"Of a cold disposition, inclined to enforce the laws and good order--no

less severe to himself than to others--he was sober, upright, and

chaste. Though a good soldier and a good speaker, he had not the

slightest pretension to wit, nor even to glory. He was a plain

matter-of-fact ruler, governing the empire just as he would have done a

legion, with a simplicity and a roughness of character exclusively

military; showing a harshness that bordered upon cruelty, when he deemed

it necessary to the interests of the public service, and yet by no means

prompt to avenge his own personal injuries; a man, in fact, having but

few wants and no taste for pomp or display, though rigorous beyond

measure to replenish the coffers of the state, and to balance the

receipts with the outlays of the treasury," (pp. 8, 9.)

Valentinian was in the height of manhood when he was clothed with the

imperial purple; but if he felt no exultation, he evinced a keen jealousy

for the maintenance of his newly acquired power, hardly allowing a mere

suggestion as to its use and exercise. That jealousy and mistrust were

extended even to the high influence of the church itself. The very first

year of his reign offers numerous traces of that spirit of universal

toleration which has become the idol of our modern reformers, yet which was

so repugnant to the ideas and feelings of the old Roman world.

Succeeding to Jovian, having witnessed the vagaries of Julian, under whom

he had even suffered persecution, the new emperor indeed began by relieving

his fellow-believers from their sundry disabilities, but at the same time

he put every other form of religious belief on a footing of rigorous

equality with Christianity. Thus, if he takes from the heathens the temples

which the Apostate had bestowed upon them, these temples became state

property, instead of being restored to the Christians--Valentinian so

establishing, observes Prince de Broglie, a sort of neutral power between

the two contending doctrines. Thus, again, the public schools are opened to

all, the clerical immunities and privileges are kept within narrow bounds,

the heathen sacrifices are scarcely prohibited; in fact, the most assiduous

precautions were taken in order to prevent the very appearance of any

subordination of the temporal government to sacerdotal influence. This was,

doubtless, a new feature in the sovereign, which took every one by

surprise, though many considered it to show a sound policy and practical

wisdom. And yet, this very attitude of Valentinian toward the church was

but a proof of his real weakness, as the general incidents of his reign

were destined to show in strong colors. Valentinian's immediate object was

to establish the full and total independence of the secular government. In

reality, he rendered still more evident in the eyes of the world its utter

helplessness to guard and defend its most important privileges.

Thenceforward, to stand aloof from the church on the plea of state policy

was an utter impossibility.

{365}

On the contrary, an alliance with the church was a matter of positive

necessity, for no other power in the world could, like her, play the part

of a most useful and efficient auxiliary. Valentinian was to learn this at

the outset of his reign.

He had hardly arrived at Milan, the capital of the western empire, when he

had to encounter the insuperable difficulties of his finely balanced

system. A contest had arisen between the Arian bishop Auxentius and the

great Hilary of Poitiers. The latter used his utmost endeavors to correct

the evils attendant upon the persecution lately raised by the Emperor

Constans; but Hilary was by no means disposed to overlook the delinquencies

of courtier prelates, who changed their belief according to the whim and

will of every new sovereign. Such was Auxentius, who after showing himself

a zealous Arian, now displayed no less zeal in his recantations, which did

not, however, at all deceive his own flock. The Milanese were steadfast in

their opposition to the ever-changing prelate, and Hilary no less staunchly

encouraged them in their resistance.

According to Valentinian's system, he should and would have remained

neutral between the two antagonists. But such an amount of indifference was

not in the habits of the Roman administration. There was nothing so

contrary to public order, said many an imperial adviser, as these

conventicles of the flock against their pastor, above all when backed by

the influence of a foreigner. Since Auxentius consented to sign the

orthodox formula, and thus to do away with every vestige of past

dissensions, why should others obstinately endeavor to perpetuate them?

This was a matter of police regulations, not a question of belief. When

people were all of the same opinion, why should not they meet together to

pray in the same church?

We can almost imagine that we are reading a memoir sent up by a French

prefect to his minister, for the purpose of playing the umpire between some

priest and his bishop. At any rate, Valentinian found the advice so

conformable to his own ideas, that he unwittingly issued an edict

prohibiting the Christians to attend at any ceremony of their worship,

except in such places as were subjected to the bishop's jurisdiction.

Hilary immediately applied to the emperor himself, and soon showed him his

error, which was, however, followed by another step of a still graver

character. He ordered that the question should be examined by a committee

of ten bishops and two secular magistrates. Auxentius, on being confronted

with Hilary, made every admission that was required; yet the latter had

scarcely turned his back when the equivocating prelate recanted once more

his recantations, and maligned the Bishop of Poitiers to the emperor. His

aspersions were but too successful, for Hilary was denied a second

audience, and was commanded to leave the town immediately.

The prelate obeyed as a subject, but as a bishop he had a right to speak,

and he spoke with a freedom worthy of such a man. His letter, apparently

addressed to the public, in reality was a bold protest against the

emperor's interference in religious affairs. We doubt whether Constantine

would have submitted to such language, which, however, is a landmark

showing the progress of Christian ideas as to the relations of the

spiritual and the temporal power. But it was the last episcopal act of the

great pontiff, who died shortly after.

It is not merely in this direction that we see Christianity gradually

asserting its ascendency in the Roman world. Slowly, but surely, the

patriciate was yielding to its influence. Accustomed, as we are, to

consider the Roman aristocracy as totally effete during the latter period

previous to the fall of the empire, we can hardly fancy to ourselves that

its grandees were anything else but the degenerate posterity of the

Cornelii, the Anicii, and other illustrious _gentes_, of ancient Rome.

There were, indeed, so many links connecting them with olden forms and

idolatrous ordinances, that to couple them with the new belief seems

something bordering on anachronism.

{366}

And yet the fact really stands thus: Partly through the effect of example,

partly through ambition, and partly through an imperious conviction, whole

races had embraced the doctrines and practices of Christianity, and soon

found out, to their own astonishment, that they recovered at once an

unexpected share of illustration and power.

"Christianity, says Prince de Broglie, renewed their influence, by

throwing over it a sort of second youth. The day before their baptism,

they were wont to squander away their wealth among a motley _plebs_

to gain the bauble of a useless title; on the morrow their charities,

scarcely more abundant, but distributed by the discerning hand of the

priest, insured them, on the part of the less degraded Christians, a

prouder yet more lasting gratitude. Their slaves being gradually

emancipated, and prepared for freedom by a pious education, soon formed

around them a devoted army. They were no more that vile race of

freed-men, a true scourge to the empire, ever ready to pass from an

abject servility to the basest treachery. They were all the children of

Adam, redeemed by Jesus Christ, in whom their masters revered the

remembrance of a primitive equality and the stamp of a newly restored

dignity. Within a short time, the authority of the Christian patricians

extended far beyond Rome. Having once become members of an association

the most extensive and, indeed, the only one then organized throughout

the empire, they found themselves by the very fact placed at the head of

a powerful party. Since Athanasius, in the days of his exile, had found

an asylum in the dwellings of the Roman senators, the Christians of every

country were in the habit of applying from the depths of Egypt or of

distant Asia to the illustrious families in the capital, whenever they

had a church to build, a convent to establish, some ruin to prevent, or

some disaster to retrieve; and the alms which usually followed the

application were abundantly repaid in popularity and thankfulness. One

might compare them to some old trunks falling into decay through the

effect of time; should their roots, whilst shooting forth, meet with a

rich vein of alluvial soil, they send up a youthful sap, which adorns

with a wreath of verdure their dying branches and their blackening

limbs." (pp. 23, 24.)

Such was the society in which an Ambrose and a Jerome were formed and

brought up--the one learning all those arts and traditions that made him

hereafter such an attractive compound (if we may be allowed the term) of

sanctity and statesmanship; the other of a more ardent and restless

disposition, as if he had brought from his native forests of Dalmatia

something of the fierce wildness of the barbarian. Jerome, though a sincere

Christian, did not then conform his conduct to his belief; he rather

yielded alternately to the allurements of pleasure or to the suggestions of

a repentant spirit. He himself tells us that be thirsted for knowledge,

being ever on the wing, passing from the Capitol to the Catacombs; almost

equally impassioned for the Gospel or for Homer; reading by turns the

Scriptures with the fervor of an anchoret or the disdain of an Athenian

orator. But still he clung with fondness to the best Roman society, where

he was an habitual guest and companion. There is hardly any part of the

empire, or any one of its institutions, in which we do not find this

all-pervading influence of Christianity. But nowhere, perhaps, is it more

evident than in the laws. Volumes have been written upon this subject, and

the most lamentable pictures have been drawn of the wretched state of the

Roman population, ground down at once by heavy taxation, by the oppression

of local governors, and exposed to all the horrors of repeated invasions.

Their condition was so melancholy that they fled to the barbarians, among

whom they enjoyed more real freedom and greater security than under the

rule of their lawful sovereign. Valentinian distinguished himself among

many other princes by his extreme severity in the enforcement of the fiscal

laws; he hardly admitted any plea or excuse when the treasury was to be

replenished; far better than anyone he felt the difficulties of his

position, when he had to encounter the numberless enemies of his empire.

But he had hardly secured by the most severe measures the public resources

in men and money when a reaction ensued. An immense complaint and wailing,

says our author, ascended to the throne from every region, and the prince

was obliged to bind the very wounds he had inflicted--nay, to countermand

the measures which he had adopted under the imperious claims of the public

security.

{367}

Among these laws or decrees tending to soothe the pangs of a suffering

nation, we must note several that bear evident traces of a Christian

inspiration. Thus, close to a law binding the tenant to the land on which

he is condemned to live and die, we find another defending him against the

excessive pretensions of the landowner. Elsewhere, if the authority of the

judges is duly enforced, minute precautions are taken against their

accidental or interested errors; they are ordered to enact their sentences

in public, prohibited from holding property within the limits of their

residence, and threatened with severe penalties if they should listen to

the insinuations of informers. At the same time, physicians were appointed

to attend the poor in large towns at the expense of the treasury, and other

measures of a similar character were carried, all betraying a benevolent

disposition totally unknown to the heathen world.

We must refer to the author's pages for many other instances of innovations

in which we detect the increasing influence of Christianity, and draw the

reader's notice to one of the most remarkable institutions of those times,

out of which grew perhaps the ecclesiastical principalities of the feudal

ages. As there was a constant stream of grievances and claims sent up from

the provinces to the crown, Valentinian thought proper to appoint an

official defender of their rights, _defensor civitatis_.

"Such was the title of a new office, which appears for the first time in

365, filling an intermediate station between the _curia_, or

municipality, and the treasury. The duties of this new agent were

twofold, and well adapted to the high-pressure mechanism which held the

_curiae_ responsible for the total amount of taxes due to the fiscus

and allowed them at the same time to fall back on the small proprietors

of the city. On the defender incumbs the duty, as a representative of the

curiales, of discussing with the state the amount of the whole

contingent; and then, with the curiales themselves, the aliquot part of

each rate-payer. Himself a stranger to the curia, he is obliged at once

to protect and keep it within bounds; to speak for it and against it; to

defend it, to lighten its burden, and to prevent it from throwing that

burden on other people's shoulders. In fact, the defender was something

like the popular tribune, whose _veto_ is now directed, not against

aristocratical influence, but against the tyranny of the administration.

In its decrepitude, the empire was returning, like many an old man, to

the habits and ways of its childhood," (p. 51, _seq_.)

But the difficulty was to find a man of sufficient integrity, power, and

influence to hold this delicate position between the crown and the nation.

In the general downfall of public virtue, there was hardly a citizen or a

landowner capable of fulfilling such arduous duties. His magistracy was

elective; but it was soon found out that the bishop alone had both virtue

and power to withstand the fitful caprices of imperial despotism, no less

than the raging passions of the barbarians. Did Valentinian dream of such a

result when be instituted the _defensores?_ Doubtless not: and this

very fact throws a flood of light upon the real state of things at the

period we have before our eyes.

It is not merely in the West that we thus meet with the irresistible

ascendency of Christianity, making its way both with and against temporal

power; the same spectacle awaits us in a still more striking manner in the

East. Every one is more or less familiar with the great struggle between

Arianism and the illustrious Athanasius. That contest, however, bore more

of a purely theological than of a political character, and we shall

therefore pass on to scenes of a different nature, and perhaps less known

to the general reader. The famous heresy, so like Protestantism in its main

features, was fast dwindling into a court intrigue, though fostered by the

weak arm of a Valens. Under that degenerate prince the orthodox bishops

were once more banished from their sees; but the church had already

overcome two recent persecutions, whilst the state had well nigh succumbed

to four successive revolutions.

{368}

Every man could now see with his own eyes where resided true influence and

power, so that, even in a worldly view, it was no longer safe to trust

solely to the sovereign's whim and pleasure. Valens himself was destined to

experience, in his fatal downfall, that he would have to deal alike with a

true bishop and a true statesman in the person of St. Basil, who ruled over

the diocese of Caesarea.

The importance of Caesarea, as the ecclesiastical metropolis of Asia Minor,

was very considerable, extending its jurisdiction over the independent

exarchate of Pontus, and even beyond the limits of the empire, over Armenia

and certain parts of Persia. Valens was desirous of placing at the head of

this large see one of his Arian creatures; but at the very first rumor of

such a scandal the whole population called for Basil, who had not yet been

raised to the episcopal dignity. Shortly after, however, the old Bishop of

Caesarea offered a share of his power to the popular candidate, who thus

was brought forth to the foremost rank in the impending struggle between

the church and the emperor.

Valens, after many delays, at last set out upon his progress through Asia

Minor. He journeyed slowly, in order to make himself acquainted with the

real feelings of the surrounding population. To secure a favorable

reception, he sent before him his prefect Modestus, who took good care that

no hostile figure should meet the eye of the sovereign. On entering any

town, with a numerous retinue of courtiers, the prefect immediately sent

for the bishop, and questioned him as to his dispositions in regard to the

emperor's views. If the answer proved satisfactory, the prelate was loaded

with honors and privileges; if, on the contrary, he adhered to the true

faith, banishment or even death was awarded against him. The whole of

Bithynia and Galatia was thus traversed by the imperial cortége, which met

everywhere that silent attitude on the part of the people so often mistaken

for a sincere feeling of satisfaction. At last Modestus entered Cappadocia,

on his way to the city inhabited, one might almost say governed, by Basil.

And here we must give way to our author's narrative, for no words of ours

could supply the interest of the following scene:

"On his arrival in town, the prefect sent for the bishop. Basil obeyed

the summons; when he entered the prefect's room, he maintained an

attitude of calm superiority, which gave him, says Gregory Nyssa, far

more the appearance of a physician visiting a patient than that of a

delinquent before his judge. This firmness intimidated the prefect, who

had recourse at first to mildness. 'The emperor is coming,' said he;

'pray beware, for he is highly irritated; and, for a mere scruple about

a dogma, do not jeopardize wantonly the interests of your church: if, on

the contrary, you show yourself submissive, you will feel the effects of

his good-will' 'Pay attention yourself,' replied Basil, 'to the fact

that you have no power over such men as seek for nothing else but the

kingdom of God, and pray do not talk to me as you would to children.'

'Well, but won't you do anything for the emperor?' asked the prefect.

'Is it nothing in your eyes to see the emperor mingling with your flock

and becoming one of your auditors? This is what you may gain by yielding

a little, and by sacrificing one single word of the symbol.' 'Doubtless,

it is a great thing to see an emperor at church, for it is a great thing

to save a soul, not only the soul of an emperor, but the soul of any

man, whatever it may be. And yet, far from adding to or taking from the

symbol one single word, I would not even alter the disposition of the

letters that make up the syllables.' 'What, will you forget so far the

respect you owe to the emperor?' exclaimed Modestus in a loud voice, and

giving way to impatience. 'But in what I do really offend him,' retorted

Basil, 'is more than I can understand.' 'Why, you don't adopt his faith,

when all around you submit to it.' 'But my own emperor wills it not; I

can never worship a creature, having myself been created by God, and

called to become one like unto him.' 'Well, but we who command in this

place, what do you think of us! Are we nothing in your eyes? and would

you not deem yourself happy to be our equal, and to be associated to our

dignity?' 'You may lord it over us, and I by no means dispute your

exalted rank. To be your equal is, doubtless, a fine thing; but I am

already your equal, since you are, like myself, the creature of God, and

since I am likewise the equal, which I deem an honor, of those whom you

rule.' 'At least, don't you fear my power?'

{369}

'What can you do to me?' 'What?--why, inflict upon you any degree of

suffering I may command.' 'Pray speak out clearly and tell me what?'

'Confiscation, banishment, tortures--death itself.' 'None of those

things can reach me; a man who has nothing leaves nothing for

confiscation; a man who is attached to no place, and looks upon himself

everywhere as a stranger, is beyond the reach of banishment. What

tortures can you inflict upon this weak body, when the very first blow

will do for it at once? Indeed, indeed,' added Basil, pointing to his

chest, 'you would do me a good service were you to rid me of this

miserable pair of bellows. As for death, I should deem it a favor, as

leading me to that God for whom I wish to live, and for whose cause I am

already half dead.' 'Nobody ever dared,' interrupted Modestus, 'to speak

to me in this way.' 'Because you never met a bishop.' Bewildered and

angry, yet still afraid of carrying matters to the last extremities,

Modestus put an end to the interview by giving the bishop one day for

reflection. 'To-morrow you will find me what I am to-day,' concluded

Basil, 'and I don't wish that you should yourself change in regard to

me.'

"On the morrow, and on the following days, Valens was expected every

hour. The bishop was besieged with parleys and entreaties of every

description. There was not one noble personage who did not undertake to

argue with the prelate. The head cook, Demosthenes--an influential man,

by the by--returned constantly to the attack. Modestus, on the other

hand, feeling vexed at having no better result to bring before the

emperor, and anxious to avoid any charge of weakness, made public

preparations for an execution. Heralds, lictors, executioners--every

judicial agent was summoned, ready at a signal to seize upon the

factious priest. Having thus taken every precaution, the prefect,

somewhat abashed, yet confident at least in his preventive measures,

repaired to the prince. 'Emperor,' said he, 'I have failed in my

attempt; this man is unmanageable; threats, entreaties, kindness, are

all unavailing with him. This is a matter of stern severity; do but give

the order, and it shall be fulfilled.' But this was exactly what Valens

was not inclined to do. Though no less incensed than bewildered, still

be did not dare to shed such illustrious blood on the path he was about

to enter. He reprieved the execution, and penetrated into the city in a

sort of wavering state of mind, just like a piece of iron, says Gregory

Nyssa, already melting in the fire; but nevertheless still remaining a

bit of iron.

"He continued in this mood, irresolute as to his line of conduct, and

without holding any communication with the bishop's dwelling. A meeting,

however, became unavoidable, for the festival of the Epiphany was

approaching; and, unless he chose to put himself outside of the church,

Valens could not do otherwise than attend at divine service. On the

morning of the feast, he therefore came to a determination, and went to

the temple with an escort of soldiers, himself doubting whether he would

be received peacefully, or would have to force an entry through

violence. He entered: the crowd was most numerous, and had just begun

the choral psalms; the chant was both harmonious and powerful, the whole

service offering that appearance of majesty and order which Basil

excelled in maintaining in his church. At the bottom of the nave stood

Basil himself, facing the people, but motionless like a pillar of the

sanctuary, and with his eyes fixed upon the altar. There he remained

standing, just as the acts of the saints represent him, his tall or

rather towering stature showing off his spare and slender figure, while

his aquiline features were strongly brought forth by his thin, emaciated

cheeks; a latent fire flashed from under his prominent forehead and his

arched eyebrows, whilst now and then a somewhat disdainful smile parted

on each side of his mouth his long white beard. All around him stood his

clergy in an attitude of fear and respect. At this imposing sight Valens

stopped, as if suddenly seized with a sort of bewilderment. The service

continued as though his presence had passed unperceived. At the

offertory, he stepped forward to present the gift which he had prepared;

but no hand was held out to receive it; nobody came forward to meet him.

A cloud passed before his eyes; he staggered on his legs; and, had not

one of the attendants supported him, he would have fallen to the ground.

Basil had pity on his anguish, and waved with his hand that the offering

should be accepted.

"The next day, the emperor having recovered his composure, returned to

the church, and, feeling bolder, resolved to speak to his terrible

antagonist. The service being over, he passed behind the velum where the

officiating priest was wont to retire. Basil received him with kindness,

in the presence of his faithful friend Gregory, who had hastened to his

side. The interview was a long and peaceful one. Basil fully explained

to the monarch his reasons for not conforming to his wishes, and even

entered into many theological developments. By thus flattering his

vanity, and by appearing to set some value on his opinion, he kept him

for several hours spellbound by his lucid and powerful eloquence. This,

by no means, satisfied many of the by-standers, who had already gone

over to Arianism, and some of them endeavored to interfere. Among these

was the unfortunate Demosthenes, who made an attempt at a theological

argument, but in the midst of his demonstration he unwittingly coined a

most ridiculous barbarism. 'Strange,' exclaimed Basil, smiling, 'here we

have caught Demosthenes blundering in Greek!' The emperor departed,

somewhat pacified, and bestowed upon Basil a piece of land for a

hospital which he had founded," (pp. 94-103.)

{370}

What a picture! what a lesson for every one! How it brings home to every

mind the fact that a new power had arisen, which was more than a match for

worldly rulers, though clothed with even imperial purple. In the present

instance, the lesson became still more apparent, when Valens left Caesarea

without having dared to sign a decree of banishment against Basil, and

fully convinced that a supernatural agency interfered to protect him. In

the West, observes Prince de Broglie, Valentinian endeavored to maintain a

neutral position between the church and heathenism; but he found it

impossible to keep his ground, and his own measures turned against him. In

the East, Valens aimed at governing against the church, but was overcome by

the sole ascendency of sanctity combined with genius. The time, in fact,

was come when the temporal power proved to be utterly helpless to save a

crumbling state of society from its utter downfall, and when the

fundamental principles on which all society must ever rest were to be

recast and remodelled by more skilful hands, though even through a dark,

chaotic period, to serve again in future days as the substratum of modern

Christendom. Geologists plunging into the bowels of the earth tell us of

primitive periods, and primitive creations, that appear to our wondering

eyes as the forerunners or foreshadows of our own world. We read something

of the same kind in the facts and incidents of the fourth century: the

priestly power makes itself already felt in a Basil, or in Augustin, much

as it was hereafter displayed in a Gregory I., or a Lanfranc, or an Anselm,

or even a Hildebrand. Doubtless, Basil and Ambrose were no Hildebrands, but

they are of the same race and genus--there is a family likeness between

them all, because, perhaps, the same spirit burns within them, whatever may

be their outward figure or robe. To convey our meaning through another

simile. You enter a gallery, containing the portraits of some eminent

family, whose deeds have left their imprint for ages on the country to

which they belong. You take your stand at the founder of the illustrious

stock, and probably his large, open, noble figure sinks at once into your

memory, as if you had before you some huge relic of the fossil world. And

then you go on, following, one by one, each successive representative of

the time-honored generations. The ancestral likeness becomes almost

extinct, and you vainly endeavor to retrace in the effeminate lineaments of

a courtier the eagle-eye and haughty traits of his forefathers. But all of

a sudden you are riveted to the spot by the portrait of a youth, who seems

to embody within himself every distinctive mark of the whole race. You

would almost mistake him for a son of the original founder, and yet he

bears so completely about him the peculiarities of his own time that to

place him anywhere else would be committing an utter anachronism. Your mind

is, as it were, thrown off its balance, and you hardly know how to account

for the delusion. Something of the same kind occurs when you compare

certain prelates of the middle age, or even of later times, with the last

bishops of the Roman empire; and nowhere does this highly interesting fact

come forth in stronger relief than in the work before us. It would be easy

to demonstrate the assertion by other incidents belonging to the life of

St. Basil; we prefer giving a still better proof in St. Ambrose, the

celebrated bishop of Milan.

He was the last Roman statesman, just as Theodosius might be termed the

first Christian emperor. He had been brought up in the familiarity of

Probus, one of the most eminent patricians of the great city. As he himself

belonged to a noble family, he had learned at an early age all the

traditions and arts of the Roman government, whilst the austerity of his

religious principles guarded him against the allurements of pleasure.

{371}

Of an open, commanding exterior, a good speaker, well versed in literature,

no less proficient in the laws of his country, it seemed natural that with

such eminent qualifications, backed with excellent connections, he should

attract the sovereign's notice. This actually took place, and he was

appointed to the consular government of Milan. But the times were

dangerous, for the unbending disposition of Valentinian had now become

tyrannical. Probus was by no means blind to the peril incurred by his

youthful _protégé_; and on taking leave of him the veteran politician

simply said, "Child, I have but one piece of advice to give you. Behave,

not like a governor, but like a bishop." The advice was characteristic and

pithy: Ambrose remembered it well. In the midst of the universal confusion

and terror caused by the emperor's cruelty, Milan enjoyed the greatest

order and tranquillity. No riots, no insurrections, no complaints; the

thing was in itself a wonder, more particularly, if we recollect the

dissensions existing between the Arian bishop Auxentius, and the better

part of his flock. In fact, a young governor setting an example of

chastity, integrity, and humanity--showing himself affable, just, or

merciful according to the occasion--never sacrificing to his own ambition

or private interests the time and property of others; such a man, says

Prince de Broglie, was, in the eyes of the population, fit to grace the

episcopal seat far better than the praetorium of the civil magistrate.

The popular election of Ambrose to the episcopacy is too well known for us

to relate once more a story that has been so often and so ably told. What

we wish particularly to bring forward is the secular character which is

constantly enforced upon a bishop of those times, whether he wills it or

not, from the very simple reason that he could do what no other could

accomplish.

Ambrose had scarcely been consecrated--he had scarcely bestowed the whole

of his large fortune upon the poor, he had scarcely given himself up to the

absorbing duties of his new position, when be was called upon to guide the

first steps of his own sovereign, young Gratian, who had just succeeded to

his father Valentinian, and raised Theodosius to the throne of the East.

Both these princes were sincere Christians, but Theodosius had been brought

up in the camp, had tasted the bitter cup of adversity, and added to the

qualities of a good soldier those of a cool judgment and a sound heart.

Gratian, on the contrary, was a mere stripling, whose intentions were

upright, but who had hardly any experience in public affairs. He thus was

naturally disposed to lean on Ambrose, whose advice, both as a pastor and a

statesman, might be so eminently useful. That advice was not wanting, and

for some time the policy of the Western Empire was in reality the policy of

Ambrose. We use the word advisedly, for no other could better answer to our

meaning and to the real state of things. At the same time we beg the reader

to remember that not for one minute does the bishop separate his strong,

manly adherence to the gospel from his views as to the secular government;

both are, indeed, so blended, so utterly identified, that it becomes as

impossible to distinguish them one from another, as it is to mark where the

influence of our bodily organs terminates, and where that of our soul

begins. The evils of the times were too frequent, and too poignant, not to

require the interference of Ambrose--not to make him bold, even as a

bishop, a sort of civil magistracy, of which his flock would have been the

very last to complain. Though he had not the slightest idea of using his

sober but penetrating eloquence for anything like popular demonstrations,

yet he was not the man to refuse the part or an intercessor, if a

population, suffering from oppression, claimed his support; or if the

sovereign asked of him to strengthen his wavering counsels, he would

readily hold out a helping hand.

{372}

And here we may find, with our author, manifest indications of that great

Christian doctrine, the "_de jure_" alliance of church and state.

Ambrose had been formed from childhood upward to a certain course of ideas,

which led him naturally to assume a large share in the direction of public

affairs.

"He could not apprehend the notion that the empire should have no

official form of worship, or rather that it should have two religions

together at one and the same time. He was shocked at the sight of an

incoherent confusion of Christianity and heathenism to be met with at

every step throughout the West, and nowhere more than at Rome itself.

The churches and their rival temples, both opened on the same day, by

order of the senate or emperor, for the same official ceremonies;

Jupiter and Mars, two glorified demons, associated with the one jealous

God, as the protectors of the commonwealth; invoked in the same

language, thanked for the same favors; and then the monuments covered

with profane inscriptions, the statues of idols towering over the

basilicas, or defying on the public squares and at the corner of every

street the cross triumphant; all this adulterous mixture of truth and

error, which the Christian emperors had never dared to proscribe

completely, scandalized the jealous purity of his faith quite as much as

his taste for administrative regularity. As a prefect, he would have

gladly put an end to such confusion, as being a public nuisance; as a a

bishop, he felt indignant against so poisonous a profanation. The empire

acknowledging but one master, and there being but one God in heaven, why

should not these two unities be linked together by an indissoluble

union? Why should the state tolerate within its limits anything beyond

those two grand unities? On this central point Gratian and the bishop

agreed even before they had seen each other. The alliance of the church

and state, which the timorous conscience of a Gratian had looked for,

Ambrose was ready not only to recommend, but enforce as a duty," (vol.

ii. p. 18.)

It would hardly be possible to point out in more positive terms the

doctrine which became the groundwork of Christendom in after times, a

doctrine which a St. Gregory VII. and an Innocent III. were to carry to its

extreme consequences. This was the germ, destined to unfold itself slowly

underground, until it should rise and develop its branches in the feudal

times, serving as a stay and prop for an anarchical state of society. But

let us not wander beyond our subject. Gratian and Ambrose were soon closely

knit together in the greatest intimacy, and ere long the influence of the

master mind became apparent. Between 378 and 381 Gratian dwelt almost

constantly at Milan, issuing new laws, which all bear the stamp of a

priestly impulse, which all are inspired by a man who could not forget that

_he_ likewise had held civil power. In everyone of these enactments,

justly observes our author, we perceive certain dispositions tempering

rigor by clemency. Thus it is, for instance, with those privileged

corporations of the Roman empire, which were at once a resource and a

source of ruin for its very existence by their extortionary tendencies;

thus, again, with a more equitable distribution of the annona, which is

modified according to the dictates of charity. Elsewhere measures are

adopted against burglary or brigandage, but at the same time qualified by

certain humane clauses, as to the mode of repression. In fact, the civil

ruler shows himself less authoritative, less imperious, less harsh and

arbitrary in the display of his power; and yet we meet with a greater

firmness, never baulked by alternatives of weakness and helplessness.

In other directions these laws assume the form of what we might call public

manifestations of the imperial conscience. Let us supply a few instructive

instances.

Milan, August 3, 379.--General law against heretics, expressly modifying

the edict enacted at Sirmium in the preceding year, and extending to such

sects as shall debase _by their sophistry_ the notion of God, the

prohibition of propagandism, which had already been laid upon those who

_annulled baptism by renewing it_, (Donatist.)

{373}

Milan, April 24, 380.--Women of low extraction, and condemned by that very

fact to appear on the stage are freed from any such obligation as soon as

they embrace Christianity; "because," says the law, "the better mode of

living they have adopted liberated them from the bond of their natural

condition: _Melior vivendi usus vinculo naturalis conditionis

evaluit_."

May, 381.--The above law is restricted; "for such women as abandon the

purity of a Christian life shall not enjoy the above exemption."

July 21st.--Liberation of certain criminals, in honor of Easter.

May 2, 382.--Penal measures are denounced against those apostates who shall

preach apostasy. Whoever abandons the Christian law to embrace idolatry,

Judaism, or Manichaeism, is declared incapable of making a will, one of the

greatest penalties to which a Roman could be subjected. And all these

measures were crowned by another, which made a deep impression throughout

the whole empire: the statue of Victory was definitively removed from the

hall where the senate assembled at Rome for its deliberations. This was

perhaps the greatest proof of the influence which Ambrose had over the

imperial mind, and not one heathen, of high or low degree, mistook the hand

that had dealt the blow.

At any rate, Ambrose was not the man to deny it. Symmachus, one of the most

illustrious patricians, who belonged to the heathen party, having sent up

to the throne a petition, whose object was to obtain the restoration of the

statue, Ambrose himself entered the lists in a counter petition, or rather

manifesto, in which we see at once the bishop and the statesman.

"Every man [says he] who acknowledges the Roman rule bears arms for the

emperors and princes; you are verily the militia of an all-powerful God,

and of the most holy faith. For there is no security for man himself if

he does not worship the true God--the God of the Christians, who governs

all things; he alone is the true God, and demands that we should adore

him from the bottom of our souls. The gods of nations, say the

Scriptures, are nothing else but devils.

"Now whosoever serves that God ought to bear within him no dissimulation,

no reserve, but devote his whole being to him. If he does not entertain

such feelings, he ought at least to offer no external consent to

idolatrous worship, or to a profane worship; for no one can deceive God,

to whom the secret of our hearts lies open. ... I am really astonished

that any man should hope to see you restore the altars of the Gentiles,

and give money from your coffers for profane sacrifices. .... O emperor!

do not allow any man to deceive your youth. ... And I likewise, I am for

following the experience of the wise, but God's counsels must rule

supreme over all others. If we had to do here with some military concern,

you should consult and follow the opinion of the best approved generals.

But in religious matters you are bound to listen to God. Is the man who

gives you this piece of advice a heathen? Well, don't force him to

believe what he won't believe; but then let him allow you, O emperor! the

same freedom: let him not attempt to force upon the sovereign an act of

violence that he would not himself endure at his hands. The very heathen

does not like a man to belie his own creed; every one ought to maintain

the free and sincere convictions of his own mind. Should those who hurry

you on to such a decision be but nominal Christians, pray, do not allow

yourself to be deluded by a name. Whoever advises you in this way

sacrifices to the gods, whether he admits it or not. ..."

Ambrose wound up by requesting to

obtain communication of the petition, with a view of answering it. "In a

worldly suit," said he, "you would listen to both parties. This is a matter

of religion. I, the bishop, I come forth to defend her. ... If you refuse

me, no bishop will submit peacefully to such an iniquity; you may still

apply to the church, but you will not meet any more with priests, or at

least with any who will not be ready to resist you."

Thoroughly to appreciate the weight of this strong language, it must be

remembered that many a lukewarm Christian within the imperial council

inclined to the restoration of the famous statue. To refuse the request of

Ambrose would, however, have been imprudent, and besides, Valentinian the

Younger revered and loved the venerable bishop, who had shown him great

kindness in trying circumstances. Once in possession of the pagan

manifesto, the great prelate of the West dealt with it in a manner which

scattered to the four winds both its arguments and rhetorical flourishes.

{374}

The whole composition is a masterpiece of sound reason and gentlemanly

satire, forming a thorough defence of Christianity against idolatry. When

it was read before the council, every wavering mind was struck dumb with

astonishment, whilst the youthful sovereign broke forth in the following

impassioned words: "It's the voice of Daniel; I will not undo what my

brother did." Of course the cause of the goddess Victory was lost for ever.

But something was not and could not be lost--we mean the contest between

the church and idolatry, that survived even the final crash of the empire.

Yet that crash, though imminent, could not yet be foreseen by either party,

still less perhaps by Ambrose himself, who was a true type of the old

Roman. His constant object seems to have been to revive the pristine policy

of his forefathers, by instilling new life into them, thanks to the sublime

doctrines of the new faith. So things went on just in the same way,

Christianity impregnating more and more the habits, institutions, and laws

of ancient society, but for purposes that were still the secret of

Providence. In the mean time Gratian was murdered by the usurper Maximus,

and Ambrose was once more called to negotiate with the murderer, and to

defend the last relics of the Valentinian family. A short time yet runs on,

and Theodosius remains sole ruler of the whole civilized world--a ruler

according to the heart of the holy bishop of Milan. With an Ambrose and a

Theodosius to prop the tottering edifice, what might not be expected? And

yet it was not to be. These two bright figures are but a transient gleam

between two storms. Alaric was born--nay, more, he had been a silent

spectator in the glittering crowd of courtiers who attended at the

coronation of Theodosius. How many wild dreams of invasion, and burning

cities, and bloody battles were teeming at that very moment in the brain of

that young barbarian!

Singular enough, the first occasion on which Ambrose and Theodosius met, as

it were, in public, gave rise to a contest. The emperor, irritated at the

summary destruction of a Jewish synagogue by one of the Eastern prelates,

had ordered it to be rebuilt at the expense of the prelate. The bishop was

absent from Milan when the order was given and sent; on his return, he felt

indignant that a Christian prelate should be bound to rebuild a temple

dedicated to the execration of Jesus Christ. It was in his eyes a sort of

prevarication far more guilty than the violation of any civil law. He

immediately wrote to the emperor in the strongest language; and here again

he sets forth that great Christian doctrine which was afterward so fully

developed and exemplified in the middle age. The whole incident is so

striking that we shall give it in the words of Prince de Broglie:

"Ambrose begins by a short insinuative exordium: 'Listen to me, O

emperor! as you wish that God may listen to me when I am praying for

you. If I am not worthy of being heard by you, how should I be worthy of

transmitting your wishes and prayers? If it be not proper for an emperor

to fear plain speaking, it is not likewise proper for a priest to

disassemble his thoughts.'

"He then enters fully and unreservedly into his own doctrine: he

maintains the unlawfulness of any help given by Christians for the

construction of an edifice destined to error; and the faithful, but,

above all, the bishops, have no more the right to do it than the emperor

to impose it upon them. If the bishop yields to the imperial order, he

becomes guilty, and the emperor responsible before God for the bishop's

weakness. 'So you must see,' pursues Ambrose, 'whither you are going.

You ought to fear quite as much the bishop's obedience as his

resistance. If he is steadfast, fear to make a martyr of him; if he

shows weakness, fear that you may bear the weight of his fall. And,

indeed, how will your order be fulfilled? Should the Christians refuse

to accomplish it, will you force them to it through violence? So you

will be obliged to confide to the Count of the East your victorious

standards, your labarum; nay, the very standard of Christ himself, with

the mission of restoring a temple, wherein Christ will be denied.

{375}

Well, pray order that the labarum shall be carried into the synagogue,

and then see whether anyone will obey you. ... History tells us that

idolatrous temples were erected in Rome with the spoils of the

Cimbrians. In our days, the Jews may engrave on the frontispiece of

their synagogue: Temple built with the spoils of the Christians. Public

order requires it, will you say? So the appearance of outward order must

lord it over the interests of faith! No; authority must yield to piety.'

"It would be impossible to assert in language of more rigorous cogency

the supremacy of the religious law over every civil law. The church, in

her maternal prudence, is far from having ratified on these delicate

points the tenets of Ambrose: as she never imposed upon the faithful the

obligation of building temples to error, so has she not forbidden them

to contribute to their material preservation whenever equity, previous

engagements, or the necessity of repairing wrongs requires it of them.

It is, therefore, by no means astonishing that Theodosius, arguing like

a civil lawgiver, should have deemed these demands excessive, or even

that he should have given way to an unusual fit of ill humor. He allowed

the letter to remain unanswered. And yet it contained toward the end two

lines which offered matter for consideration. 'Such is my request,' said

the prelate; 'I have done all in my power to present it with that

respect which is due to you: pray, do not force me to speak out in the

church.'

"Indeed, as soon as he returned to Milan, Ambrose availed himself of the

very first opportunity to speak out at church, and before Theodosius. He

chose for his text the words of Jeremiah: 'Take up thy walnut staff, and

walk forth.' He boldly asserted that the staff mentioned by the prophet

was the sacerdotal rod, intended far less to be agreeable than useful to

those whom it scourges. He then recalled several examples of the old

law, such as Nathan and David, thus showing that in all times the

ministers of God had never spared the truth to kings. The comparison was

in itself clear enough, and Theodosius must have felt somewhat

uncomfortable at the very first words; but still he could hardly expect

that the orator should address him personally. And yet such was the

case, when Ambrose said by way of conclusion: 'And now, O emperor! after

speaking of you, I must speak to you; reflect that the more God has

raised you up in glory, the more you ought to show deference to him who

has given you all. .... It is the mercy of Christ which has made you

what you are. So you must love Christ's body, or the church, you must

wash her feet, kiss them, perfume them, so that the whole dwelling of

Christ shall be filled with your good odor; in other words, you must

honor the meanest of his disciples, and forgive them their faults, since

the repentance of one single sinner gives joy in heaven to all the

prophets and apostles. The eye cannot say to the hand, I do not want

thee, thou art unnecessary. Every member of the body of Jesus Christ is

necessary, and to every one of them you owe protection.'

"The bishop came down from the altar after uttering these words in a

tone of severity, and in the midst of the general amazement, for all

were aware that the emperor was accused, but no one knew the motive of

the reprimand. Theodosius, of course, could not for one instant remain

doubtful. Stopping the prelate as he passed by, 'So you have made me the

subject of your speech,' said he in an angry tone. 'I said what I deemed

of use to yourself,' replied Ambrose. 'I see very well,' resumed the

emperor, more moved than ever, 'that you have been speaking of the

synagogue. I admit that my orders were somewhat harsh, but I have

already mitigated them; and then those monks yonder are so

wrong-headed.' [Footnote 114] Here a courtier thought fit to inveigh

against the monks, but he was soon stopped by Ambrose, who, once more

addressing the emperor, 'I am going to offer the sacrifice!' exclaimed

he; 'allow me to offer it for you fearlessly: free me from the burden

which weighs down my soul.' 'Well, well,' replied Theodosius, as he sat

down again, 'the orders shall be modified, I promise you.' But such a

vague promise, and made as it was in a sullen mood, was not deemed

sufficient. 'Cancel the whole affair,' insisted Ambrose; 'for, if you

allow one tittle of it to remain, your magistrates will take advantage

of it to grind down the poor Christians.' The dialogue proceeded in the

midst of the whole assembly, and the situation became at last downright

intolerable. The emperor gave way, and promised whatever was exacted.

'You swear to it,' said Ambrose; 'I am about to offer the sacrifice on

your word. Mind, on your word,' he repeated a second time. 'Yes, on my

word,' replied Theodosius, who wanted, at any cost, to put an end to

such a scene. The holy sacrifice began; 'and never,' said Ambrose the

next day to his sister, 'never did I feel so sensibly the real presence

of God in prayer.'" (Vol. ii. pp. 247-254.)

[Footnote 114: The Emperor's expression is far stronger: _Menachi

multa scelera faciunt._.]

What a scene indeed! And how it brings out at once the rapid progress which

Christian feeling had made of late throughout the empire. Better than the

famous penance of Theodosius in the cathedral of Milan, it shows us how

strongly the slightest deviation from the general range of Christian

opinion worked upon the people. For, in fact, we do not detect here the

slightest mark of disapprobation, far less of indignation, among the

audience.

{376}

Any other feeling but astonishment is not once perceptible, and even that

is caused by ignorance of the case, not by any want of sympathy for

Ambrose. His conduct seems to be taken for granted on the part of his

flock, however extreme and out of place it may appear to modern readers. We

are justified in considering such cases as signs of the times; fifty years

before they could not have taken place, and we doubt whether Constantine

would have allowed himself to be thus browbeaten in an open church; sixty

years after--the world had fallen a prey to the barbarians, and it was all

over with the Roman empire.

Another observation of no less importance is the fact that conduct like

this on the part of Ambrose did not in the slightest degree deprive him of

any influence with the emperor. Quite the contrary; as long as Theodosius

remained in Italy, there prevailed the greatest intimacy between these two

illustrious personages. Ambrose naturally resumed the station of a

confidential advisor, to whom every political affair is freely

communicated. No doubt that his opinions might be followed in a less

servile manner than under Gratian, but the sovereign himself was a man of

mature years, accustomed to all the arts of government, and thus a better

appreciator of the bishop's lucid views and truly Christian politics. On

both sides there sprang up a sort of mutual understanding, closely

bordering on a footing of equality, as one might expect between two master

minds. It is indeed probable that to Ambrose we owe the permanent

establishment of an Eastern and Western Empire, a division founded upon

necessity, and well calculated to avert its imminent ruin.

"Si Pergama dextra

Defendi possent, etiam hac defensa fuissent."

Nor was this all, for other measures reveal the same influence. Contrary to

what took place on such occasions, the revolution which placed Theodosius

at the head of the whole empire cost no other blood but that spilt on the

field of battle against the usurper Maximus. There were no executions, no

confiscations, no acts of vengeance; for the first time, Christian mildness

and charity had the day to themselves. Such policy, good in all times, was

excellent at a time when hardly any monarch could reckon upon transmitting

his imperial crown to his immediate descendants.

The reader may now, we trust, form a definite notion of what he may expect

to find in the _church and the Roman empire during the fourth

century_. It is a general review of what the church maintained,

preserved, and appropriated to herself among the confused elements of which

was made up ancient civilization. Among that huge mass of elements we have

purposely selected the most striking, as offering the best instances of

that constant though silent transformation which society itself was

undergoing previous to the creation of feudal Christendom. That, in the six

octavo volumes before us, there are numberless instances of the same kind,

must be evident to every intelligent mind. As another inducement to study

the book, we may add that the holy father has bestowed upon it the highest

praise in a brief addressed to the author--the best reward, assuredly,

which his truly Catholic mind could have wished.

And now, lastly, for one most important application of those historical

facts which the Prince de Broglie has placed before the world. To those who

are familiar with the annals of the two centuries which preceded the utter

downfall of the Roman empire, there is a striking resemblance, in a moral

view, with what is going on in our own times. Wherever we cast our eyes, we

find a motley assemblage of high-flown philosophical doctrines blended with

the most degrading superstitions of polytheism; or at Alexandria, the

Neo-Platonic schools borrowing a few partial tenets of Christianity, which

it mixes up with a sort of juggler's theurgy.

{377}

After listening to the apostles of this celebrated school, we had but to

cross the street to attend at one of those instructions or lectures--how

shall we call them?--in which the Christian teachers, priests, and bishops

developed the sublime tenets of the redemption. And again, a little further

on, we might have stepped into the Serapeum, and there witnessed the

immoral mysteries of the Egyptian worship. And so was it, more or less,

over all the Roman world.

Doubtless between our own times and those there are many differences, but

how many no less striking points of resemblance? We meet with no immoral

mysteries in the public worship, but how many cesspools of the same kind in

the lower ranks of society--cesspools emitting such loathsome exhalations

as would have shocked more than one heathen philosopher? There are no

barbarians at our doors, ready to rush in through every gap and weak point

of the body politic; but kings put forth their armies, in order to

establish the supremacy of might over right; and their attempts are

successful, and on the footsteps of their victorious legions an intoxicated

multitude of admirers hurry on, shouting, "Hurrah, hurrah!"

And well may they shout "_Hurrah!_" for they, in their wild ovations,

do but foreshadow the advent of a still wilder democracy, animated by all

the insensate passions of self-worship. Such, indeed, is the form of

idolatry which modern nations have assumed, in defiance of the living God,

in defiance of a blessed Redeemer, in defiance of every dogma held sacred

to mankind. Such are the barbarians, henceforward to be subdued, converted,

baptized once more by Christianity, unless the world itself be condemned to

rock and totter to and fro between anarchy and despotism. Take it as you

will--consider it as you please--run over England, or France, or Germany,

or Italy, or the eastern wastes of Russia,--everywhere you will descry and

bear the ground-swell of the huge human tides as if awaiting but the breath

of the blast to foam, and surge, and lash itself into fury. Again, the

forthcoming invasion is of a far more alarming character than that of the

German savages; for, born and nurtured in the bosom of Christianity itself,

it has profited by all its lights, benefited by all the forces of modern

science. Nay, more, our rising democracy is backed by a host of learned

infidels, whose only aim and end is to annihilate revelation, so as to

raise in its stead the adoration of man as God. Who will dare to deny that

such a situation is fraught with imminent peril or refuse to repeat with an

ancient, "_Corruptio optimi pessima_"?

And now as to our helps. An eminent French writer lately remarked in the

Revue des Deux Mondes that, after all, in the present state of society

there is nothing more alarming than in what has ever taken place since the

very birthday of the new dispensation. Has it not ever been its fate to

struggle against evil doctrines, evil practices, and evil doers? But, then,

in all times it successively modified and tempered anew its weapons,

according to the wants and exigencies of every age. This indeed is the very

secret, in a human view of the subject; this is the secret of its

ascendency over heathen corruption, feudal violence, monarchical despotism,

or even revolutionary anarchy. Now, one of the most extraordinary features

of the present age is that of thirsting after civil and political

liberties, which seem destined to become the ground-work of every future

state or government. Let us observe that this very feeling--however

vitiated and disturbed it may be--is an offspring of the gospel, and, as

such, worthy of our respect. So why should it be so difficult for

Catholicism to bring about a conciliation between its sublime doctrines and

the new cravings of civilized Europe?

{378}

"Is the notion of liberty (asks M. Vitet) alien and unknown to

Christianity? Was it never enforced within its bosom? Did the church

never practise it? On the contrary, did not liberty surround her cradle?

Was it not in the church that arose a whole system of elections, debates,

and control, which has become both the glory and rightful goal of our

modern institutions? To make peace with liberty, to live cheerfully in

its company, to understand and bless its favors, is that the same thing

as to absolve its errors? Is that to concede one jot to misrule and

anarchy? 'No,' will reply some good people; 'for God's sake, don't mix up

religion with party questions. Don't drag her into such quarrels. The

more she keeps aloof from the affairs of this world the more steadfast

will be her empire.' Granted; and above we have insisted upon this truth;

but still, however disengaged from politics, from worldly interests

however absorbed in prayer and good works we may suppose religious people

and the clergy, still how could they live here below in an utter state of

ignorance as to what was going on? Were it but to attack the vices, the

baseness, the disorders of our age, must they not know them, witness

them, with their own eyes? We put the question to those pious souls who

are scared at the very association of the two words--liberty and

religion. Are we not delighted that eloquent voices should condemn and

brand in the holy pulpit the vagaries of our modern spirit, the

revolutionary frenzy, and all those impious doctrines which are a scourge

to society? Well, if religion is right in waging war against false

liberty, why should not she be entitled to speak of sound liberty? Why

not encourage her to speak of it with kindness and sympathy, duly

appreciating its generous tendencies, making it both beloved and fully

understood? Otherwise, what sort of Christianity is yours, and what do

you believe to be its fate? Are you not making of it a narrow, contracted

doctrine--a privilege of the few--the tardy and solitary consolation of

old age or grief? If of Christianity you ask nothing more, if you are

satisfied with allowing it to live on just enough to show that it is not

dying, like one of those ruins protected by antiquarians, and never used,

though objects of general reverence--why then you must separate it from

the rising generations, from an overflowing democracy; you must allow it

to become isolated and to grow old--to bury itself complacently in the

past, in contempt for the present, just like a scolding, querulous,

morose, unpopular old gentleman. But if better apprehending its true

destiny, you wish Christianity to obtain a salutary influence not only

over yourself and your friends, but over all mankind, let it penetrate

into the hearts of all your brethren, young and old, low and high; let it

fire them with the spirit of justice and truth; let it transform them,

straighten their paths, purify them, regenerate them, by speaking their

own language, by taking interest in their ideas, by yielding to their

wishes, without either weakness or flattery, just as a kind father draws

around him all his children by making himself once more young among them,

by consenting to their requests while he corrects their faults, guards

them against the dangers of life, and teaches them the narrow, severe

paths of wisdom and truth." [Footnote 115]

[Footnote 115: Revue des Deux Mondes, Feb. 1, 1867. The above article,

written by M. Vitet, member of the French Academy, will certainly well

repay the reader's perusal, and enlighten him as to the situation of

Catholicism in France. It is indeed astonishing that such a paper

should have been published by that truly infidel periodical; in fact,

Paris readers are fully aware that the editor consented with the

greatest difficulty to its insertion. But then he had of late lost so

many Catholic subscribers.]

A leaning, then, toward the cause of civil and political freedom might

probably become a powerful help to Catholics in the present and future

crisis by which the world is now threatened. As M. Vitet very properly

remarks, they would not have to sacrifice one single principle; and such an

attitude on their part might pave the way for many a conversion. Yet such a

help is evidently but a poor one after all--a mere matter of expediency. It

is from above and in herself that the church must look for her real helps.

And here we are brought round at once to a strong resemblance between the

actual state of society and that of the fourth century after Christ. The

result of a most extraordinary progress in physical science has bent the

minds of men toward sensual enjoyment and money making. "Put money in your

purse" seems now the motto of almost every living man, and in England more

than in any country. But we may already see what are the effects of this

ruling passion, and how it gnaws at the very vitals of our social body. The

only means of counteracting this fatal craving are the same through which

Christianity conquered the heathen world. Evidently Catholicism alone

commands those means, for it is hardly worth while to take into account

that bastard, inconsistent system, yeleped Protestantism, which has arrived

at its lowest period as a spiritual doctrine, and rather promotes than

checks the materialistic tendencies of the day.

{379}

So to set, as in olden times, bright example of asceticism, humility,

charity, self-renouncement, strong faith, and a no less strong love of the

poor--such are the chief weapons of the church in her warfare against her

antagonists. Most fortunately, she appears at present to put forth her best

approved armory in this respect; for never, whether among the clergy or

laity, did there exist a more exalted ideal of Christian perfection, nor a

stronger will to carry that ideal into execution. Half the work is done,

and we have but to maintain our ground manfully in front of our common

enemy to win the day.

And yet the day may not be ours. Another world, another form of society may

reap the harvest that we have sown. When St. Ambrose and Theodosius, like

two brave swimmers, breasted the wave of corruption, quickly followed by

the wave of invasion, they fondly imagined, perhaps, that they were

securing once more the props of Roman society, or founding a thoroughly

Christian empire. Ambrose above all, a true Roman of the old stock, could

apprehend no other institutions, no other government but those which had

borne the test of a thousand years. Though a saint and a statesman, he

could not read the signs of the times; and if he could not, who could? The

future was in the hands of God; Ambrose labored and toiled for nations yet

unborn, but which were already bursting the womb of their mother Europe.

Yea! and so may it be with the men of our own generation.

------

From the Italian of Manzoni.

The Death of Napoleon. [Footnote 116]

[Footnote 116: The translation of this poem from the Italian of

Alexander Manzoni was made by the late Rev. Thomas Mulledy, Provincial

Superior of the Jesuits of Maryland. Manzoni is a standard writer in

Italy, and the ode "Il Cinque di Maggio" is a household poem with the

Italians.]

MAY 5, 1821.

He's gone: as void of motion lay,

When the last breath had winged its way,

His stiffened corse--of such a soul

Bereft so struck from pole to pole,

The astonished world astounded hung,

When in its ears his death knell rung:

Silent in dumb reflective power

It mused upon the final hour

Of that great man--that man of fate,

And knows not, if with equal weight

A mortal foot shall ever press

Its bloody dust with such success.

{380}

Him shining on a gorgeous throne

My muse beheld--nor struck one tone

While fortune's wheel its circles flies.

He falls, gets up--then prostrate lies;

While thousand voices rend the air,

Her voice amongst them none can hear.

Exempt from every servile praise,

For outrage base she forms no lays;

But now, when such a beam had fled,

She quickly rears her drooping head,

And round his urn, with heaving sigh,

She weaves a song that may not die.

From Alpine heights to Egypt's shrine,

From Mansanares to the Rhine,

His thunderbolts unerring flew

Close to his vivid lightning's hue,

From Scylla to the Tanais roars,

From Asia's bounds to Adria's shores.

Was this true glory? undefiled?

Posterity, just, unbeguiled,

The arduous sentence must proclaim,

Whilst we before our Maker's name

Must bow--who wished in him to shine

An impress vast of _hands divine_.

He felt the stormy, trepid joy

Of great _designs_--without alloy;

The anxious heart--its feverish pains--

That eager burn--to seize the reins

_That guide to power's airy height_.

He grasped them, _and with hardy might_

He gained the proud reward--which seemed

To all a folly e'en t' have dreamed.

All things he tried: bright glory's sweet

_Increased by frightful danger's heat,_

_Fair_ vict'ry's _smiles_, and _sadd'ning_ flight,

The _sunny_ throne, and exile's night:

Twice prostrate in the dust he lay,

And twice he blazed in _glory's day_.

His name was _heard_: submissive turned

Two ages--that with fury burned--

And, trembling, stood before his seat,

In expectation of their fate:

He bade them hush with lordly frown,

And as their umpire sat him down.

He disappeared: his shortened days

He closed, far from the busy gaze

Of men--a mark for envy's dart,

For purest piety of heart,

For hate, that can no act approve,

And for indomitable love.

{381}

As o'er the shipwrecked sailor's head

The wave rolls up, with terror dread,

That wave, from whose bleak top before

He searched, in vain, for distant shore;

Soon that soul the sick'ning weight

Of mem'ry felt, and brooding sat.

How oft be undertook to paint

Himself to future days--when faint

Upon the eternal pages sunk

His hand, and in himself he shrunk.

How oft, upon the silent close

Of some dull, tedious days, he rose,

And bending down his lightning eyes--

His hand thrust in his bosom lies--

He stood: and gloomy mem'ry's roll

Of days gone by attacked his soul!

He thought upon the tented field,

The sounding plain with bayonets steeled,

The splendor of his marshalled brave,

The chargers rolling in a wave,

The throbbing breast, the quick command,

And prompt obedience of his band.

Perhaps with torturing cares opprest,

His wearied spirit found no rest,

And he despaired: but quick was given

An aiding hand from piteous heaven,

To lift him up--from this dark sphere,

And place him in more genial air.

And through hope's smiling, flow'ry way

To guide him to the fields of day;

To those rewards that far transcend

The hope that vast desires lend:

Where gulfed in darkness sinks each ray

Of glory that has passed away.

O faith immortal! beauteous! kind!

Turn'd to triumphs o'er the mind!

Write this one too--rejoice! be glad!

For never yet a prouder head,

Or one on loftier deeds intent,

To Calv'ry's infamy has bent!

Off from his ashes do thou guard

All malice black--each venomed word

The God who overthrows--and when

To pity moved--rears up again--

Who scatters terror to the poles!

The God who, when he wills, consoles;

That God has placed himself beside

The desert couch--on which he died.

{382}

Translated from Le Mousquetaire.

Sketch of Père Hyacinthe.

The discourses of Père Hyacinthe, in the church of Notre Dame, have been

numerously attended, and the sacred eloquence of the orator has furnished

subjects for the strangest criticisms that have appeared in what has been

called, in the nineteenth century, the profane world.

It is not my intention to give you a portrait of Père Hyacinthe. It has

already been drawn by a master hand. I wish merely to sketch the features,

the figure, and the personalities of this great saver of souls.

The preacher, who now attracts to Notre Dame the thinking minds of Paris,

is in stature above the middle size; his head is closely shaven, like all

those of the order of barefooted Carmelites. It is well known that the

disciples of St. Teresa wear but a circlet of hair. It is their earthly

crown. His form is too large for the size of his head; his face is monkish;

his forehead recalls to mind that of St. Augustine; his eyes have rather

the expression of seeking truth than of imparting it; but the mouth opens

freely to let fall the word of God upon his hearers; the chin, without

being aristocratic, is not wanting in a certain nobility that redeems his

appearance, which at first sight is ordinary.

On the whole, Père Hyacinthe carries one's thoughts back to those monks of

the thirteenth, fourteenth, and fifteenth centuries, who, regardless of

personal safety, fearlessly crossed the thresholds of palaces to make the

dignitaries of earth listen to the teachings of charity, love, and of

liberty. This preacher has been accused of voluntarily laying aside

spiritual subjects to descend to the things of earth. This reproach is

unjust.

It is necessary to speak of what interests people the most; meet them at

their own doors, live their lives, and suffer with them. Christ spoke in

parables that the ignorant might understand him better, and the poor

flocked in crowds to hear these admirable teachings which transformed the

old world and regenerated humanity. For different times we must take

different means. In this age the man of God desires to enlighten both

Scribes and Pharisees, and to warn noble ladies of the seductive

temptations of Bael. What can be found objectionable in the earthly

character of these teachings? In spite of philosophical reasonings, we must

fall back upon the old adage, "The end justifies the means."

I do not wish to institute a comparison between Père Hyacinthe and the

sacred orators who have preceded him, but I have heard two of his sermons

in Notre Dame. Not being able to judge which was the best, I can only

decide which pleased me the more. Père Hyacinthe possesses in the highest

degree the gift of awakening man to a proper estimate of himself. Elevate

the creature, and he approaches the Creator.

I have the honor of knowing a priest who exercises his holy ministry in the

vicinity of our Lady of Loretto. He is the most amiable and benevolent man

that I have ever had the good fortune to meet.

He speaks to the humblest sinner as St. Charles Borromeo spoke to the

thoughtless Milanese. He has words of consolation and charity for all

classes of unfortunates. His door is open to them at all hours of the day

or night. Thus has he labored for several years, and God alone knows how

many wandering sheep this minister of Christ has brought back to the fold,

and how many erring hearts he has reconciled to God, to their families, and

to society.

{383}

Certainly there do not exist two kinds of morality, but the application of

morality can and ought to vary according to the situation in which they who

are in need of instruction are placed.

The church of Notre Dame is to my mind one of the churches in the world

which most elevates the soul and brings it nearer to God. I like the Gothic

church; it seems to me that prayers ascend more easily to heaven through

steeples whose spires are lost in the clouds.

The Greek Byzantine style is both rich and beautiful; but I think it

wanting in majesty. My soul is more deeply impressed upon entering the

portal of one of the cathedrals upon the Rhine than upon ascending the

steps of the Vatican.

The other day, upon listening to the touching eloquence of Père Hyacinthe,

I could not drive from my thoughts the sad remembrance of a sermon I heard

several years ago in the same place from another celebrated preacher. I had

then for a neighbor in the church of Notre Dame an abbé whose memoirs have

formed the subject of one of my best works. The orator selected for his

discourse the subject of devotion, "Thou shouldst love thy God with all thy

heart, and thy neighbor as thyself." All is contained in these admirable

words; the law and the prophets.

Such were the first words of the preacher, who from this starting-point

caused his hearers to traverse ages, tracing at length the great efforts of

those noble hearts who devoted themselves for the good of humanity.

The subject was beautiful, and the orator was truly convincing, every heart

beat in unison.

I looked at my neighbor, he was inspired. Before me was an apostle who

asked no greater happiness than to suffer martyrdom for the glory of God

and the good of his fellow-creatures.

Subsequently I learned the precise details of the life of the priest, who

called himself the Abbé Bernard.

His history is so interesting that I cannot deny myself the pleasure of

writing it a second time. The father of the abbé had accumulated great

wealth in lending money with interest. He was one of those practical men

who shut up their hearts in their money chest.

Widowed in early life, he sent his only son to college, where he remained

until he had attained the age of seventeen; he then removed him to finish

his studies by travelling for two years in England and eighteen months in

Germany.

In translating the works of Shakespeare and Goethe, the young Bernard had

acquired a knowledge of the two living languages that are now the keys of

the commercial world.

He then returned to Paris, with his thoughts more filled with poetry and

philosophy than with a mind prepared for the sterile labors of an

accountant.

His father, upon placing him in his counting-house, generously allowed him

a salary of 2,000 francs. Forced into acquiescence, Bernard began the life

of an accountant, in which he continued for several years. Unhappily, the

young man fell in love with the daughter of his father's cashier. She was a

beautiful blonde, had every desirable quality, but possessed no greater

fortune than modesty. Bernard's father, who had other views, dismissed the

cashier from his employment and commanded his son never to speak to him

again upon the subject of that foolish union. The young man fell ill, but

his father remained inflexible, "I would rather," said he, "see him laid in

his coffin than give him in marriage to an inferior. I have not worked like

a horse and economized for forty years for the bright eyes of Mademoiselle

Marie Closet; more than that, it is the extreme of folly; the time has

passed ages ago since anyone died for love."

{384}

The father was right, nature triumphed over the malady, and the young

Bernard's health was soon restored. The first day he went out during

convalescence, he hastened to the father of his beloved, who declined

seeing him, not wishing to give a pretext for calumny. Despairing on all

sides, the young Bernard resolved to put an end to his existence; a

frequent recourse for despairing lovers of twenty and twenty-five years!

His mother, a holy woman, had before her death inculcated in the

spring-time of his life religious precepts, of which be retained the

faithful remembrance. Strange caprice of the human heart! at the moment he

determined to offend God the most, be felt unwilling to die before entering

a church.

Finding himself within two steps of the church of St. Vincent de Paul, he

entered the temple. Lights burned before the two altars. At his right, a

marriage was being celebrated, and at the end of the chapel a funeral

service was being performed. The bridal party was not numerous; but the

deceased must have occupied a high position in society, judging from the

numbers who followed his remains to their last resting-place. Bernard

became absorbed in prayer. When he raised his eyes, he saw before him a

young priest blessing the assemblage. An idea quick as lightning crossed

the mind of the self-destroyer. It is noble, thought he, to console others,

even when there is no hope of happiness for one's self. A week had not

elapsed before Jean Léon Bernard entered a theological seminary. Two years

after be received ordination; he never saw his father again, but the banker

settled upon him an annuity of three thousand francs. The young Levite was

sent to a small village to begin the exercise of his holy ministry. After

celebrating his first mass, he found upon entering the sacristy a letter

awaiting him sealed with black. His father had just died and left him an

inheritance of over four millions.

Remember Christ himself has said, "The poor and those who lead sinful lives

are in great need of being encouraged and consoled." Bernard returned to

Paris, the great centre of glory and the abode of every misery.

When I first saw him at Notre Dame, the Abbé Bernard had been administering

his admirable charities in that capital for ten years. From the time he put

on the soutane he lived the life of a saint, his days and nights were at

the disposal of suffering humanity. He passed his time and consecrated his

life to healing the wounds of the soul and curing those of the body. He

multiplied himself, as it were, to accomplish his hard task. He was soon

everywhere, carrying words of peace to the dying, of hope to the occupants

of prisons, and alms to the afflicted of all classes.

Indefatigable in well-doing, with charity for the faults of others, this

worthy disciple of Christ exercised severity only toward himself.

Though scarcely forty years of age, he appeared more than fifty; in the

vigor of life he was bent like an old man. The worn features and the

cadaverous paleness of his countenance would have given him a doomed look,

had not his whole aspect been illumined by the divine halo of charity.

I will relate a few more particulars, in the brief space allotted me, of

the life of this priest and the manner of his death. In order to fulfil a

great mission of charity this abbé set out for Rome. Arriving at

Marseilles, he learned that a change consequent upon the state of the tide

would compel him to wait three days for a boat leaving for Civita Vecchia.

Patience being a Christian virtue, the worthy priest submitted to the

necessity without a murmur. Having nothing better to do, he set out upon a

tour of investigation through this interesting city, which, thanks to the

conquest of Algeria and the opening of the isthmus of Suez, should become

at some future day the first maritime city of the world. Pursuing his walk,

he took a cross street dividing the port from the oldest quarter of

Marseilles. He had hardly advanced thirty steps, when be found himself

among a crowd assembled before a house of humble appearance. A horrible

sight burst upon his vision. A woman stood before the door uttering the

most piercing shrieks.

{385}

The priest asked, "What is the matter?"

"What! Monsieur le Curé!" replied the porter at the gate. "Do you not

understand that here lies another victim to the terrible epidemic which is

ravaging the city, and that this woman is shrieking for help for her

husband who is dying?" Without waiting for the sentence to be finished, the

Abbé Bernard made his way through the crowd and directed his steps toward

the unhappy woman. "Take me to your husband," said he, extending his hand

toward her.

The woman regarded him earnestly, but, prevented from replying by choking

sobs, she showed him the way to the third floor. Upon a rough bed a naked

man was prostrated. Two of his comrades were rubbing him with woollen

cloths.

Finding himself in the presence of cholera the abbé reflected a second,

then wrote some words upon a detached leaf of his note-book. "Here," said

he to the elder of the two porters, "is an order and five francs. Run

quickly to the apothecary's! I will take your place until you return." The

priest took the cloths and rubbed the poor unfortunate. Under his skilfully

applied friction the sick man became calm; but upon seeing the costume of

the priest he could hardly contain himself with terror. "My God!" cried he,

"must I die? Yes, they have brought me a confessor." The abbé assured him

he would be better. The messenger returned bringing the medicines. The

priest remained three hours by his bedside, and when the doctor arrived he

declared him out of danger.

In the south, the people are sensational and carry their feelings to great

excess. We can hardly wonder, then, that in their enthusiasm the woman and

porters carried the Abbé Bernard out to the street in triumph. Unhappily,

while enthusiastic, they are superstitious. The crowd immediately spread

the report that the priest had power to cure the cholera. At the end of the

street, a woman, upon seeing the abbé, threw herself upon her knees,

exclaiming with sobs: "Father, my child is dying; I have only him on earth;

in the name of the Holy Virgin save him." The indefatigable apostle of

charity followed her to the poor little creature only five or six years of

age, whom he found rolling in agony. God has not given to man the power of

staying the angel of death when he turns from his path to strike the infant

in its cradle. Prayers and science are often powerless. Notwithstanding,

the child was saved.

The worthy abbé did not regain his hotel until a late hour, greatly

overcome with fatigue. The next morning he did not leave his room. Toward

noon, fearing he was ill, they visited him, and found him with closed eyes

and a smile upon his lips. He was dead. The good pastor had given his life

for his flock.

Such was the man I had for a neighbor at one of the sermons of Père

Lacordaire. Such was the man whom memory recalled to my thoughts yesterday

while listening to the last discourse of Père Hyacinthe.

------

{386}

Original.

The Two Lovers of Flavia Domitilla.

By Clonfert.

Chapter I.

The Emperor's Feast

It is now over seventeen hundred years since late on an evening about the

Ides of December, two men, with flowing palliums drawn closely about them,

met near the statue of Janus, in the street of the same name in Rome.

"Ho! well met, Sisinnius. Coming from the baths, and, like myself, bound

for the emperor's feast!"

"No, Aurelian, I've had a previous engagement to meet at my own house a man

who is a celebrity in the city for his charity and skill in healing

medicines. When my wife, Theodora, was so very ill last season, the old

Grecian slave that nursed her said that, if permitted, she would seek

Clement--that is his name--and told us of some wonderful cures he had

wrought in her native country by an application of oil. I gladly accepted

the offer. Clement, a venerable old man, effected Theodora's recovery.

Since then he has been a frequent and welcome visitor at my house. If not

too late, drop in when returning from the emperor's, and you will hear

anecdotes of strange scenes and travels in many lands. Clement spends the

evening with us."

"This, then, is what prevented your acceptance of Domitian's invitation?"

"Yes, and I assure you I look forward with more pleasure to an evening's

conversation with my friend Clement than I would to the imperial

festivities, although I understand no expense has been spared to make them

surpass anything before witnessed, even the magnificence of Nero."

"Are you not afraid that your absence from the senatorial party will be

noticed? Take care, lest, like the late Consul Clemens Domitilla, who

scrupulously avoided those entertainments of the Saturnalia, you be

suspected of a leaning toward the Jews. If so, your great popularity and

worth would scarcely save you, as they did not save him, who was, moreover,

cousin german of the emperor."

"Not I, Sisinnius! Afraid? Why, I am ready at any moment to sacrifice to

the gods of my country and of my family. _I_ to acknowledge as the

only son of the supreme Jupiter a Jew, of whom we know nothing save that he

was nailed on a cross by the procurator Pilate! Poor Clemens Domitilla! So

unaffected, so earnest, so honorable! May his manes enjoy elysium! It has

been always a mystery to me how a man of his education, of his

intelligence, of his high position and practical sense, could have been

infected with this Christian leprosy. To deny the gods worshipped by his

forefathers since the days of Romulus and Numa, and to adore in their stead

this crucified Jew, of whom we are beginning to hear so much of late--it is

inexplicable."

"It is part of the infatuation which clouds betimes the greatest

intellects," said Aurelian; and then, lowering his voice, he added: "Pardon

me for introducing a subject which you must not mention to your wife

Theodora, nor to my affianced, Flavia?"

"I have no secrets from my wife, Aurelian, nor should you from your

betrothed. No two men in Rome have more reason to trust a wife and an

affianced than have you and I."

"There was a time, Sisinnius, when I thought as you. Would I had no cause

to think otherwise now! What if _they_ are infected, as you express

it, with this Christian leprosy, which led to the death of my betrothed's

uncle, Clemens Domitilla?"

{387}

"But you know," whispered Sisinnius, "there was another motive for Clemens'

execution--_he_ was the most popular member of the imperial family.

Domitian was jealous of his popularity and influence, as he is now jealous

of this Jesus who is called King of the Jews, whose relatives he is seeking

out in every quarter."

"Would not the same motive have force with regard to Clemens' niece--my

betrothed, Flavia, if only a fair excuse could be found for the destruction

of one so young, so fair, and so innocent? Would not you and I be involved

in the ruin, if she and Theodora had the misfortune of leaning to

Christianity?"

"By Jupiter, it is impossible," broke in Sisinnius. "My wife is a model, a

very Lucretia in devotion to her lord, and attention to her household

duties. The slaves are cheerful and obedient; the laborers set to work,

stewarded and paid; the clients met and satisfied without long interviews

with me. How one so young and gentle can manage to get through so much

business and make our home so peaceful and happy is a wonder to me! I bless

the gods for the treasure they have given me in her! When tired with the

labors of office in the forum or in the senate, I am cheered by her

welcoming smile on my return home. It is impossible that one of her

business habits, so wrapt up in her husband and in her home, could have

time or folly enough to trouble her head about this crucified Jew. Perhaps

Flavia, who is rich, unoccupied, and, like all young people, romantic, may

be silly enough to lend an ear to his sorcery. If so, the sooner you make

her a wife, and give her business to attend to, the better."

"Was not Clemens Domitilla a sensible man, Sisinnius, most attentive to the

duties of his consular office, and least likely to be led astray by a mere

idea?"

"Undoubtedly he was considered a cool councillor, a practical commander,

and the ablest statesman of our time."

"And yet he yielded himself up a captive to this new religion; nay, yielded

up his life sooner than admit that Jesus was not the true God. You are

still incredulous? I hope you may be right, and my suspicions unfounded,

for both our sakes and the sakes of those we love like our own lives. But

meet me at the third watch of the night of the 8th, before the Kalends of

January, and I will promise you the means of sifting this matter to the

bottom."

"Agreed. Don't forget to drop in at our place on your return from the

emperor's banquet. You will meet Clement; and perhaps some one else, whose

name I will not tell you lest I might have to consider myself indebted for

your visit to the attraction of its owner. _Vale!_"

Leaving Sisinnius to ponder over what he had heard, we will follow

Aurelian, as he wends his way to the palace of Domitian at the foot of the

Esquiline. Aurelian was a young noble of high rank and vast wealth. The

waxen images in his paternal atrium represented many who had sat on the

curule chair; and brought his family history, stamped with the badge of

nobility, back beyond the days of the Fabii and Cincinnatus. His Etrurian

estates alone brought him in a yearly revenue, which in modern times would

be considered fabulous by those not aware of the immense wealth of even

private Roman citizens under the republic and the empire. His dress made

known his rank to those who met him as he passed along the streets. The

toga of whitest woollen cloth, the _latus clavus_, or broad purple

stripe on his uncinctured outer tunic, and the golden "C" riveted on the

upper leather of his short boots, were worn only by senators. Many stood to

admire his tall figure, stately bearing, and rich dress; and some uttered

words of praise. One remark fell upon his ears with ominous sound:

"Truly a Roman in birth and in appearance, and well worthy to be the mate

of that beautiful creature, the niece of the late consul Domitilla!"

{388}

"I saw the solitary raven flap his wings to-day on a tree in the vestibule

of her palace."

Aurelian passed on quickly as if he had not heard these words. But he was

influenced like most Romans by the superstition which from the gestures and

flight of birds would trace the adverse or prosperous course of futurity.

Once only did he pause, as a Greek clad in sable tunic carolled in broken

Latin a ditty, the burden of which, as it may throw some light upon our

story, we shall attempt to inadequately render:

"She loved her lord as her lord loved her;

But him she will not love any more;

To-night to the feast she will not stir,

But she'll sup with the Christian called Theodore,

She will sup with the Christian called Theodore,

And her lover Aurelian she'll love no more;

Another, another has got him before--

A Christian, a Christian whom she'll adore!"

"What now, slave! Again taking liberties with noble names! Do you want to

publish me to the whole city, Zoilus?"

"I admit it. Zoilus is my cognomen, master. It was an ugly mishap,

considering my poetical turn, that made me namesake of the man who maligned

Homer and got burned for his criticism. What a pity they did not give me

the cognomen Homerus or Virgilius. By the lyre of Orpheus! if they did, I

would write an epos like the Iliad or the AEneid, of which you, Aurelian,

would be the hero, and Flavia Domitilla the heroine. You would see into

what hair-breadth 'scapes you would be brought to be rescued by the sharp

end of my poetical stylus. The only thing to be regretted now is that you

will, likely enough, be brought into scrapes and find no escapes from

them."

"Be silent, slave! I have no time for your jokes," exclaimed the nobleman

in an excited tone.

"All right, then," said the imperturbable slave, "as you have no time to

receive, I cannot have time to communicate news that does not concern

_me_."

"Excuse my hasty temper, good Zoilus! I am going to the emperor's feast,

and I fear I am after the appointed hour. Take this," and he slipped into

the other's hand a silver denarius, "it will help to buy a pallium to cover

your unkempt tunic. What about Flavia?" he said in lower but more earnest

tones.

The silver piece had worked its effect upon the slave's manner, who

replied: "She will not go to the imperial feast. She dislikes the emperor,

though she is his adopted child; and naturally, on account of her uncle's

execution. Moreover, she will not partake of meats blessed in the name of

Jupiter, the father of gods and men, nor of wine poured out in libation to

Bacchus. I suspect she has lost her attachment to you, and is falling in

love with one of those Christians whom she is never done admiring. Look to

it, my noble master! For, from expressions she has let fall, my informant

suspects she has already been espoused to this admirer."

"And she engaged to me by the emperor himself?"

"Even this, notwithstanding; she has given herself over to this Christian,

whom she declares she adores."

"Zoilus! if you are deceiving me, by that oath held sacred in heaven and in

hell, I swear--"

"Swear not, my lord, until you have put me to the proof: Have I not engaged

to meet you on the night of the 8th of next kalends, to give you an

opportunity of judging on the testimony of your own eyesight? Until then,

farewell And the slave bounded away before Aurelian could say another word,

and chanted as he went:

"She'll sup with the Christian called Theodore,

And her lover Aurelian shell love no more;

Another, another has got him before--

A Christian, a Christian, whom she'll adore,

Adore, adore," etc.

Aurelian, though filled with bitter thoughts, paused to listen, and

muttered as he heard the receding strain, which was now being chanted in

doggerel Greek: "Well, we Romans are called masters of the world; but we

shall yet be mastered by our slaves." There was great reason for the

reflection.

{389}

For the slaves had now grown so numerous in Rome that the Senate feared to

pass a law appointing them a distinctive dress, lest they should thereby

come to the knowledge of their own strength. A law had been also proposed,

though not passed in the legislative council, with the view of lessening

their numbers by employing them in the public quarries and mines and other

severe works, as the Jews had been long before employed as hewers of wood

and drawers of water in the Egyptian bondage. Moreover, about this period

writing and book-knowledge generally were, with very few exceptions,

confined to the slaves in Rome. It was the sunset of the literature whose

noon was lit up by luminaries such as Virgil, Horace, Cicero, and Sallust;

and the few stray rays which yet lingered behind were either confined to

the slave population of the city or, glancing over the Alps and the

Pyrenees, rested upon favored spots in the ultramontane provinces.

As Aurelian thought over these and other matters he did not notice the

places by which he passed, and soon found himself at the gate of the

vestibule before the emperor's palace. He went through the massive bronze

door into the atrium or hall. Here he waited while the slave, whose office

it was, went to announce his arrival. His thoughts were diverted from the

subjects which had engaged them to the magnificence of the scene around.

The blue sky and brilliant stars above the _compluvium_, which was an

open space through the roof of the atrium, were shut out and eclipsed by

the many-colored lights attached to the marble pillars, white, black, and

variegated, by which the slanting tiles of the roof were supported.

Underneath the _impluvium_, which was an enclosed space corresponding

and proportioned to the open one above, sent up interwoven ellipses of

divers-colored waters through brazen tubes so arranged as to cast a

rainbow-like halo over the whole place. Between the rows of pillars thus

lighted up, receding in lofty and majestic file far as the eye could reach,

and through the _fauces_, or corridors, formed by the chambers beyond

them, there appeared the mellow glow of the lamps around the peristyle in

the distance; while the sound of rushing waters fell agreeably on the ear.

Nearer to him around the walls of the atrium Aurelian observed that the

niches, where were deposited the images of the Emperor's friends and

ancestors, were draped in veils of black, as if in mourning for his cousin

the late consul Domitilla, but in reality because the family history did

not afford many remarkable names beyond those of Vespasian and Titus.

While Aurelian was thus engaged in examining the splendor of the imperial

residence, the slave who had gone to announce his arrival returned, and

with him the "distributor of seats" in the royal _triclinium_. Led by

the latter, Aurelian entered the _triclinium_, the Roman dining hall,

which was decorated and lighted up in the same manner as the atrium. At the

end of it, on an elevated platform of cedar wood, Domitian was seated on a

throne of ivory inwrought and decorated with gold. The young noble made a

low prostration on bended knees until permitted by touch of the golden

sceptre to arise.

"Arise, Aurelian!" said the emperor. "To evidence our high consideration

for you, we have delayed our guests ten strokes of the clepsydra. But be

not distressed; we shall hear your explanations at another time. Where"

(these words were added in an undertone) "have you left our fair cousin and

child, Flavia? We expected her to accompany her accepted suitor and future

husband."

"My sovereign lord and master! the most noble Flavia has been indisposed

for some time, and regrets she cannot be present at the festivities this

evening. Her friend the noble Theodora, wife of the Senator Sisinnius, has

induced her, for change of air, to visit at their residence for some days,

where she will have the advantage of meeting an old and experienced

physician named Clement, who has travelled much in the East and thereby

become acquainted with herbs and drugs that have acquired for him the

repute of a mastery over bodily disease."

{390}

"Clement, Clement!" repeated the emperor, striving to recollect himself; "I

have heard of him somewhere before; but we shall talk of these things at a

more fitting time;" and be waved his sceptre to the steward of the banquet.

Scarcely had the sceptre waved when the eastern side of the immense banquet

hall was opened by some unseen agency, and an archway of vast proportions,

without rent or flaw, was formed, through which the loose-robed slaves were

seen driving a brazen elephant, on whose back was placed the huge abacus on

which the banquet was served. This abacus, of solid silver, had admirable

contrivances for the preservation of the warmth and flavor of every dish;

and the whole repast "from the egg to the apple," including three courses,

was served upon it. The number and nature of the dishes became at a glance

known to the guests, for over each dish the silver or golden likeness of

the fish, bird, or beast which supplied it was supported upon a very thin

wire, so colored as to be invisible in lamplight. Here was the brazen image

of the flamingo; there the golden plumage of the guinea-hen, the famous

_Afra avis_, of the Romans, was outspread without any visible support

in air. At another part the star-eyed tail of the peacock was extended

fan-like, while a turtle and a sturgeon seemed to swim on either side of

it. Every bird, fish, and beast held in repute by the Roman gourmands was

represented floating or flying over this monster server. The slaves, who

pushed it on golden rollers into the triclinium, danced as they advanced to

the music of the flute, the harp, and other instruments. At the sound of a

gong, struck by the head steward, "the distributor of seats" led the guests

to the couches on which they were to recline. Having resigned their boots,

or slippers, to the slaves appointed to receive them, they leaned back,

supporting themselves on their left elbows on the soft couches covered with

purple, embroidered with gold, and bearing the imperial arms. Many of the

females preferred to sit, and for them suitable seats were provided. At

another sound of the gong twenty slaves, in purple tunics and white aprons

sustained on black cinctures, moved into the hall, with motions of head and

foot and hands to suit the music, and removed the covers under which were

placed the materials for the feast. The same movements took place before

and after each of the courses. As soon as the covers for the second course

were taken off, the _scissores_ or carvers cut the solid dishes and

served the various meats according as the servants in waiting on the guests

presented the plates. To show the extent of refined luxury to which the old

Romans of the republic and empire carried things, it may be observed that

the carvers so managed while cutting the dishes as to keep time with the

knives to the music. In fact, the art of carving was a profession in Rome.

The writer of this hurriedly sketched tale may pause for a little here to

assure the indulgent reader that he has made it a rule in the descriptions,

in the substantial facts of the narrative, and in the lives of the leading

characters to make imagination wholly the handmaid of truth. He is sure

that in the scenes he endeavors to paint he is using the colors supplied

him by pagan and Christian writers of the times. He might point specially

to Polybius, Lampridius, and Plutarch as vouchers for his accuracy in

describing a Roman banquet in the last ages of the republic and the first

of the empire.

When the third course was over, the elephant and abacus were rolled with

the same accompaniment of music and dance from the room. Then began the

symposium, or drinking-feast. As the repositorium bearing the goblets and

wines was introduced, the ceiling or the triclinium seemed suddenly as if

by magic to disappear, and an immense stage with gorgeous scenery was

lowered into the apartment.

{391}

As it quietly and slowly descended, the voices were heard singing as if

from heaven:

"Strike the tympan, beat the drum!

Down from heaven we come.

Jupiter nodded--it must be so--

Down, down to earth below,

To greet the God, Domitian!

"Domitian is Jove upon earth we know,

Jupiter wills it-it must be so--

So, we'll beat our shields and our trumpets blow,

We'll launch the spear and we'll draw the bow.

And we'll dance 'mid the flying missiles, O!

Before the God, Domitian!

"We'll play as we play on Olympus' height,

Where Jupiter grasps the thunder's might

And hurls to earth its lances bright,

And sends from his throne the broad daylight--

We'll dance as we dance on Olympus' height,

Before the God, Domitian!"

By the time these lines were ended the stage had taken a stationary

position about six feet from the ground, so that every guest from his bench

or couch could have a full view of the performance. The first thing that

struck the eye was a group of figures, male and female, dressed in various

styles to represent the immortals. Here was Apollo with his lyre and halo;

there was Diana in her huntress garb. Mercury, with his wand and winged

sandals, was flying over the helmeted head of Minerva; while Vulcan, with

the red glow of the furnace on his face, was, with the assistance of the

Cyclops' hammers, forging thunderbolts for Jove. In another part the rustic

Pan, with his goat-ears and oaten pipe, was playing, while the naiads and

fauns in cloud-like Ionic tunics kept dancing as they fled from the

pursuing satyrs.

Suddenly the scenery is shifted and the stage is filled with

narrow-pointed, straight and double-edged swords fixed perpendicularly with

the blades upward; while a number of persons in close-fitting garments

dance alternately on their feet and hands, in the execution of which they

somersault over the sharp weapons. Again, they time with martial tread to

the quick measure of the Pyrrhic dance, the accompaniment to which was the

rattle of their flying spears on the bronze shields they bore. The scene is

again changed. The lamps are suddenly put out; and a vast chamber with

vaulted roof, through which a subterranean damp oozes, is dimly seen by the

light of a muffled lamp, which only helps to make "the darkness visible."

[Footnote 117]

[Footnote 117: Tillemont and other historians relate this substantially

in the same way.]

Along the sides, which are draped in sable cloth, are ranged a number of

coffins equal to the number of guests, each of whom reads his own name in

fiery letters shining out upon one or other of them from the surrounding

gloom; while demons, with snake-like locks and flame-like garments and

black faces, ran in horrible frenzy about, shrieking out the names of the

principal senators present. And a deep, sonorous voice, which seemed to

rise out of the earth, pronounced the following:

"Hail, monarch of monarchs! whose mighty sway

The nations and tribes of the earth obey,

From the rising sun to the setting day!

"From the highest Alp to the island cove,

Thy power is felt like the power of Jove

When Olympus shakes at his frown above.

"The Celtic shout does not pierce the sky,

The Parthian arrows pause as they fly,

When thy name is heard 'mid the battle's cry.

"When heard from the height of Caucasian snow,

The beard-like woods on its chin bend low,

And the rivers cease down its cheeks to flow.

"When breathed abroad o'er the ocean waves,

The sea-monsters sink to the rocky caves,

Where, continents under, they scoop their graves.

"When uttered by spirits among the clouds,

They gather like flocks into frightened crowds,

And bind up the tempest in sable shrouds.

"The word of thy mouth is the simoom's breath,

Thy sceptre's wave is the scythe of death

Which sweeps all life to the domes beneath.

"Then how can aught mortal in earth or air,

The might or the power of thy sceptre dare

With the crown or a crucified Jew compare?

Domitian, Domitian! Beware, beware!"

As the last verse was being chanted, the stage, the voice, and awful

chamber began slowly to ascend, until the last words seemed to fall from

the sky!

"Domitian! Domitian!! Beware! beware!!"

{392}

A hushed terror pervaded the spectators. The cruel character of Domitian

was well known. History records that he could spend whole days in killing

flies with a bodkin; which gave occasion to the witty reply of Vibius

Crispus, who, being asked, "Who is with the emperor?" said, "Not as much as

a fly." It is well known that he had at times ordered the execution of his

most intimate friends and most favored officers; nay, that he had left his

banquet to witness the death-throes of those who had partaken it with him.

Lately he had become more and more suspicious of everyone and everything.

He had conceived a great jealousy of the family and descendants of David,

one of whom he had heard was worshipped by his numerous family as Lord of

lords and King of kings. So much did this fear influence him that he sent

out orders to his civil and military officers in the East to have every

descendant of David, every relative of the Redeemer, arrested and brought

to Rome. In accordance with this order two grandsons of St. Jude, who were,

according to Jewish custom, called "brothers," whereas they were in reality

only cousins, of our Lord, were sent from Judea to Rome, and examined by

the emperor. Having questioned them about their family and about the empire

of their relative, who by his adherents was adored as God, he laid aside

his fears of their rivalry for the throne and dismissed them ignominiously.

[Footnote 118]

[Footnote 118: Eusebius, Hist. Eccles.]

They had told him they were only poor peasants living on the proceeds of a

small farm near Jerusalem; and in proof they raised their hands and showed

him the palms roughened and the nails dirty from toil. But though he had

laid aside his fears of these friends of our Lord, he did not cease to

dread the increasing number of true believers. Therefore, as if to be on an

equal elevation, he had some time before the date of the incidents of our

tale issued an edict by which he commanded all his subjects to address him

as a god, and to offer divine worship to his statue! Many citizens who gave

evidence of their appreciating the absurdity of this edict had been put to

death under his own eyes.

We may imagine, then, the secret feelings of the guests after viewing the

scene that had been presented on the stage. The pantomimic art, which in

ancient Rome and Athens had reached a height of perfection and magnificence

now unknown, had applied all its resources on the occasion to suit the

imperial mood. During the recitation of the verses descriptive of his power

over animate and inanimate nature--whether in air, in earth, or in the

sea--he held his head and sceptre erect as if with the conscious dignity of

the godhead. But when the allusion to an opponent, to "the crown of a

crucified Jew," fell on his ears, his brow lowered, his face darkened and

his eyes flamed. His excitement was increased by observing the impulsive

movements of many present, especially of a young officer of the court who,

as the same allusion was being made, laid his hand upon his sword and

advanced a step to the stage, until drawn back by a lady of mild aspect and

of retiring demeanor. The only person else besides the emperor who noticed

the motions of the young officer was Aurelian, who had conceived a jealousy

of him for some kind attentions paid to Flavia Domitilla. These attentions

were easily accounted for; the officer, as was customary with young

noblemen of wealth, had been out for some years in the suite of the

proconsul of Judea, a relative of Flavia. This circumstance led to an

acquaintance between them. But it was observed by every one except Aurelian

that the young man studiously endeavored to avoid as much as politeness

would allow the company of Flavia as well as of other ladies of the court.

This was the more remarkable considering her youth, her beauty, and her

connection with the imperial family.

{393}

The other guests were too engrossed with their fears to observe what had

not escaped the jealous eyes of Domitian and Aurelian. After an interval or

suspense, to enjoy the effects produced by fear upon the guests, Domitian

ordered them to continue the banquet--that the scene they had witnessed was

the work of the pantomimes. This allayed their anxiety; but there was no

zest remaining for enjoyment. Each one saw his own likeness in his

neighbor's pallid face long after the stage had vanished. As soon as the

usual formulas were gone through, they quickly and quietly took leave at an

earlier hour than usual on such occasions, and left the emperor seated amid

his magnificence.

Aurelian, having with the other guests left the palace at so early an hour,

was glad to have so much time for visiting the house of Sisinnius. He had

not seen Flavia Domitilla for nearly a month. She had been unwell; and, as

often as he called, she sent word that she was not able to leave her room.

He had called each day, and each day received the same answer. He was all

anxiety for her health; for, her ways so artless, and yet so artful, had

woven round his heart a network of loving thoughts and wishes for her

welfare. She had been betrothed to him by the emperor, her cousin,

guardian, and adopted father; and had avowed her attachment for him, and

proved it by the affectionate kindness of her manner. But latterly he

thought she had begun to treat him with coolness and to avoid his society.

Jealousy suggested that her previously avowed affection had been diverted

into another channel, to a different object. Could it be that after all his

efforts to secure her love, after all her professions, she had withdrawn

her affections and bestowed them on that young officer? Such were the

thoughts that held longest possession of Aurelian's mind as he bent his

steps toward the house of Sisinnius.

As soon as he touched the knocker, which was a ring grasped in a lion's

mouth, the hall door was opened by Nereus, one of Flavia's most favored

slaves. The little dog, the usual inmate of the Roman atrium, bounded in

familiar gumbols about the purple band which bound the lower edge of his

senatorial toga.

"Down, Hylax!" And he waved away the dog with the pallium he had just taken

off to intrust to the servants until his departure. "I hope your mistress

has recovered from her late indisposition?" said he, addressing Nereus,

who, though humble and respectful in manner and language, seemed to have a

dislike for Aurelian.

"Not quite recovered, my noble lord. The confinement at home was increasing

the depression of spirits, under which she has been suffering since her

uncle's death."

The door of an apartment off the atrium--not the triclinium, but a small

_diaeta_, or parlor, where the family spent the winter

evenings--opened and presented Sisinnius to view.

"Welcome, Aurelian! How so early from the feast? I heard that Apollonius of

Tyana himself was brought from Corinth to aid in the entertainment; and I

wonder to find you here before the sixth hour!"

"It is true, indeed, that Apollonius was in Rome some time ago. Either he

or the infernal imps must have been there to-night!"

"You were highly amused, then?"

"Amused! Domitian's amusements are not likely to suit all tastes."

He laid aside his pallium and wide-leafed carpentum, and was arranging the

folds of his toga, while Sisinnius in a whisper told him that Theodora,

Flavia, and Clement were inside. After the usual salutations and courtesy

he was introduced to the last named, whose venerable appearance impressed

him deeply. The hand of time had polished the upper part of the stranger's

head to a transparent whiteness through which the blue veins were visible,

and had scattered the snows of some eighty years on the hairs, which, like

a silver crown, encircled his neck and flowed down on his shoulders. His

face was bronzed by long exposure to suns in many lands.

{394}

But there was about it an indescribable sweetness, and a charity beamed in

his piercing eye sure to win the attention and good-will of all. He wore

goat-skin sandals without stockings. The other parts of his dress, though

indicative of citizenship and noble birth, were old and threadbare. The

only ornament he wore was a plain gold ring, on which a cross was engraven.

Aurelian recognized in Clement the person who, some weeks before, when a

physician was sought to attend one of the human [Footnote 119] victims in

the capitol sacrificed to propitiate the god of war, presented himself and

said: "I am not a physician by profession. But during a long life spent in

foreign lands I have learned some secrets of the healing art. If permitted,

I can relieve the pains of yonder victim." Leave was given; for according

to the augurs it would be a bad omen if the victim expired before the

conclusion of the sacrificial rite. Clement spoke in language which

Aurelian did not understand, and raised his hand over the head of the

sufferer, who, seeing it, brightened into smiles. He then took out a silver

case from his side-pocket and rubbed its contents over parts of the wounded

body; and immediately, before all present, the wounds inflicted by the fire

were healed, and the victim was strong as ever. Recognizing now in the

guest of Sisinnius the visitor of the capitol, Aurelian rejoiced to make

his acquaintance. He rejoiced, too, on account of Flavia, whose health,

dear to him as his own, would, no doubt, be soon restored by the skill of

Clement.

[Footnote 119: Smith's Dictionary of Antiquities. _Vide

Sacrificium_.]

"Come, Aurelian," said Sisinnius, "help yourself to some of those Calabrian

pomegranates and to a cyathus of Falernian. You seem to want it sadly, for

you look as pale as if you had seen the ghost of Nero. While you help

yourself, tell us how you fared at the emperor's. Did he by way of disport

order any of those Jews or Christians to be executed?" The Jews and

Christians were during the first centuries considered the same by the

pagans.

"No! But it might have come to that had the entertainment been prolonged!"

And be related the incidents we have already laid before the reader. When

he spoke of the effect produced on the emperor by the allusion to the

"Crucified Jew," the eyes of Flavia and Theodora met and turned to the face

of Clement. The latter seemed for a time lost to the thought of all about

him. Tears glistened in his eyes, which were sad and thoughtful, while his

white head was bent and his lips moved silently. Sisinnius was too wrapt in

the description of the banquet, and Aurelian too much complimented by the

silence in which they listened to him, to observe the old man. Otherwise,

they, like the two women, would have easily construed the motion of his

lips into the words: "Father, not my will, but thine, be done. But give

wisdom and strength to thy servant."

"This bodes ill for the Christians," said Sisinnius when Aurelian had

finished.