I. BLANDINA THE SLAVE 1
II. S. CÆCILIA 19
III. S. AGNES 39
IV. FEBRONIA OF SIBAPTE 53
V. THE DAUGHTER OF CONSTANTINE 75
VI. THE SISTER OF S. BASIL 93
VII. GENEVIÈVE OF PARIS 111
VIII. THE SISTER OF S. BENEDICT 129
IX. S. BRIDGET 149
X. THE DAUGHTERS OF BRIDGET 179
XI. S. ITHA 197
XII. S. HILDA 217
XIII. S. ELFLEDA 231
XIV. S. WERBURGA 253
XV. A PROPHETESS 275
XVI. S. CLARA 295
XVII. S. THERESA 315
XVIII. SISTER DORA 349
[Illustration: BLANDINA THE SLAVE.]
I
_BLANDINA THE SLAVE_
In the second century Lyons was the Rome of Gaul as it is now the second
Paris of France. It was crowded with temples and public monuments. It
was moreover the Athens of the West, a resort of scholars. Seated at the
confluence of two great rivers, the Rhône and the Sâone, it was a centre
of trade. It is a stately city now. It was more so in the second century
when it did not bristle with the chimneys of factories pouring forth
their volumes of black smoke, which the atmosphere, moist from the
mountains, carries down so as to envelop everything in soot.
In the great palace, now represented by the hospital, the imbecile
Claudius and the madman Caligula were born. To the east and south far
away stand Mont Blanc and the snowy range on the Dauphiné Alps.
Lyons is a city that has at all times summed in it the finest as well as
the worst characteristic of the Gallic people. The rabble of Lyons were
ferocious in 177, and ferocious again in 1793; but at each epoch, during
the Pagan terror and the Democratic terror, it produced heroes of faith
and endurance.
The Emperor Marcus Aurelius was a philosopher full of good intentions,
and a sentimental lover of virtue. But he fondly conceived that virtue
could only be found in philosophy, and that Christianity, which was a
doctrine and not a speculation, must be wrong; and as its chief
adherents belonged to the slave and needy classes, that therefore it was
beneath his dignity to inquire into it. He was a stickler for the
keeping up of old Roman institutions, and the maintenance of such rites
as were sanctioned by antiquity; and because the Christians refused to
give homage to the gods and to swear by the genius of the emperor, he
ordered that they should be persecuted to the death.
He had been a pretty, curly-haired boy, and a good-looking young man. He
had kept himself respectable, and looked on himself with smug
self-satisfaction accordingly. Had he stooped to inquire what were the
tenets, and what the lives, of those whom he condemned to death, he
would have shrunk with horror from the guilt of proclaiming a general
persecution.
In Lyons, as elsewhere, when his edict arrived the magistrates were
bound to seek out and sentence such as believed in Christ.
A touching letter exists, addressed by the Church of Lyons to those of
Asia and Phrygia giving an account of what it suffered; and as the
historian Eusebius embodied it in his history, it happily has been
preserved from the fingering, and rewriting, and heightening with
impossible marvels which fell to the lot of so many of the Acts of the
Martyrs, when the public taste no longer relished the simple food of the
unadorned narratives that were extant.
“The grace of God,” said the writers, “contended for us, rescuing the
weak, and strengthening the strong. These latter endured every species
of reproach and torture. First they sustained bravely all the insults
heaped on them by the rabble—blows and abuse, plundering of their goods,
stoning and imprisonment. Afterwards they were led into the forum and
were questioned by the tribune and by the town authorities before all
the people, and then sent to prison to await the coming of the governor.
Vetius Epagathus, one of the brethren, abounding in love to God and man,
offered to speak in their defence; whereupon those round the tribunal
shouted out at him, as he was a man of good position. The governor did
not pay attention to his request, but merely asked whether he, too, were
a Christian. When he confessed that he was, he also was transferred to
the number of the martyrs.”
What the numbers were we are not told. The most prominent among them
were Pothinus, the bishop, a man in his ninetieth year, Sanctus, the
deacon of the Church of Vienne, Maturus, a recent convert, Attalus, a
native of Pergamus, Blandina, a slave girl, and her mistress, another
woman named Biblis, and Vetius, above referred to.
Among those arrested were ten who when tortured gave way: one of these
was Biblis; but, although they yielded, yet they would not leave the
place of trial, and remained to witness the sufferings of such as stood
firm; and some—among these was Biblis—plucking up courage, presented
themselves before the judge and made amends for their apostasy by
shedding their blood for Christ.
The slaves belonging to the Christians of rank had been seized and were
interrogated; and they, in their terror lest they should be put to
torture, confessed anything the governor desired—that the Christians ate
little children and “committed such crimes as are neither lawful for us
to speak of nor think about; and which we really believe no men ever did
commit.”
The defection of the ten caused dismay among the faithful, for they
feared lest it should be the prelude to the surrender of others.
The governor, the proconsul, arrived at the time of the annual fair,
when Lyons was crowded; and he deemed this a good opportunity for
striking terror into the hearts of the Christians.
Those who stood firm were brought out of prison, and, as they would not
do sacrifice to the gods, were subjected to torture.
Blandina was a peculiarly delicately framed young woman, and not strong.
Her mistress, who was one of the martyrs, was apprehensive for her; but
Blandina in the end witnessed the most splendid confession of all. She
was frightfully tortured with iron hooks and hot plates applied to her
flesh from morning till night, till the executioners hardly knew what
more to do; “her entire body being torn and pierced.”
Brass plates, red hot, were also applied to the most tender parts of the
body of the deacon, Sanctus, but he continued unsubdued, firm in his
confession. At last he was thrown down on the sand, a mass of wounds, so
mangled and burnt that he seemed hardly to retain the human shape. He
and Blandina were conveyed back to prison.
Next day “the tormentors tortured Sanctus again, supposing that whilst
his wounds were swollen and inflamed, if they continued to rend them
when so sensitive as not to bear the touch of the hand, they must break
his spirit”—but it was again in vain.
Then it was that Biblis, the woman who had done sacrifice, came forward
“like one waking out of a deep sleep,” and upbraided the torturers;
whereupon she was dragged before the chief magistrate, confessed Christ,
and was numbered among the martyrs.
The proconsul ordered all to be taken back to prison, and they were
thrust into a black and noisome hole, and fastened in the stocks, their
feet distended to the fifth hole—that is to say, stretched apart as far
as was possible without dislocation—and so, covered with sores, wounds
and blisters, unable to sleep in this attitude, they were left for the
night. The suffocation of the crowded den was too much for some, and in
the morning certain of those who had been crowded into it were drawn
forth dead.
Next day the aged bishop Pothinus was led before the magistrate. He was
questioned, and asked who was the God of the Christians.
“If thou art worthy,” answered he, “thou shalt know.”
He was then stripped and scourged, and beaten about the head. The crowd
outside the barriers now took up whatever was at hand, stones,
brickbats, dirt, and flung them at him, howling curses and blasphemies.
The old man fell gasping, and in a state hardly conscious was dragged to
the prison.
And now, on the great day of the fair, when the shows were to be given
to the people, the proconsul for their delectation threw open the
amphitheatre. This was a vast oval, capable of holding forty thousand
spectators. It was packed. On one side, above the arena, was the seat of
the chief magistrate, and near him those reserved for the city magnates.
At the one end, a series of arches, now closed with gates of stout bars
and cross-bars, hinged above and raised on these hinges by a chain,
opened from the dens in which the wild beasts were kept. The beasts had
not been fed for three days, that they might be ravenous.
It was the beginning of June—doubtless a bright summer day, and an
awning kept off the sun from the proconsul. Those on one side of the
amphitheatre, the slaves on the highest row, could see, vaporous and
blue on the horizon, above the crowded tiers opposite, the chain of the
Alps, their crests white with eternal snows.
“No sooner was the chief magistrate seated, to the blare of trumpets,
than the martyrs were introduced. Sanctus had to be supported; he could
hardly walk, he was such a mass of wounds. All were now stripped of
their garments and were scourged. Blandina was attached to a post in the
centre of the arena. She had been forced every day to attend and witness
the sufferings of the rest.”
But even now they were not to be despatched at once. Maturus and Sanctus
were placed on iron chairs, and fires were lighted under them so that
the fumes of their roasted flesh rose up and were dissipated by the
light summer air over the arena, and the sickening savour was inhaled by
the thousands of cruel and savage spectators.
Then they were cast off to be despatched with the sword.
The dens were opened. Lions, tigers, leopards bounded forth on the sand
roaring. By a strange accident Blandina escaped. The hungry beasts paced
round the arena, but would not touch her.
Then a Greek physician, called Alexander, who was looking on, unable to
restrain his enthusiasm, by signs gave encouragement to the martyrs. So
at least it would seem, for all at once we learn that the mob roared for
Alexander, as one who urged on the Christians to obstinacy. The governor
sent for him, asked who he was, and when he confessed that he was a
Christian, sent him to prison.
Attalus was now led forth, with a tablet on his breast on which was
written in Latin, “This is Attalus, the Christian.”
As he was about to be delivered to the tormentors, some one whispered to
the proconsul that the man was a Roman. He hesitated, and sent him back
to prison.
Then a number of other Christians who had Roman citizenship were
produced, and had their heads struck off. Others who had not this
privilege were delivered over to the beasts. And now some of those who
had recanted came forward and offered themselves to death.
Next day the proconsul was again in his place in the amphitheatre. He
had satisfied himself that Attalus could not substantiate his claim to
citizenship, so he ordered him to torture and death. He also was placed
in the iron chair; after which he and Alexander were given up to be
devoured by the beasts.
This was the last day of the shows, and to crown all, Blandina was now
produced, together with a boy of fifteen, called Ponticus. He, like
Blandina, had been compelled daily to witness the torments to which the
rest had been subjected.
And now the same hideous round of tortures began, and Blandina in the
midst of her agony continued to encourage the brave boy till he died.
Blandina had been roasted in the iron chair and scourged.
As a variety she was placed in a net. Then the gate of one of the larger
dens was raised, and forth rushed a bull, pawed the sand, tossed his
head, looked round, and seeing the net, plunged forward with bowed head.
Next moment Blandina was thrown into the air, fell, was thrown again,
then gored—but was happily now unconscious. Thus she died, and “even the
Gentiles confessed that no woman among them had ever endured sufferings
as many and great.” But not even then was their madness and cruelty to
the saints satisfied, for “... those who were suffocating in prison were
drawn forth and cast to the dogs; and they watched night and day over
the remains left by beasts and fire, however mangled they might be, to
prevent us from burying them. The bodies, after exposure and abuse in
every possible way during six days, were finally cast into the Rhône.
These things they did as if they were able to resist God and prevent
their resurrection.”
The dungeons in which S. Pothinus, S. Blandina, and the rest of the
martyrs were kept through so many days, are shown beneath the abbey
church of Ainay at Lyons. It is possible enough that Christian tradition
may have preserved the remembrance of the site. They are gloomy cells,
without light or air, below the level of the river. The apertures by
which they are entered are so low that the visitor is obliged to creep
into them on his hands and knees. Traces of Roman work remain. Adjoining
is a crypt that was used as a chapel till the Revolution, when it was
desecrated. It is, however, again restored, the floor has been inlaid
with mosaics, and the walls are covered with modern frescoes,
representing the passion of the martyrs.
What makes it difficult to believe that these are the dungeons is that
the abbey above them is constructed on the site of the Athenæum founded
by Caligula, a great school of debate and composition, and it is most
improbable that the town prisons should have been under the university
buildings. In all likelihood in the early Middle Ages these vaults were
found and supposed to have been the prisons of the martyrs, and
supposition very rapidly became assurance that they were so. The prison
in which the martyrs were enclosed was the _lignum_ or _robur_, which
was certainly not below the level of the river.
The question arises, when one reads stories of such inhuman cruelties
done, did the victims suffer as acutely as we suppose? I venture to
think not _at the time_. There can be no question, as it is a thing
repeatedly attested, that in a moment of great excitement the nerves are
not very sensitive. The pain of wounds received in battle is not felt
till after the battle is over. Moreover, it may be questioned whether
the human system can endure pain above a certain grade—whether, in fact,
beyond a limit, insensibility does not set in.
I attended once a poor lady who was frightfully burnt. A paraffin lamp
set fire to a gauze or lace wrap she had about her neck. All her throat
and the lower portion of her face were frightfully burnt. I was
repeatedly with her, but she was unconscious or as in a sleep; there was
no expression of anguish in her face. She quietly sank through
exhaustion. I have questioned those who have met with shocking
accidents, and have always been assured that the pain began when nature
commenced its labour of repair. Pain, excruciating pain, can be endured,
and for a long period; but I think that when carried beyond a fixed
limit it ceases to be appreciable, as insensibility sets in.
This is a matter for investigation, and it were well if those who read
these lines were to endeavour to collect evidence to substantiate or
overthrow what is, with me, only an opinion.
[Illustration: S. CÆCILIA.]