was overpowered. She rose and threw herself on her knees
before her mistress, and tried to seize her hand; but she prevented her,
and, for the first time in her life, Fabiola threw herself upon a
slave’s neck, and wept.
Her passion of tears was long and tender. Her heart was getting above
her intellect; and this can only be by its increasing softness. At
length she grew calm; and as she withdrew her embrace she said:
“One thing more, Syra: dare one address, by worship, this Being whom you
have described to me? Is He not too great, too lofty, too distant for
this?”
“Oh, no! far from it, noble lady,” answered the servant. “He is not
distant from any of us; for as much as in the light of the sun, so in
the very splendor of His might, His kindness, and His wisdom, we live
and move and have our being. Hence, one may address Him, not as far off,
but as around us and within us, while we are in Him; and He hears us not
with ears, but our words drop at once into His very bosom, and the
desires of our hearts pass directly into the divine abyss of His.”
“But,” pursued Fabiola, somewhat timidly, “is there no great act of
acknowledgment, such as sacrifice is supposed to be, whereby He may be
formally recognized and adored?”
Syra hesitated, for the conversation seemed to be trenching upon
mysterious and sacred ground, never opened by the Church to profane
foot. She, however, answered in a simple and general affirmative.
“And could not I,” still more humbly asked her mistress, “be so far
instructed in your school as to be able to perform this sublimer act of
homage?”
“I fear not, noble Fabiola; one must needs obtain a Victim worthy of the
Deity.”
“Ah, yes! to be sure,” answered Fabiola. “A bull may be good enough for
Jupiter, or a goat for Bacchus; but where can be found a sacrifice
worthy of Him whom you have brought me to know?”
“It must indeed be one every way worthy of Him, spotless in purity,
matchless in greatness, unbounded in acceptableness.”
“And what can that be, Syra?”
“Only Himself.”
Fabiola shrouded her face with her hands, and then looking up earnestly
into Syra’s face, said to her:
“I am sure that, after having so clearly described to me the deep sense
of responsibility under which you must habitually speak, as well as act,
you have a real meaning in this awful saying, though I understand you
not.”
“As surely as every word of mine is heard, as every thought of mine is
seen, it is a truth which I have spoken.”
“I have not strength to carry the subject further at present; my mind
has need of rest.”
[Illustration: A Monogram of Christ, found in the Catacombs.]
CHAPTER XVII.
THE CHRISTIAN COMMUNITY.
After this conversation Fabiola retired; and during the rest of the day
her mind was alternately agitated and calm. When she looked steadily on
the grand view of moral life which her mind had grasped, she found an
unusual tranquillity in its contemplation; she felt as if she had made
discovery of a great phenomenon, the knowledge of which guided her into
a new and lofty region, whence she could smile on the errors and follies
of mankind. But when she considered the responsibility which this light
imposed, the watchfulness which it demanded, the unseen and unrequited
struggles which it required, the desolateness, almost, of a virtue
without admiration or even sympathy, she again shrunk from the life that
was before her, as about to be passed without any stay or help, from the
only sources of it which she knew. Unconscious of the real cause, she
saw that she possessed not instruments or means, to carry out the
beautiful theory. This seemed to stand like a brilliant lamp in the
midst of a huge, bare, unfurnished hall, lighting up only a wilderness.
What was the use of so much wasted splendor?
The next morning had been fixed for one of those visits which used to be
annually paid in the country,--that to the now ex-prefect of the city,
Chromatius. Our reader will remember, that after his conversion and
resignation of office, this magistrate had retired to his villa in
Campania, taking with him a number of the converts made by Sebastian,
with the holy priest Polycarp, to complete their instruction. Of these
circumstances, of course, Fabiola had never been informed; but she heard
all sorts of curious reports about Chromatius’s villa. It was said that
he had a number of visitors never before seen at his house; that he gave
no entertainments; that he had freed all his country slaves, but that
many of them had preferred remaining with him; that if numerous, the
whole establishment seemed very happy, though no boisterous sports or
frolicsome meetings seemed to be indulged in. All this stimulated
Fabiola’s curiosity, in addition to her wish to discharge a pleasing
duty of courtesy to a most kind friend of hers from childhood; and she
longed to see, with her own eyes, what appeared to her to be a very
Platonic, or, as we should say, Utopian, experiment.
In a light country carriage, with good horses, Fabiola started early,
and dashed gaily along the level road across the “happy Campania.” An
autumnal shower had laid the dust, and studded with glistening gems the
garlands of vine which bordered the way, festooned, instead of hedges,
from tree to tree. It was not long before she reached the gentle
acclivity, for hill it could scarce be called, covered with box,
arbutus, and laurels, relieved by tall tapering cypresses, amidst which
shone the white walls of the large villa on the summit. A change, she
perceived, had taken place, which at first she could not exactly define;
but when she had passed through the gate, the number of empty pedestals
and niches reminded her that the villa had entirely lost one of its most
characteristic ornaments,--the number of beautiful statues which stood
gracefully against the clipped evergreen hedges, and gave it the name,
now become quite an empty one, of _Ad Statuas_.[64]
Chromatius, whom she had last seen limping with gout, now a hale old
man, courteously received her, and inquired kindly after her father,
asking if the report were true that he was going shortly to Asia. At
this Fabiola seemed grieved and mortified; for he had not mentioned his
intention to her. Chromatius hoped it might be a false alarm, and asked
her to take a stroll about the grounds. She found them kept with the
same care as ever, full of beautiful plants; but still much missed the
old statues. At last they reached a grotto with a fountain, in which
formerly nymphs and sea-deities disported, but which now presented a
black unbroken surface. She could contain herself no longer, and turning
to Chromatius, she said:
“Why, what on earth have you been doing, Chromatius, to send away all
your statues, and destroy the peculiar feature of your handsome villa?
What induced you to do this?”
“My dear young lady,” answered the good-humored old gentleman, “do not
be so angry. Of what use were those figures to any one?”
“If you thought so,” replied she, “others might not. But tell me, what
have you done with them all?”
“Why, to tell you the truth, I have had them brought under the hammer.”
“What! and never let me know any thing about it? You know there were
several pieces I would most gladly have purchased.”
Chromatius laughed outright, and said, with that familiar tone, which
acquaintance with Fabiola from a child authorized him always to assume
with her:
“Dear me! how your young imagination runs away, far too fast for my poor
old tongue to keep pace with; I meant not the auctioneer’s hammer, but
the sledge-hammer. The gods and goddesses have been all smashed,
pulverized! If you happen to want a stray leg, or a hand minus a few
fingers, perhaps I may pick up such a thing for you. But I cannot
promise you a face with a nose, or a skull without a fracture.”
Fabiola was utterly amazed, as she exclaimed: “What an utter barbarian
you have become, my wise old judge! What shadow of reason can you give
to justify so outrageous a proceeding?”
“Why, you see, as I have grown older, I have grown wiser! and I have
come to the conclusion that Mr. Jupiter and Mrs. Juno are no more gods
than you or I; so I summarily got rid of them.”
“Yes, that may be very well; and I, though neither old nor wise, have
been long of the same opinion. But why not retain them as mere works of
art?”
“Because they had been set up here, not in that capacity, but as
divinities. They were here as impostors, under false pretences; and as
you would turn out of your house, for an intruder, any bust or image
found among those of your ancestors, but belonging to quite another
family, so did I these pretenders to a higher connection with me, when I
found it false. Neither could I run a risk of their being bought for the
continuance of the same imposture.”
“And pray, my most righteous old friend, is it not an imposture to
continue calling your villa _Ad Statuas_, after not a single statue is
left standing in it?”
“Certainly,” replied Chromatius, amused at her sharpness, “and you will
see that I have planted palm-trees all about; and, as soon as they show
their heads above the evergreens, the villa will take the title of _Ad
Palmas_[65] instead.”
“That will be a pretty name,” said Fabiola, who little thought of the
higher sense of appropriateness which it would contain. She, of course,
was not aware that the villa was now a training-school, in which many
were being prepared, as wrestlers or gladiators used to be, in separate
institutions, for the great combat of faith, martyrdom to death. They
who had entered in, and they who would go out, might equally say they
were on their way to pluck the conqueror’s palm, to be borne by them
before God’s judgment-seat, in token of their victory over the world.
Many were the palm-branches shortly to be gathered in that early
Christian retreat.
But we must here give the history of the demolition of Chromatius’s
statues, which forms a peculiar episode in the “Acts of St. Sebastian.”
When Nicostratus informed him, as prefect of Rome, of the release of his
prisoners, and of the recovery of Tranquillinus from gout by baptism,
Chromatius, after making every inquiry into the truth of the fact, sent
for Sebastian, and proposed to become a Christian, as a means of
obtaining a cure of the same complaint. This of course could not be; and
another course was proposed, which would give him new and personal
evidence of Christianity, without risking an insincere baptism.
Chromatius was celebrated for the immense number of idolatrous images
which he possessed; and was assured by Sebastian that, if he would have
them all broken in pieces, he would at once recover. This was a hard
condition, but he consented. His son Tiburtius, however, was furious,
and protested that if the promised result did not follow, he would have
Sebastian and Polycarp thrown into a blazing furnace: not perhaps so
difficult a matter for the prefect’s son.
In one day two hundred pagan statues were broken in pieces, including,
of course, those in the villa, as well as those in the house at Rome.
The images indeed were broken; but Chromatius was not cured. Sebastian
was sent for and sharply rebuked. But he was calm and inflexible. “I am
sure,” he said, “that _all_ have not been destroyed. Something has been
withheld from demolition.” He proved right. Some small objects had been
treated as works of art rather than religious things, and, like Achan’s
coveted spoil,[66] concealed. They were brought forth and broken up; and
Chromatius instantly recovered. Not only was he converted, but his son
Tiburtius became also one of the most fervent of Christians; and, dying
in glorious martyrdom, gave his name to a catacomb. He had begged to
stay in Rome, to encourage and assist his fellow-believers, in the
coming persecution, which his connection with the palace, his great
courage and activity, would enable him to do. He had become, naturally,
the great friend and frequent companion of Sebastian and Pancratius.
After this little digression, we resume the conversation between
Chromatius and Fabiola, who continued her last sentence by adding:
“But do you know, Chromatius--let us sit down in this lovely spot, where
I remember there was a beautiful Bacchus--that all sorts of strange
reports are going round the country, about your doings here?”
“Dear me! What are they? Do tell me.”
“Why, that you have a quantity of people living with you whom nobody
knows; that you see no company, go out nowhere, and lead quite a
philosophical sort of life, forming a most Platonic republic.”
“Highly flattered!” interrupted Chromatius, with a smile and bow.
“But that is not all,” continued Fabiola. “They say you keep most
unfashionable hours, have no amusements, and live most abstemiously; in
fact, almost starve yourselves.”
“But I hope they do us the justice to add, that we pay our way?”
observed Chromatius. “They don’t say, do they, that we have a long score
run up at the baker’s or grocer’s?”
“Oh, no!” replied Fabiola, laughing.
“How kind of them!” rejoined the good-humored old judge. “They--the
whole public I mean--seem to take a wonderful interest in our concerns.
But is it not strange, my dear young lady, that so long as my villa was
on the free-and-easy system, with as much loose talk, deep drinking,
occasional sallies of youthful mirth, and troublesome freaks in the
neighborhood, as others,--I beg your pardon for alluding to such things;
but, in fact, so long as I and my friends were neither temperate nor
irreproachable, nobody gave himself the least trouble about us? But let
a few people retire to live in quiet, be frugal, industrious, entirely
removed from public affairs, and never even talk about politics or
society, and at once there springs up a vulgar curiosity to know all
about them, and a mean _pruritus_ in third-rate statesmen to meddle with
them; and there must needs fly about flocks of false reports and foul
suspicions about their motives and manner of living. Is not this a
phenomenon?”
“It is, indeed; but how do you account for it?”
“I can only do so by that faculty of little minds which makes them
always jealous of any aims higher than their own; so that, almost
unconsciously, they depreciate whatever they feel to be better than they
dare aspire to.”
“But what is really your object and your mode of life here, my good
friend?”
“We spend our time in the cultivation of our higher faculties. We rise
frightfully early--I hardly dare tell you how early; we then devote some
hours to religious worship; after which we occupy ourselves in a variety
of ways; some read, some write, some labor in the gardens; and I assure
you no hired workmen ever toiled harder and better than these
spontaneous agriculturists. We meet at different times, and sing
beautiful songs together, all breathing virtue and purity, and read most
improving books, and receive oral instruction from eloquent teachers.
Our meals are indeed very temperate; we live entirely on vegetables;
but I have already found out that laughing is quite compatible with
lentils, and that good cheer does not necessarily mean good fare.”
“Why, you are turned complete Pythagoreans. I thought that was quite out
of date. But it must be a most economical system,” remarked Fabiola,
with a knowing look.
“Ha! you cunning thing!” answered the judge; “so you really think that
this may be a saving plan after all? But it won’t be, for we have taken
a most desperate resolution.”
“And what on earth is that?” asked the young lady.
“Nothing less than this. We are determined that there shall not be such
a thing as a poor person within our reach; this winter we will endeavor
to clothe all the naked, and feed the hungry, and attend to all the sick
about. All our economy will go for this.”
“It is indeed a very generous, though very new, idea in our times; and
no doubt you will be well laughed at for your pains, and abused on all
sides. They will even say worse of you than they do now, if it were
possible; but it is not.”
“How so?”
“Do not be offended if I tell you; but already they have gone so far as
to hint, that possibly you are Christians. But this, I assure you, I
have every where indignantly contradicted.”
Chromatius smiled, and said: “Why an _indignant_ contradiction, my dear
child?”
“Because, to be sure, I know you and Tiburtius, and Nicostratus, and
that dear dumb Zoë, too well to admit, for a moment, that you had
adopted the compound of stupidity and knavery called by that name.”
“Let me ask you one question. Have you taken the trouble of reading any
Christian writings, by which you might know what is really held and done
by that despised body?”
“Oh, not I indeed; I would not waste my time over them; I could not have
patience to learn any thing about them. I scorn them too much, as
enemies of all intellectual progress, as doubtful citizens, as credulous
to the last degree, and as sanctioning every abominable crime, ever to
give myself a chance of a nearer acquaintance with them.”
“Well, dear Fabiola, I thought just the same about them once, but I have
much altered my opinion of late.”
“This is indeed strange; since, as prefect of the city, you must have
had to punish many of these wretched people, for their constant
transgression of the laws.”
A cloud came over the cheerful countenance of the old man, and a tear
stood in his eye. He thought of St. Paul, who had once persecuted the
Church of God. Fabiola saw the change, and was distressed. In the most
affectionate manner she said to him, “I have said something very
thoughtless, I fear, or stirred up recollections of what must be painful
to your kind heart. Forgive me, dear Chromatius, and let us talk of
something else. One purpose of my visit to you was, to ask you if you
knew of any one going immediately to Rome. I have heard, from several
quarters, of my father’s projected journey, and I am anxious to write to
him,[67] lest he repeat what he did before,--go without taking leave of
me, to spare me pain.”
“Yes,” replied Chromatius, “there is a young man starting early
to-morrow morning. Come into the library, and write your letter; the
bearer is probably there.”
They returned to the house, and entered an apartment on the
ground-floor, full of book-chests. At a table in the middle of the room
a young man was seated, transcribing a large volume; which, on seeing a
stranger enter, he closed and put aside.
“Torquatus,” said Chromatius, addressing him, “this lady desires to send
a letter to her father in Rome.”
“It will always give me great pleasure,” replied the young man, “to
serve the noble Fabiola, or her illustrious father.”
“What, do you know them?” asked the judge, rather surprised.
“I had the honor, when very young, as my father had had before me, to be
employed by the noble Fabius in Asia. Ill-health compelled me to leave
his service.”
Several sheets of fine vellum, cut to a size, evidently for
transcription of some book, lay on the table. One of these the good old
man placed before the lady, with ink and a reed, and she wrote a few
affectionate lines to her father. She doubled the paper, tied a thread
round it, attached some wax to this, and impressed her seal, which she
drew from an embroidered bag, upon the wax. Anxious, some time, to
reward the messenger, when she could better know how, she took another
piece of the vellum, and made on it a memorandum of his name and
residence, and carefully put this into her bosom. After partaking of
some slight refreshment, she mounted her car, and bid Chromatius an
affectionate farewell. There was something touchingly paternal in his
look, as though he felt he should never see her again. So she thought;
but it was a very different feeling which softened his heart. Should she
always remain thus? Must he leave her to perish in obstinate ignorance?
Were that generous heart, and that noble intellect, to grovel on in the
slime of bitter paganism, when every feeling and every thought in them
seemed formed of strong yet finest fibres, across which truth might
weave the richest web? It could not be; and yet a thousand motives
restrained him from an avowal, which he felt would, at present, only
repulse her fatally from any nearer approach to the faith. “Farewell, my
child,” he exclaimed, “may you be blessed a hundredfold in ways which
as yet you know not.” He turned away his face, as he dropped her hand,
and hastily withdrew.
Fabiola too was moved by the mystery, as well as the tenderness, of his
words; but was startled, before reaching the gate, to find her chariot
stopped by Torquatus. She was, at that moment, painfully struck by the
contrast between the easy and rather familiar, though respectful, manner
of the youth, and the mild gravity, mixed with cheerfulness, of the old
ex-prefect.
“Pardon this interruption, madam,” he said, “but are you anxious to have
this letter quickly delivered?”
“Certainly, I am _most_ anxious that it should reach my father as
speedily as possible.”
“Then I fear I shall hardly be able to serve you. I can only afford to
travel on foot, or by chance and cheap conveyance, and I shall be some
days upon the road.”
Fabiola, hesitating, said: “Would it be taking too great a liberty, if I
should offer to defray the expenses of a more rapid journey?”
“By no means,” answered Torquatus, rather eagerly, “if I can thereby
better serve your noble house.”
Fabiola handed him a purse abundantly supplied, not only for his
journey, but for an ample recompense. He received it with smiling
readiness, and disappeared by a side alley. There was something in his
manner which made a disagreeable impression; she could not think he was
fit company for her dear old friend. If Chromatius had witnessed the
transaction, he would have seen a likeness to Judas, in that eager
clutching of the purse. Fabiola, however, was not sorry to have
discharged, by a sum of money, once for all, any obligation she might
have contracted by making him her messenger. She therefore drew out her
memorandum to destroy it as useless, when she perceived that the other
side of the vellum was written on; as the transcriber of the book,
which she saw put by, had just commenced its continuation on that sheet.
Only a few sentences, however, had been written, and she proceeded to
read them. Then for the first time she perused the following words from
a book unknown to her:
“I say to you, love your enemies; do good to them that hate you, and
pray for them that persecute and calumniate you: that you may be the
children of your Father who is in heaven, who maketh his sun to rise on
the good and the bad, and raineth upon the just and the unjust.”[68]
We may imagine the perplexity of an Indian peasant who has picked up in
a torrent’s bed a white pellucid pebble, rough and dull outside, but
where chipped emitting sparks of light; unable to decide whether he have
become possessed of a splendid diamond, or of a worthless stone, a thing
to be placed on a royal crown, or trodden under a beggar’s feet. Shall
he put an end to his embarrassment by at once flinging it away, or shall
he take it to a lapidary, ask its value, and perhaps be laughed at to
his face? Such were the alternating feelings of Fabiola on her way home.
“Whose can these sentences be? No Greek or Roman philosopher’s. They are
either very false or very true, either sublime morality or base
degradation. Does any one practise this doctrine, or is it a splendid
paradox? I will trouble myself no more on the subject. Or rather I will
ask Syra about it; it sounds very like one of her beautiful, but
impracticable, theories. No; it is better not. She overpowers me by her
sublime views, so impossible for me, though they seem easy to her. My
mind wants rest. The shortest way is to get rid of the cause of my
perplexity, and forget such harassing words. So here it goes to the
winds, or to puzzle some one else, who may find it on the road-side. Ho!
Phormio, stop the chariot, and pick up that piece of parchment which I
have dropped.”
The outrider obeyed, though he had thought the sheet deliberately flung
out. It was replaced in Fabiola’s bosom: it was like a seal upon her
heart, for that heart was calm and silent till she reached home.
[Illustration: Christ in the midst of His Apostles, from a painting in
the Catacombs.]
CHAPTER XVIII.
TEMPTATION.
Very early next morning a mule and guide came to the door of
Chromatius’s villa. On it was packed a moderate pair of saddle-bags, the
whole known property of Torquatus. Many friends were up to see him off,
and receive from him the kiss of peace ere he departed. May it not prove
like that of Gethsemani! Some whispered a kind, soft word in his ear,
exhorting him to be faithful to the graces he had received; and he
earnestly, and probably sincerely, promised that he would. Others,
knowing his poverty, put a little present into his hand, and entreated
him to avoid his old haunts and acquaintances. Polycarp, however, the
director of the community, called him aside; and with fervent words and
flowing tears, conjured him to correct the irregularities, slight
perhaps, but threatening, which had appeared in his conduct, repress the
levity which had manifested itself in his bearing, and cultivate more
all Christian virtues. Torquatus, also with tears, promised obedience,
knelt down, kissed the good priest’s hand, and obtained his blessing;
then received from him letters of recommendation for his journey, and a
small sum for its moderate expenses.
At length all was ready; the last farewell was spoken, the last good
wish expressed; and Torquatus, mounted on his mule, with his guide at
its bridle, proceeded slowly along the straight avenue which led to the
gate. Long after every one else had re-entered the house, Chromatius was
standing at the door, looking wistfully, with a moist eye, after him. It
was just such a look as the Prodigal’s father kept fixed on his
departing son.
As the villa was not on the high road, this modest quadrupedal
conveyance had been hired to take him across the country to Fundi (now
Fondi), as the nearest point where he could reach it. There he was to
find what means he could for prosecuting his journey. Fabiola’s purse,
however, had set him very much at ease on that score.
The road by which he travelled was varied in its beauties. Sometimes it
wound along the banks of the Liris, gay with villas and cottages. Then
it plunged into a miniature ravine, in the skirts of the Apennines,
walled in by rocks, matted with myrtle, aloes, and the wild vine, amidst
which white goats shone like spots of snow; while beside the path,
gurgled and wriggled on, a tiny brook, that seemed to have worked itself
into the bright conceit that it was a mountain torrent; so great was the
bustle and noise with which it pushed on, and pretended to foam, and
appeared to congratulate itself loudly on having achieved a waterfall by
leaping down two stones at a time, and plunging into an abyss concealed
by a wide acanthus-leaf. Then the road emerged, to enjoy a wide prospect
of the vast garden of Campania, with the blue bay of Cajeta in the
background, speckled by the white sails of its craft, that looked at
that distance like flocks of bright-plumed waterfowl, basking and
fluttering on a lake.
What were the traveller’s thoughts amidst these shifting scenes of a new
act in his life’s drama? did they amuse him? did they delight him? did
they elevate him, or did they depress? His eye scarcely noted them. It
had run on far beyond them, to the shady porticoes and noisy streets of
the
[Illustration: Interior of a Roman Theatre.]
capital. The dusty garden and the artificial fountain, the marble bath
and the painted vault, were more beautiful in his eyes than fresh autumn
vineyards, pure streams, purple ocean, and azure sky. He did not, of
course, for a moment turn his thoughts towards its foul deeds and
impious practices, its luxury, its debauchery, its profaneness, its
dishonesties, its calumnies, its treacheries, its uncleannesses. Oh, no!
what would he, a Christian, have again to do with these? Sometimes, as
his mind became abstracted, it saw, in a dark nook of a hall in the
Thermæ, a table, round which moody but eager gamesters were casting
their knuckle-bone dice; and he felt a quivering creep over him of an
excitement long suppressed; but a pair of mild eyes, like Polycarp’s,
loomed on him from behind the table, and aroused him. Then he caught
himself, in fancy, seated at a maple board, with a ruby gem of Falernian
wine, set in the rim of a golden goblet, and discourse, ungirded by
inebriety, going round with the cup; when the reproving countenance of
Chromatius would seem placed opposite, repelling with a scowl the
approach of either.
[Illustration: Hall in the Baths of Caracalla.]
He was, in fact, returning only to the innocent enjoyments of the
imperial city, to its walks, its music, its paintings, its magnificence,
its beauty. He forgot that all these were but the accessories to a
living and panting mass of human beings, whose passions they enkindled,
whose evil desires they inflamed, whose ambition they fanned, whose
resolutions they melted, and whose minds they enervated. Poor youth! he
thought he could walk through that fire and not be scorched! Poor moth!
he imagined he could fly through that flame, and have his wings
unscathed!
It was in one of his abstracted moods that he journeyed through a narrow
overhung defile, when suddenly he found himself at its opening, with an
inlet of the sea before him, and in it one solitary and motionless
skiff. The sight at once brought to his memory a story of his childhood,
true or false, it mattered not; but he almost fancied its scene was
before him.
Once upon a time there was a bold young fisherman living on the coast of
southern Italy. One night, stormy and dark, he found that his father and
brothers would not venture out in their tight and strong smack; so he
determined, in spite of every remonstrance, to go alone in the little
cockle-shell attached to it. It blew a gale, but he rode it out in his
tiny buoyant bark, till the sun rose, warm and bright, upon a placid,
glassy sea. Overcome by fatigue and heat, he fell asleep; but, after
some time, was awakened by a loud shouting at a distance. He looked
round and saw the family-boat, the crew of which were crying aloud, and
waving their hands to invite him back; but they made no effort to reach
him. What could they want? what could they mean? He seized his oars, and
began to pull lustily towards them; but he was soon amazed to find that
the fishing-boat, towards which he had turned the prow of his skiff,
appeared upon his quarter; and soon, though he righted his craft, it was
on the opposite side. Evidently he had been making a circle; but the end
came within its beginning, in a spiral curve, and now he was commencing
another and a narrower one. A horrible suspicion flashed upon his mind:
he threw off his tunic and pulled like a madman at his oars. But though
he broke the circle a bit here and a bit there, still round he went, and
every time nearer to the centre, in which he could see a downward
funnel of hissing and foaming water. Then, in despair, he threw down his
oars, and standing he flung up his arms frantically; and a sea-bird
screaming near, heard him cry out as loud as itself, “Charibdis!”[69]
And now the circle his boat went spinning round was only a few times
longer than itself, and he cast himself flat down, and shut his ears and
eyes with his hands, and held his breath, till he felt the waters
gurgling above him, and he was whirled down into the abyss.
“I wonder,” Torquatus said to himself, “did any one ever perish in this
way? or is it a mere allegory?--if so, of what? Can a person be drawn on
gradually in this manner to spiritual destruction? are my present
thoughts, by any chance, an outer circle, which has caught me, and----”
“Fundi!” exclaimed the muleteer, pointing to a town before them; and
presently the mule was sliding along the broad flags of its pavement.
Torquatus looked over his letters, and drew one out for the town. He was
taken to a little inn of the poorest class, by his guide, who was paid
handsomely, and retired swearing and grumbling at the niggardliness of
the traveller. He then inquired the way to the house of Cassianus, the
school-master, found it, and delivered his letter. He received as kind a
welcome as if he had arrived at home; joined his host in a frugal meal,
during which he learned the master’s history.
A native of Fundi, he had started the school in Rome, with which we
became acquainted at an early period of our history, and had proved
eminently successful. But finding a persecution imminent, and his
Christianity discovered, he had disposed of his school and retired to
his small native town, where he was promised, after the vacation, the
children of the principal inhabitants. In a fellow-Christian he saw
nothing but a brother; and as such he talked freely with him, of his
past adventures and his future prospects. A strange idea dashed through
the mind of Torquatus, that some day that information might be turned
into money.
It was still early when Torquatus took his leave, and, pretending to
have some business in the town, he would not allow his host to accompany
him. He bought himself some more respectable apparel, went to the best
inn, and ordered a couple of horses, with a postillion to accompany him;
for, to fulfill Fabiola’s commission it was necessary to ride forward
quick, change his horses at each relay, and travel through the night. He
did so till he reached Bovillæ, on the skirts of the Alban hills. Here
he rested, changed his travelling suit, and rode on gaily between the
lines of tombs, which brought him to the gate of that city, within whose
walls there was more of good and more of evil contained, than in any
province of the empire.
[Illustration: The Peacock, as an Emblem of the Resurrection.]
CHAPTER XIX.
THE FALL.
Torquatus, now elegantly attired, proceeded at once to the house of
Fabius, delivered his letter, answered all inquiries, and accepted,
without much pressing, an invitation to supper that evening. He then
went to seek a respectable lodging, suited to the present state of his
purse; and easily found one.
Fabius, we have said, did not accompany his daughter into the country,
and rarely visited her there. The fact was, that he had no love for
green fields or running brooks; his tastes were for the gossip and free
society of Rome. During the year, his daughter’s presence was a
restraint on his liberty; but when she was gone, with her establishment,
into Campania, his house presented scenes and entertained persons, that
he would not have presumed to bring in contact with her. Men of
profligate life surrounded his table; and deep drinking till late hours,
with gambling and loose conversation, generally followed his sumptuous
entertainments.
Having invited Torquatus to sup with him, he went forth in search of
guests to meet him. He soon picked up a batch of sycophants, who were
loitering about his known haunts, in readiness for invitations. But as
he was sauntering home from the baths of Titus, he saw two men in a
small grove round a temple earnestly conversing together. After a
moment’s look, he advanced towards them; but waited, at a small
distance, for a pause in the dialogue, which was something to this
effect.
“There is no doubt, then, about the news?”
“None at all. It is quite certain that the people have risen at
Nicomedia and burnt down the church, as they call it, of the Christians,
close to, and in sight of, the palace. My father heard it from the
emperor’s secretary himself this morning.”
“What ever possessed the fools to go and build a temple, in one of the
most conspicuous places of the metropolis? They must have known that,
sooner or later, the religious spirit of the nation would rise against
them and destroy the eye-sore, as every exhibition of a foreign religion
must be to an empire.”
“To be sure, as my father says, these Christians, if they had any wit in
them, would hide their heads, and slink into corners, when they are so
condescendingly tolerated for a time by the most humane princes. But as
they do not choose to do so, but will build temples in public instead of
skulking in by-lanes, as they used to do, I for one am not sorry. One
may gain some notoriety, and profit too, by hunting these odious people
down, and destroying them if possible.”
“Well, be it so; but to come to the purpose. It is understood between
us, that when we can discover who are Christians among the rich, and not
too powerful at first, there shall be a fair division. We will aid one
another. You propose bold and rough means; I will keep my counsel as to
mine. But each shall reap all the profit from those whom he discovers;
and his right proportion from those who are shared between us. Is it not
so?”
“Exactly.”
Fabius now stepped forward, with a hearty “How are you, Fulvius? I have
not seen you for an age; come and sup with me to-day, I have friends
engaged; and your friend too,--Corvinus, I believe” (the gentleman
alluded to made an uncouth bow), “will accompany you, I hope.”
“Thank you,” replied Fulvius; “but I fear I have an engagement already.”
“Nonsense, man,” said the good-natured knight; “there is nobody left in
the city with whom you could sup, except myself. But has my house the
plague, that you have never ventured into it, since you dined there with
Sebastian, and quarrelled with him? Or did you get struck by some
magical charm, which has driven you away?”
Fulvius turned pale, and drew away Fabius to one side, while he said:
“To tell the truth, something very like it.”
“I hope,” answered Fabius, somewhat startled, “that the black witch has
been playing no tricks with you; I wish heartily she were out of my
house. But, come,” he continued in good humor, “I really thought you
were struck by a better charm that evening. I have my eyes open; I saw
how your heart was fixed on my little cousin Agnes.”
Fulvius stared at him, with some amazement; and, after a pause, replied:
“And if it was so, I saw that your daughter made up her mind, that no
good should ever come out of it.”
“Say you so? Then that explains your constant refusal to come to me
again. But Fabiola is a philosopher, and understands nothing of such
matters. I wish, indeed, she would give up her books, and think of
settling herself in life, instead of preventing others. But I can give
you better news than that; Agnes is as much attached to you as you can
be to her.”
“Is it possible? How can you happen to know it?”
“Why, then, to tell you what I should have told you long since, if you
had not fought so shy of me, she confided it to me that very day.”
“To you?”
“Yes, to me; those jewels of yours quite won her heart. She told me as
much. I knew she could only mean you. Indeed, I am sure she meant you.”
Fulvius understood these words of the rich gems which he displayed;
while the knight spoke of the jewels which he imagined Agnes had
received. She had proved, Fulvius was thinking, an easy prize, in spite
of her demureness; and here lay fortune and rank open before him, if he
could only manage his game; when Fabius thus broke in upon his dream:
“Come now, you have only to press your suit boldly; and I tell you, you
will win it, whatever Fabiola may think. But you have nothing to fear
from her now. She and all her servants are absent; her part of the house
is closed, and we enter by the back-door to the more enjoyable part of
the establishment.”
“I will wait on you without fail,” replied Fulvius. “And Corvinus with
you,” added Fabius, as he turned away.
We will not describe the banquet further than to say, that wines of rare
excellence flowed so plentifully, that almost all the guests got, more
or less, heated and excited. Fulvius, however, for one, kept himself
cool.
The news from the East came into discussion. The destruction of the
church at Nicomedia had been followed by incendiary fires in the
imperial palace. Little doubt could exist that the Emperor Galerius was
their author; but he charged them on the Christians; and thus goaded on
the reluctant mind of Dioclesian to become their fiercest persecutor.
Every one began to see that, before many months were over, the imperial
edict to commence the work of destruction would reach Rome, and find in
Maximian a ready executor.
The guests were generally inclined to gore the stricken deer; for
generosity, in favor of those whom popular clamor hunts down, requires
an amount of courage too heroic to be common. Even the most liberal
found reasons for Christians being excepted from all kind consideration.
One could not bear their mysteriousness, another was vexed at their
supposed progress; this man thought them opposed to the real glory of
the empire, that considered them a foreign element, that ought to be
eliminated from it. One thought their doctrine detestable, another their
practice infamous. During all this debate, if it could be so called,
where both sides came to the same conclusion, Fulvius, after having
glanced from one to the other of the guests, had fixed his evil eye upon
Torquatus.
The youth was silent; but his countenance, by turns, was pale and
flushed. Wine had given him a rash courage, which some strong principle
restrained. Now he clenched his hand, and pressed it to his breast; now
he bit his lip. At one time he was crumbling the bread between his
fingers; at another, he drank off, unconsciously, a cup of wine.
“These Christians hate us, and would destroy us all if they could,” said
one. Torquatus leaned forward, opened his lips, but remained silent.
“Destroy us, indeed! Did they not burn Rome, under Nero; and have they
not just set fire to the palace in Asia, over the emperor’s head?” asked
a second. Torquatus rose upon his couch, stretched forth his hand, as if
about to reply, but drew it back.
“But what is infinitely worse is, their maintaining such anti-social
doctrines, conniving at such frightful excesses, and degrading
themselves to the disgusting worship of an ass’s head,” proceeded a
third. Torquatus now fairly writhed; and rising, had lifted his arm,
when Fulvius, with a cool calculation of time and words, added, in
bitter sarcasm: “Ay, and massacre a child, and devour his flesh and
blood, at every assembly.”[70]
The arm descended on the table, with a blow that made every goblet and
beaker dance and ring, as, in a choked voice, Torquatus exclaimed: “It
is a lie! a cursed lie!”
“How can you know that?” asked Fulvius, with his blandest tone and look.
“Because,” answered the other, with great excitement, “I am myself a
Christian; and ready to die for my faith!”
If the beautiful alabaster statue, with a bronze head, in the niche
beside the table, had fallen forward, and been smashed on the marble
pavement, it could not have caused a more fearful sensation than this
sudden announcement. All were startled for a moment. Next, a long blank
pause ensued, after which, each began to show his feelings in his
features. Fabius looked exceedingly foolish, as if conscious that he had
brought his guests into bad company. Calpurnius puffed himself out,
evidently thinking himself ill-used, by having a guest brought in, who
might absurdly be supposed to know more about Christians than himself. A
young man opened his mouth as he stared at Torquatus; and a testy old
gentleman was evidently hesitating, whether he should not knock down
somebody or other, no matter whom. Corvinus looked at the poor Christian
with the sort of grin of delight, half idiotic, half savage, with which
a countryman might gaze upon the vermin that he finds in his trap in a
morning. Here was a man ready to hand, to put on the rack, or the
gridiron, whenever he pleased. But the look of Fulvius was worth them
all. If ever any microscopic observer has had the opportunity of
witnessing the expression of the spider’s features, when, after a long
fast, it sees a fly, plump with others’ blood, approach its net, and
keenly watches every stroke of its wing, and studies how it can best
throw only the first thread round it, sure that then all that gorges it
shall be its own; that we fancy would be the best image of his looks, as
certainly it is of his feelings. To get hold of a Christian, ready to
turn traitor, had long been his desire and study. Here, he was sure, was
one, if he could only manage him. How did he know this? Because he knew
sufficient of Christians to be convinced, that no genuine one would have
allowed himself either to drink to excess, or to boast of his readiness
to court martyrdom.
The company broke up; every body slunk away from the discovered
Christian, as from one pest-stricken. He felt alone and depressed, when
Fulvius, who had whispered a word to Fabius, and to Corvinus, went up to
him, and taking him by the hand said, courteously: “I fear, I spoke
inconsiderately, in drawing out from you a declaration which may prove
dangerous.”
“I fear nothing,” replied Torquatus, again excited; “I will stand to my
colors to the last.”
“Hush, hush!” broke in Fulvius, “the slaves may betray you. Come with me
to another chamber, where we can talk quietly together.”
So saying, he led him into an elegant room, where Fabius had ordered
goblets and flagons of the richest Falernian wine to be brought, for
such as, according to Roman fashion, liked to enjoy a _commissatio_, or
drinking-bout. But only Corvinus, engaged by Fulvius, followed.
On a beautifully inlaid table were dice. Fulvius, after plying Torquatus
with more liquor, negligently took them up, and threw them playfully
down, talking in the mean time on indifferent subjects. “Dear me!” he
kept exclaiming, “what throws! It is well I am not playing with any one,
or I should have been ruined. You try, Torquatus.”
Gambling, as we learnt before, had been the ruin of Torquatus: for a
transaction arising out of it he was in prison when Sebastian converted
him. As he took the dice into his hand, with no intention, as he
thought, of playing, Fulvius watched him as a lynx might its prey.
Torquatus’s eye flashed keenly, his lips quivered, his hand trembled.
Fulvius at once recognized in all this, coupled with the poising of his
hand, the knowing cast of the wrist, and the sharp eye to the value of
the throw, the violence of a first temptation to resume a renounced
vice.
“I fear you are not a better hand than I am at this stupid occupation,”
said he indifferently; “but, I dare say, Corvinus here will give you a
chance, if you will stake something very low.”
“It must be very low indeed,--merely for recreation; for I have
renounced gambling. Once, indeed--but no matter.”
“Come on,” said Corvinus, whom Fulvius had pressed to his work by a
look.
They began to throw for the most trifling stakes, and Torquatus
generally won. Fulvius made him drink still, from time to time, and he
became very talkative.
“Corvinus, Corvinus,” he said at length, as if recollecting himself,
“was not that the name that Cassianus mentioned?”
“Who?” asked the other, surprised.
“Yes, it was,” continued Torquatus to himself,--“the bully, the big
brute. Were you the person,” he asked, looking up to Corvinus, “who
struck that nice Christian boy Pancratius?”
Corvinus was on the point of bursting into a rage; but Fulvius checked
him by a gesture, and said, with timely interference:
“That Cassianus whom you mentioned is an eminent school-master; pray,
where does he live?”
This he knew his companion wished to ascertain; and thus he quieted him.
Torquatus answered:
“He lives, let me see,--no, no; I won’t turn traitor. No; I am ready to
be burnt, or tortured, or die for my faith; but I won’t betray any
one,--that I won’t.”
“Let me take your place, Corvinus,” said Fulvius, who saw Torquatus’s
interest in the game deepening. He put forth sufficient skill to make
his antagonist more careful and more intent. He threw down a somewhat
larger stake. Torquatus, after a moment’s pause of deliberation, matched
it. He won it. Fulvius seemed vexed. Torquatus threw back both sums.
Fulvius seemed to hesitate, but put down an equivalent, and lost again.
The play was now silent: each won and lost; but Fulvius had steadily the
advantage, and he was the more collected of the two.
Once Torquatus looked up and started. He thought he saw the good
Polycarp behind his adversary’s chair. He rubbed his eyes, and saw it
was only Corvinus staring at him. All his skill was now put forth.
Conscience had retreated; faith was wavering; grace had already
departed. For the demon of covetousness, of rapine, of dishonesty, of
recklessness, had come back, and brought with him seven spirits worse
than himself, to that cleansed but ill-guarded soul; and as they entered
in, all that was holy, all that was good, departed.
At length, worked up, by repeated losses and draughts of wine, into a
frenzy, after he had drawn frequently upon the heavy purse which Fabiola
had given him, he threw the purse itself upon the table. Fulvius coolly
opened it, emptied it, counted the money, and placed opposite an equal
heap of gold. Each prepared himself for a final throw. The fatal bones
fell; each glanced silently upon their spots. Fulvius drew the money
towards himself. Torquatus fell upon the table, his head buried and
hidden within his arms. Fulvius motioned Corvinus out of the room.
Torquatus beat the ground with his foot; then moaned, next gnashed his
teeth and growled; then put his fingers in
[Illustration: The Ruins of the Roman Forum, as they are To-day.]
his hair, and begun to pull and tear it. A voice whispered in his ear,
“Are you a Christian?” Which of the seven spirits was it? surely the
worst.
“It is hopeless,” continued the voice; “you have disgraced your
religion, and you have betrayed it too.”
“No, no,” groaned the despairing wretch.
“Yes; in your drunkenness you have told us all: quite enough to make it
impossible for you ever to return to those you have betrayed.”
“Begone, begone,” exclaimed piteously the tortured sinner. “They will
forgive me still. God----”
“Silence; utter not His name: you are degraded, perjured, hopelessly
lost. You are a beggar; to-morrow you must beg your bread. You are an
outcast, a ruined prodigal and gamester. Who will look at you? will your
Christian friends? And nevertheless you _are_ a Christian; you will be
torn to pieces by some cruel death for it; yet you will not be
worshipped by them as one of their martyrs. You are a hypocrite,
Torquatus, and nothing more.”
“Who is it that is tormenting me?” he exclaimed, and looked up. Fulvius
was standing with folded arms at his side. “And if all this be true,
what is it to you? What have you to say more to me?” he continued.
“Much more than you think. You have betrayed yourself into my power
completely. I am master of your money”--(and he showed him Fabiola’s
purse)--“of your character, of your peace, of your life. I have only to
let your fellow-Christians know what you have done, what you have said,
what you have been to-night, and you dare not face them. I have only to
let that ‘bully--that big brute,’ as you called him, but who is son of
the prefect of the city, loose upon you, (and no one else can now
restrain him after such provocation), and to-morrow you will be standing
before his father’s tribunal to die for that religion which you have
betrayed and disgraced. Are you ready _now_, any longer, to reel and
stagger as a drunken gambler, to represent your Christianity before the
judgment-seat in the Forum?”
The fallen man had not courage to follow the prodigal in repentance, as
he had done in sin. Hope was dead in him; for he had relapsed into his
capital sin, and scarcely felt remorse. He remained silent, till Fulvius
aroused him by asking, “Well, have you made your choice; either to go at
once to the Christians with to-night on your head, or to-morrow to the
court? Which do you choose?”
Torquatus raised his eyes to him, with a stolid look, and faintly
answered, “Neither.”
“Come, then, what will you do?” asked Fulvius, mastering him with one of
his falcon glances.
“What you like,” said Torquatus, “only neither of those things.”
Fulvius sat down beside him, and said, in a soft and soothing voice,
“Now, Torquatus, listen to me; do as I tell you, and all is mended. You
shall have house, and food, and apparel, ay, and money to play with, if
you will only do my bidding.”
“And what is that?”
“Rise to-morrow as usual; put on your Christian face; go freely among
your friends; act as if nothing had happened; but answer all my
questions, tell me every thing.”
Torquatus groaned, “A traitor at last!”
“Call it what you will; that or death! Ay, death by inches. I hear
Corvinus pacing impatiently up and down the court. Quick! which is it to
be?”
“Not death! Oh, no, any thing but that!”
Fulvius went out, and found his friend fuming with rage and wine; he had
hard work to pacify him. Corvinus had almost forgotten Cassianus in
fresher resentments; but all his former hatred had been rekindled, and
he burnt for revenge. Fulvius promised to find out where he lived, and
used this means to secure the suspension of any violent and immediate
measure.
Having sent Corvinus sulky and fretting home, he returned to Torquatus,
whom he wished to accompany, that he might ascertain his lodgings. As
soon as he had left the room, his victim had arisen from his chair, and
endeavored, by walking up and down, to steady his senses and regain
self-possession. But it was in vain; his head was swimming from his
inebriety, and his subsequent excitement. The apartment seemed to turn
round and round, and float up and down; he was sick too, and his heart
was beating almost audibly. Shame, remorse, self-contempt, hatred of his
destroyers and of himself, the desolateness of the outcast, and the
black despair of the reprobate, rolled like dark billows through his
soul, each coming in turn uppermost. Unable to sustain himself longer on
his feet, he threw himself on his face upon a silken couch, and buried
his burning brow in his icy hands, and groaned. And still all whirled
round and round him, and a constant moaning sounded in his ears.
[Illustration: A Dove, as an Emblem of the Soul.]
Fulvius found him in this state, and touched his shoulder to rouse him.
Torquatus shuddered, and was convulsed; then exclaimed: “Can this be
Charybdis?”
[Illustration: Diogenes the excavator, from a painting in the Cemetery
of Domitilla.[71]]
Part Second.--Conflict.
CHAPTER I.
DIOGENES.
The scenes through which we have hitherto led our reader have been laid
in one of those slippery truces, rather than peace, which often
intervened between persecution and persecution. Already rumors of war
have crossed our path, and its note of preparation has been distinctly
heard. The roar of the lions near the Amphitheatre, which startled but
dismayed not Sebastian, the reports from the East, the hints of Fulvius,
and the threats of Corvinus, have brought us the same news, that before
long the horrors of persecution will re-appear, and Christian blood will
have to flow, in a fuller and nobler stream than had hitherto watered
the Paradise of the New Law. The Church, ever calmly provident, cannot
neglect the many signs of a threatened combat, nor the preparations
necessary for meeting it. From the moment she earnestly begins to arm
herself, we date the second period of our narrative. It is the
commencement of conflict.
[Illustration: Jonas, after a painting in the Cemetery of Callistus.]
It was towards the end of October that a young man, not unknown to us,
closely muffled up in his cloak, for it was dark and rather chill, might
be seen threading his way through the narrow alleys of the district
called the Suburra; a region, the extent and exact position of which is
still under dispute, but which lay in the immediate vicinity of the
Forum. As vice is unfortunately too often linked with poverty, the two
found a common asylum here. Pancratius did not seem much at home in this
part of the city, and made several wrong turns, till at length he found
the street he was in search of. Still, without numbers on the doors, the
house he wanted was an unsolved problem, although not quite insoluble.
He looked for the neatest dwelling in the street; and
[Illustration: Lazarus raised from the dead. A similar representation is
found in the Catacomb _Inter duos lauros_, and in the Cemetery of Saints
Nereus and Achilles.]
being particularly struck with the cleanliness and good order of one
beyond the rest, he boldly knocked at its door. It was opened by an old
man, whose name has already appeared in our pages, Diogenes. He was tall
and broad-shouldered, as if accustomed to bear burdens, which, however,
had given him a stoop in his gait. His hair was a perfect silver, and
hung down at the sides of a large massive head; his features were
strongly marked in deep melancholy lines, and though the expression of
his countenance was calm, it was solemnly sad. He looked like one who
had lived much among the dead, and was happiest in their company. His
two sons, Majus and Severus, fine athletic youths, were with him. The
first was busy carving, or scratching rather, a rude epitaph on an old
slab of marble, the reverse of which still bore traces of a heathen
sepulchral inscription, rudely effaced by its new possessor.
[Illustration: Two _fossores_, or excavators, from a picture in the
Cemetery of Callistus.]
Pancratius looked over the work in hand and smiled; there was hardly a
word rightly spelt, or a part of speech correct; indeed, here it is:
=DE BIANOBA
POLLECLA QVE ORDEV BENDET DE BIANOBA=[72]
The other son was making a rough design, in which could be distinguished
Jonas devoured by the whale, and Lazarus raised from the dead, both most
conventionally drawn with charcoal on a board; a sketch evidently for a
more permanent painting elsewhere. Further, it was clear that when the
knock came to the door, old Diogenes was busy fitting a new handle to an
old pick-axe. These varied occupations in one family might have
surprised a modern, but they did not at all the youthful visitor; he
well knew that the family belonged to the honorable and religious craft
of the Fossores, or excavators of the Christian cemeteries. Indeed,
Diogenes was the head and director of that confraternity. In conformity
with the assertion of an anonymous writer, contemporary with St. Jerome,
some modern antiquarians have considered the _fossor_ as forming a
lesser ecclesiastical order in the primitive Church, like the _lector_,
or reader. But although this opinion is untenable, it is extremely
probable that the duties of this office were in the hands of persons
appointed and recognized by ecclesiastical authority. The uniform system
pursued in excavating, arranging, and filling up of the numerous
cemeteries round Rome, a system too, so complete from the beginning, as
not to leave positive signs of improvement or change as time went on,
gives us reason to conclude that these wonderful and venerable works
were carried on under one direction, and probably by some body
associated for that purpose. It was not a cemetery or necropolis
company, which made a speculation of burying the dead, but rather a
pious and recognized confraternity which was associated for the purpose.
A series of interesting inscriptions, found in the cemetery of St.
Agnes, proves that this occupation was continued in particular families;
grandfather, father, and sons, having carried it on in the same
place.[73] We can thus easily understand the great skill and uniformity
of practice observable in the catacombs. But the _fossores_ had
evidently a higher office, or even jurisdiction, in that underground
world. Though the Church provided space for the burial of all her
children, it was natural that some should make compensation for their
place of sepulture, if chosen in a favorite spot, such as the vicinity
of a martyr’s tomb. These sextons had the management of such
transactions, which are often recorded in the ancient cemeteries. The
following inscription is preserved in the Capitol:
=EMPTV LOCVM AB ARTEMISIVM VISOMVM HOC EST
ET PRAETIVM DATVM FOSSORI HILARO IDEST
FOL NOOD PRAESENTIA SEVERI FOSS ET LAVRENTI=
That is--
“This is the grave for two bodies, bought by Artimisius; and the
price was given to the Fossor Hilarus,--that is, purses....[74] In
the presence of Severus the Fossor and Laurentius.”
Possibly the last named was the witness on the purchaser’s side, and
Severus on the seller’s. However this may be, we trust we have laid
before our readers all that is known about the profession, as such, of
Diogenes and his sons.
We left Pancratius amused at Majus’s rude attempts in glyptic art; his
next step was to address him.
“Do you always execute these inscriptions yourself?”
“Oh, no,” answered the artist, looking up and smiling. “I do them for
poor people who cannot afford to pay a better hand. This was a good
woman who kept a small shop in the _Vianova_, and you may suppose did
not become rich, especially as she was very honest. And yet a curious
thought struck me as I was carving her epitaph.”
“Let me hear it, Majus.”
“It was, that perhaps some thousand years hence or more, Christians
might read with reverence my scratches on the wall, and hear of poor old
Pollecla and her barley stall with interest, while the inscription of
not a single emperor, who persecuted the Church, would be read or even
known.”
“Well, I can hardly imagine that the superb mausoleums of sovereigns
will fall to utter decay, and yet the memory of a market-wife descend to
distant ages. But what is your reason for thinking thus?”
“Simply because I would sooner commit to the keeping of posterity the
memory of the pious poor than that of the wicked rich. And my rude
record may possibly be read when triumphal arches have been demolished.
It’s dreadfully written though, is it not?”
[Illustration: A gallery in the Cemetery of St. Agnes, on the Nomentan
Way.]
“Never mind that; its simplicity is worth much fine writing. What is
that slab leaning against the wall?”
“Ah, that _is_ a beautiful inscription brought us to put up; you will
see the writer and engraver were different people. It is to go to the
cemetery at the Lady Agnes’s villa, on the Nomentan way. I believe it is
in memory of a most sweet child, whose death is deeply felt by his
virtuous parents.” Pancratius took a light to it, and read as follows:
[Illustration: Inscription of the Cemetery of Saint Agnes.]
“The innocent boy Dionysius lieth here among the saints. Remember
us in your holy prayers, the writer and the engraver.”
“Dear, happy child!” continued Pancratius, when he had perused the
inscription: “add me the reader, to the writer and carver of thine
epitaph, in thy holy prayers.”
“Amen,” answered the pious family.
But Pancratius, attracted by a certain husky sound in Diogenes’s voice,
turned round, and saw the old man vigorously trying to cut off the end
of a little wedge which he had driven into the top of the handle of his
pick-axe, to keep it fast in the iron; but every moment baffled by some
defect in his vision, which he removed by drawing the back of his brawny
hand across his eyes. “What is the matter, my good old friend?” said the
youth kindly. “Why does this epitaph of young Dionysius particularly
affect you?”
“It does not of itself; but it reminds me of so much that is past, and
suggests so much that may be about to come, that I feel almost faint to
think of either.”
“What are your painful thoughts, Diogenes?”
“Why, do you see, it is all simple enough to take into one’s arms a good
child like Dionysius, wrapped in his cerecloth, fragrant with spices,
and lay him in his grave. His parents may weep, but his passage from
sorrow to joy was easy and sweet. It is a very different thing, and
requires a heart as hardened as mine by practice” (another stroke of the
hand across the eyes) “to gather up hastily the torn flesh and broken
limbs of such another youth, to wrap them hurriedly in their
winding-sheet, then fold them into another sheet full of lime, instead
of balsams, and shove them precipitately into their tomb.[75] How
differently one would wish to treat a martyr’s body!”
[Illustration: An _Arcosolium_.]
“True, Diogenes; but a brave officer prefers the plain soldier’s grave,
on the field of battle, to the carved sarcophagus on the Via Appia. But
are such scenes as you describe common, in times of persecution?”
“By no means uncommon, my good young master. I am sure a pious youth
like you must have visited, on his anniversary, the tomb of Restitutus
in the cemetery of Hermes.”
“Indeed I have, and often have I been almost jealous of his early
martyrdom. Did you bury him?”
“Yes; and his parents had a beautiful tomb made, the _arcosolium_ of his
crypt.[76] My father and I made it of six slabs of marble, hastily
collected, and I engraved the inscription now beside it. I think I
carved better than Majus there,” added the old man, now quite cheerful.
“That is not saying much for yourself, father,” rejoined his son, no
less smiling; “but here is the copy of the inscription which you wrote,”
he added, drawing out a parchment from a number of sheets.
“I remember it perfectly,” said Pancratius, glancing over it, and
reading it as follows, correcting the errors in orthography, but not
those in grammar, as he read:
[Illustration]
“To Ælius Fabius Restitutus, their most pious son, his parents
erected (this tomb). Who lived eighteen years and seven months. In
peace.”
He continued: “What a glorious youth, to have confessed Christ at such
an age!”
“No doubt,” replied the old man; “but I dare say you have always thought
that his body reposes alone in his sepulchre. Any one would think so
from the inscription.”
“Certainly I have always thought so. Is it otherwise?”
“Yes, noble Pancratius, he has a comrade younger than himself lying in
the same bed. As we were closing the tomb of Restitutus, the body of a
boy not more than twelve or thirteen years old was brought to us. Oh, I
shall never forget the sight! He had been hung over a fire, and his
head, trunk, and limbs nearly to the knees, were burnt to the very bone;
and so disfigured was he that no feature could be recognized. Poor
little fellow, what he must have suffered! But why should I pity him?
Well, we were pressed for time, and we thought the youth of eighteen
would not grudge room for his fellow-soldier of twelve, but would own
him for a younger brother; so we laid him at Ælius Fabius’s feet. But we
had no second phial of blood to put outside, that a second martyr might
be known to lie there; for the fire had dried his blood up in his
veins.”[77]
“What a noble boy! If the first was older, the second was younger than
I. What say you, Diogenes, don’t you think it likely you may have to
perform the same office for me one of these days?”
“Oh, no, I hope not,” said the old digger, with a return of his husky
voice. “Do not, I entreat you, allude to such a possibility. Surely my
own time must come sooner. How the old trees are spared, indeed, and the
young plants cut down!”
“Come, come, my good friend, I won’t afflict you. But I have almost
forgotten to deliver the message I came to bring. It is, that to-morrow
at dawn you must come to my mother’s house, to arrange about preparing
the cemeteries for our coming troubles. Our holy Pope will be there,
with the priests of the titles, the regionary deacons, the notaries,
whose number has been filled up, and you, the head _fossor_, that all
may act in concert.”
“I will not fail, Pancratius,” replied Diogenes.
“And now,” added the youth, “I have a favor to ask you.”
“A favor from me?” asked the old man, surprised.
“Yes; you will have to begin your work immediately, I suppose. Now,
often as I have visited, for devotion, our sacred cemeteries, I have
never studied or examined them; and this I should like to do with you,
who know them so well.”
“Nothing would give me greater pleasure,” answered Diogenes, somewhat
flattered by the compliment, but still more pleased by this love for
what he so much loved. “After I have received my instructions, I shall
go at once to the cemetery of Callistus. Meet me out of the Porta
Capena, half an hour before mid-day, and we will go on together.”
“But I shall not be alone,” continued Pancratius. “Two youths, recently
baptized, desire much to become acquainted with our cemeteries, which
they do not yet much know; and have asked me to initiate them there.”
“Any friends of yours will be always welcome. What are their names, that
we may make no mistake?”
“One is Tiburtius, the son of Chromatius, the late prefect; the other is
a young man named Torquatus.”
Severus started a little, and said: “Are you quite sure about him,
Pancratius?”
Diogenes rebuked him, saying, “That he comes to us in Pancratius’s
company is security enough.”
“I own,” interposed the youth, “that I do not know as much about him as
about Tiburtius, who is really a gallant, noble fellow. Torquatus is,
however, very anxious to obtain all information about our affairs, and
seems in earnest. What makes you fear, Severus?”
“Only a trifle, indeed. But as I was going early to the cemetery this
morning, I turned into the Baths of Antoninus.”[78]
“What!” interrupted Pancratius, laughing, “do you frequent such
fashionable resorts?”
“Not exactly,” replied the honest artist; “but you are not perhaps aware
that Cucumio the _capsarius_[79] and his wife are Christians?”
“Is it possible; where shall we find them next?”
“Well, so it is; and moreover they are making a tomb for themselves in
the cemetery of Callistus; and I had to show them Majus’s inscription
for it.”
“Here it is,” said the latter, exhibiting it, as follows:
CVCVMIO ET VICTORIA
SE VIVOS FECERVNT
CAPSARARIVS DE ANTONINIANAS.[80]
“Capital!” exclaimed Pancratius, amused at the blunders in the epitaph;
“but we are forgetting Torquatus.”
“As I entered the building, then,” said Severus, “I was not a little
surprised to find in one corner, at that early hour, this Torquatus in
close conversation with the present prefect’s son, Corvinus, the
pretended cripple, who thrust himself into Agnes’s house, you remember,
when some charitable unknown person (God bless him!) gave large alms to
the poor there. Not good company I thought, and at such an hour, for a
Christian.”
“True, Severus,” returned Pancratius, blushing deeply; “but he is young
as yet in the faith, and probably his old friends do not know of his
change. We will hope for the best.”
The two young men offered to accompany Pancratius, who rose to leave,
and see him safe through the poor and profligate neighborhood. He
accepted their courtesy with pleasure, and bade the old excavator a
hearty good night.
[Illustration: Our Saviour blessing the Bread, from a picture in the
Catacombs.]