THE VOICE AT MIDNIGHT
As soon as dusk began to veil the sky, Christians in parties of three and
four came to the house of Baudillas. They belonged for the most part to
the lowest classes. None were admitted till they had given the pass‐word.
An _ostiarius_ or porter kept the door, and as each tapped, he said in
Greek: “Beloved, let us love one another.” Whereupon the applicant for
admission replied in the same tongue, “For love is of God.”
Owing to the Greek element in the province, large at Massilia, Arelate and
Narbo, but not less considerable at Nemausus, the Hellenic tongue, though
not generally spoken, was more or less comprehended by all in the towns.
The Scriptures were read in Greek; there was, as yet, no Italic version,
and the prayers were recited, sometimes in Greek, sometimes in Latin. In
preaching, the bishops and presbyters employed the vernacular—this was a
conglomerate of many tongues and was in incessant decomposition, flux, and
recomposition. It was different in every town, and varied from year to
year.
In the sub‐apostolic church it was customary for a banquet to be held in
commemoration of the Paschal Supper, early in the afternoon, lasting all
night, previous to the celebration of the new Eucharistic rite, which took
place at dawn. The night was spent in hymn singing, in discourses, and in
prayer.
But even in the Apostolic age, as we learn from St. Paul’s first Epistle
to the Corinthians, great abuses had manifested themselves, and very
speedily a change was made. The Agape was dissociated from the Eucharist
and was relegated to the evening after the celebration of the Sacrament.
It was not abolished altogether, because it was a symbol of unity, and
because, when under control, it was unobjectionable. Moreover, as already
intimated, it served a convenient purpose to the Christians by making
their meetings resemble those of the benefit clubs that were under legal
protection.
It may be conjectured that where the bulk of the members were newly
converted, and were ignorant, there would speedily manifest itself among
them a tendency to revert to their pagan customs, and a revolt against the
restraints of Christian sobriety. And this actually took place, causing
much embarrassment to the clergy, and giving some handle to the heathen to
deride these meetings as scenes of gross disorder.
No sooner did persecution cease, and the reason for holding love‐feasts no
longer held, than they were everywhere put down and by the end of the
fourth century had absolutely ceased.
In the third century Tertullian, in his “Apology” addressed to the
heathen, gave a rose‐colored description of the institution; but in his
“Treatise on Fasting” addressed to the faithful, he was constrained to
admit that it was a nursery of abuses. But this, indeed, common sense and
a knowledge of human nature would lead us to suspect.
We are prone to imagine that the first ages of the Church saw only saints
within the fold, and sinners without. But we have only to read the
writings of the early Fathers to see that this was not the case. If we
consider our mission stations at the present day, and consult our
evangelists among the heathen, we shall discover that the newly converted
on entering the Church, bring with them much of their past: their
prejudices, their superstitions, their ignorance, and their passions. The
most vigilant care has to be exercised in watching against relapse in the
individual, and deterioration of the general tone. The converts in the
first ages were not made of other flesh and blood than those now
introduced into the sheepfold, and the difficulties now encountered by
missionaries beset the first pastors of Christ fifteen and sixteen hundred
years ago.
In an honest attempt to portray the condition of the Church at the opening
of the third century, we must describe things as they were, and not as we
should wish them to have been.
The _atrium_ or courtyard was not lighted; there was sufficient
illumination from above. The curtains of the _tablinum_ were close drawn,
as the reception chamber was not to be put in requisition that night. The
_triclinium_ or dining‐room that received light through the doorway only
would have been dark had not a lamp or two been kindled there.
About thirty persons were present, male and female, but no children. Some
were slaves from believing households; there were a few freedmen. Some
were poor artisans, weavers, bakers, and men who sold charcoal, a porter,
and a besom‐maker.
Quincta and Perpetua were the highest in social position of those present.
A second deacon, named Marcianus, was there, a handsome man, peremptory in
manner, quick in movement; in every point a contrast with his timid,
hesitating brother in the ministry.
The bishop had not arrived when the Agape began, and the blessing was
spoken by an aged and feeble presbyter. The tables were spread with
viands, and the deacons and deaconesses ministered to those who reclined
at them. There was not room for all in the dining‐chamber, and a table and
couches had been spread in the court for such as could not be accommodated
within.
The proceedings were marked by the strictest propriety, the eating and
drinking were in moderation, conversation was edifying, and general
harmony prevailed. During the meal, a knocking was heard at the outer
gate, and when the porter asked the name of the applicant for admission,
the password was given, and he was admitted.
All rose to receive Castor, the bishop.
“Recline again, my friends,” said he. “I have come from the house of
Flavillus, the timber merchant on the _stagna_; his wife’s mother has
endured that which is human. She sleeps, and her spirit is with the Lord.
I have been delayed. I was doing the work of my Master. One, a stranger to
the faith, questioned me, and I tarried to converse with him, and disclose
to his dark mind some ray of light. If the supper be ended, I will offer
thanks.”
Then, standing at one of the tables, he made prayer to God, and thanked
Him who had caused the corn to spring out of the earth, and had gathered
the many grains into one bread; who had watered the vine from heaven, and
had flushed the several grapes with generous juice, uniting the many into
one bunch.
The thanksgiving ended, lights were introduced in considerable numbers.
There is no twilight in southern climes; when night falls, it falls
darkly. Now all who had eaten went to the _impluvium_, dipped their hands,
and washed their lips, then wiped them on towels held by the deaconesses.
The tables were quickly removed, and the benches ranged in the
_triclinium_, so as to accommodate all.
No sooner was the whole congregation assembled, than the president,
Castor, invited all such as had a psalm, an interpretation, a vision, or
an edifying narrative, to relate or recite it.
Then up started a little man, who held a lyre.
“Sir,” said he, “I have composed a poem in honor of Andeolus, the martyr
of Gentibus.”
He struck a chord on his instrument, and sang. The composition was devoid
of poetry, the meter halting, the Latin full of provincialisms, and the
place of poetic imagery was filled with extravagances of expression. When
he had concluded, he perhaps inadvertently wound up with the words,
“Generous audience, grant me your applause!”—the usual method of
conclusion on the stage.
And the request met with favor—hands were clapped.
Then Bishop Castor rose, and with a grave face, said:
“We have listened to Lartius Garrulus with interest and with edification.
It is well to glorify the memories of the holy ones who have witnessed a
good confession, who have fought the fight, and have shed their blood as a
testimony. But a poet in treating of such subjects, should restrain his
too exuberant fancy, and not assert as facts matters of mere conjecture,
nor should he use expressions that, though perhaps endurable in poetry,
cannot be addressed to the martyrs in sober prose. The ignorant are too
ready to employ words without considering their meaning with nicety, and
to quote poets as licensing them to do that which their pastors would
forbid.”
“But,” said the deacon Marcianus, “what if this be uttered by
inspiration?”
“The Spirit of God,” answered Castor, “never inspires the mind to import
into religion anything that is not true.” Turning round, he said: “I call
on Turgellius to interpret a portion of the Epistle of the Blessed Paul,
the Apostle to the Romans, translating it into the vulgar tongue, as there
be those present who comprehend Greek with difficulty.”
This done, one rose, and said:
“Sir, suffer me to disclose a revelation. I was asleep on my bed, three
nights agone, and I had a dream, or vision, from on high. I beheld a snow‐
white flock pasturing on a mountain; there was abundance of herbage, and
the sky was serene. The shepherd stood regarding them, leaning on his
staff, and the watch‐dog slept at his feet in the grass. Then, suddenly,
the heavens became obscured, lightning flashed, thunder rolled: the flock
was terrified and scattered. Thereupon came wolves, leaping among the
sheep, and rending them; and I beheld now that some which I had taken to
be sheep, cast their skins, and disclosed themselves to be ravening
beasts. What may be signified by the vision, I know not, but I greatly
fear that it portends an evil time to the Church.”
“That is like enough,” said Baudillas, “after what has occurred this day.
If the bishop has not heard, I will relate all to him in order.”
“I have been informed of everything,” said Castor.
“It is well that there should be a sifting of the wheat from the chaff,”
said Marcianus. “Too long have we had wolves masquerading among us clothed
in sheepskins. See!” He threw back his mantle, and extended his hand. “On
my way hither, I passed by the fountain of Nemausus, and none were there.
Then my soul was wrath within me at the idolatry and worship of devils
that goes on in the temple and about the basin. So I took up a stone, and
I climbed upon the pedestal, and I beat till I had broken this off.” Then
he rolled an alabaster sculptured head on the floor. With a contemptuous
kick, he sent it spinning. “This is their god Nemausus. A deacon of
Christ’s Church, with a bit of stone, is able to break his neck, and carry
off his head!” Then he laughed. But none laughed in response.
A thrill of dismay ran through the assembly.
A woman fell into hysterics and screamed. Some called out that she
prophesied, others that she spake with tongues. Baudillas appeased the
excitement. “The tongue she speaks,” said he, “is the Ligurian of the
Cebennæ, and all she says is that she wishes she were safe with her
children in the mountains, and had never come into the town. Now, indeed,
it seems that the evil days foreseen by Pantilius Narbo will come on the
Church. The people might forget that the god was robbed of his victim, but
not that his image has been defaced.”
“Well done, I say!” shouted a man, thrusting himself forward. His face was
inflamed and his eyes dazed. “I—I, Tarsius the slave, and Marcianus, the
deacon, are the only Christians with any pluck about us. Cowards that ye
all are, quaking at the moment of danger—hares, ye are, hares afraid of
the whistling of the wind in the grass. I—I——”
“Remove that man,” said the bishop. “He has been drinking.”
“I—I drinking. I have supped the precious Ambrussian wine, too good for
the rag‐tag. Dost think I would pour out to him who binds brooms? Or to
her—a washerwoman from the mountains? Ambrussian wine for such as
appreciate good things—gold as amber, thick as oil, sweet as honey.”
“Remove him,” said the bishop firmly.
Hands were laid on the fellow.
Then turning to Marcianus, Castor said sternly, “You have acted
inconsiderately and wrongly, against the decrees of the Fathers.”
“Aye!—of men who were timorous, and forbade others doing that from which
they shrank themselves. I have not so learned Christ.”
“Thou thyself mayest be strong,” said Castor, “but thine act will bring
the tempest upon the Church, and it will fall upon the weak and young.”
“Such as cannot stand against the storm are good for naught,” said
Marcianus. “But the storm is none of my brewing. It had arisen before I
intervened. The escape of the lady Perpetua from the fountain—that was the
beginning, I have but added the final stroke.”
“Thou hast acted very wrongly,” said the bishop. “May God, the God of all
comfort, strengthen us to stand in the evil day. In very truth, the powers
of darkness will combine against the Church. The lightnings will indeed
flash, the sheep be scattered, and those revealed whom we have esteemed to
be true disciples of Christ, but who are far from Him in heart. Many that
are first shall be last, and the last first. It is ever so in the Kingdom
of Christ—hark!”
Suddenly a strange, a terrible sound was heard—a loud, hoarse note, like a
blast blown through a triton’s shell, but far louder; it seemed to pass in
the air over the house, and set the tiles quivering. Every wall vibrated
to it, and every heart thrilled as well. Men rushed into the _atrium_ and
looked up at the night sky. Stars twinkled. Nothing extraordinary was
visible. But those who looked expected to see some fire‐breathing monster
flying athwart the dark, heavenly vault, braying; and others again cried
out that this was the trumpet of the archangel, and that the end of all
things was come.
Then said Marcianus, “It is the voice of the devil Nemausus! He has thus
shouted before.”