THE VISION OF THE CROSS AND THE EDICT OF
MILAN
It was during the course of the successful invasion of Italy, which
culminated in the battle of the Milvian Bridge and the capture of Rome,
that there took place—or was said to have taken place—the famous vision
of the cross, surrounded by the words, “Conquer by This,” which
accompanied the triumph of Constantine’s arms. There are two main
authorities for the legend, Eusebius and Lactantius, both, of course,
Christians and uncompromising champions of Constantine, with whom they
were in close personal contact. A third, though he makes no mention of
the cross, is Nazarius, the author of the Tenth Panegyric. The
variations which subsequent writers introduce into the story relate
merely to details, or are obvious embroideries upon an original legend,
such, for example, as the statement of Philostorgius that the words of
promise around the cross were written in stars. We need not trouble,
therefore, with the much later versions of Sozomen, Socrates, Gregory of
Nazianzen, and Nicephorus; it will be enough to study the more or less
contemporary statements of Eusebius, Lactantius, and Nazarius. And of
these by far the fullest and most important is that of Eusebius, Bishop
of Cæsarea, who explicitly declares that he is repeating the story as it
was told to him by Constantine himself.
Eusebius shews us the Emperor of Gaul anxiously debating within his own
mind whether his forces were equal to the dangerous enterprise upon
which he had embarked. Maxentius had a formidable army. He had also
laboured to bring over to his side the powers of heaven and hell.
Constantine’s information from Rome apprised him that Maxentius was
assiduously employing all the black arts of magic and wizardry to gain
the favour of the gods. And Constantine grew uneasy and apprehensive,
for no one then disbelieved in the efficacy of magic, and he considered
whether he might not counterbalance this undue advantage which Maxentius
was obtaining by securing the protecting services of some equally potent
deity. Such is the only possible meaning of Eusebius’s words, ἐννοεῖ
δῆτα ὁποῖον δέοι θέον ἐπιγράψασθαι βοηθὸν—words which seem strange in
the twentieth century, but were natural enough in the fourth. “He
thought in his own mind what sort of god he ought to secure as ally.”
And then, says his biographer, the idea occurred to him that though his
predecessors in the purple had believed in a multiplicity of gods, the
great majority of them had perished miserably. The gods, at whose altars
they had offered rich sacrifice and plenteous libation, had deserted
them in their hour of trouble, and had looked on unmoved while they and
their families were exterminated from off the face of the earth, leaving
scarcely so much as a name or a recollection behind them. The gods had
cheated them and lured them to their doom with suave promises of
treacherous oracles. Whereas, on the other hand, his father,
Constantius, had believed in but one god, and had marvellously prospered
throughout his life, helped and protected by this single deity who had
showered every blessing upon his head. From such a contrast, what other
deduction could be drawn than that the god of Constantius was the deity
for Constantius’s son to honour? Constantine resolved that it would be
folly to waste time or thought upon deities who were of no account (περὶ
τούς μηδὲν ὄντας θεοὺς). He would worship no other god than the god of
his father.
Such, according to Eusebius, is the first phase of the Emperor’s
conversion, a conviction not of sin, but of the folly of worshipping
gods who cannot or will not do anything for their votaries. But this god
of his father, this single unnamed divinity, who was it? Was it one of
the gods of the Roman Pantheon, Jupiter, or Apollo, or Hercules, whose
special protection Constantine had claimed for himself, as Augustus had
claimed that of Apollo, and Diocletian that of Jupiter? Or was it the
vague spirit of deity itself, the τὸ θειον of the Greek philosophers,
the _divinitas_ of the cultured Roman, whose delicacy was offended by
the grossness of the exceedingly human passions of the Roman gods and
goddesses? Obviously, it must be the latter, and Eusebius tells us that
Constantine offered up a prayer to this god of his father, beseeching
him, “to declare himself who he was,” and to stretch forth his right
hand to help. “To declare himself who he was!” (φῆναι αὐτῷ ἑαυτόν ὅστις
εἴη). That had ever been the stumbling-block in the way of the
acceptance by the masses of the immaterial principles propounded by the
philosophers. Constantine must have a god with a name, and he must have
a sign from heaven in visible proof. Many have asked for such a sign
just as importunately (λιπαρῶς ἱκετεύοντι) as Constantine, but without
success. To him it was vouchsafed.
[Illustration:
CONSTANTINE’S VISION OF THE CROSS, BY RAPHAEL.
IN THE VATICAN. PHOTOGRAPH BY ALINARI.
]
The answer came one afternoon, when the sun had just passed its zenith
and was beginning to decline. Lifting his eyes, the Emperor saw in the
heavens just above the sun the figure of a cross, a cross of radiant
light, and attached to it was the inscription, “Conquer by This” (τούτῳ
νίκα). Eusebius admits that if any one else had told the story it would
not have been easy to believe it, but it was told to him by the Emperor
himself, who had confirmed his words with a royal oath. How then was it
possible to doubt? Constantine was awe-struck at the vision, which
Eusebius expressly declares was seen also by the entire army. All that
afternoon the Emperor pondered long upon the significance of the words,
and night fell while he was still asking himself what they could mean.
Then, as he slept, Christ appeared to him in a dream, bearing with Him
the sign that had flamed in the sky, and bade the sleeper make a copy of
it and use it as a talisman whenever he gave battle. As soon as dawn
broke, Constantine summoned his friends and told them of the message he
had received. Workers in gold and precious stones were hastily sent for,
and, sitting in the midst of them, Constantine carefully described the
outline of the vision and bade them execute a replica of it in their
most precious materials. This was the famous Labarum, fashioned from a
long gilded spear and a transverse bar. Above was a crown of gold, with
jewels encircling the monogram of Christ, and from the bar depended a
rich purple cloth, heavily embroidered with gold, blazing with jewels,
and bearing the busts of Constantine and his sons. It suggested the
Cross just as much but no more than did the ordinary cavalry standards
of the Roman armies; the sacred monogram alone indicated the supreme
change which had come over the Emperor, who, in answer to his prayer,
had thus found that the single Deity which his father, Constantius, had
worshipped was none other than Christ, the God of the Christians. For
the Emperor, desiring to know more of the Cross and the Christ, summoned
certain Christian teachers in his camp to explain these things more
fully to him, and they told him that “Christ was God, the only begotten
Son of the one true God, and that the vision he had seen was the symbol
of immortality and of the victory which Christ had won over death.”
Such, according to Eusebius, was the conversion of Constantine, and such
was the Emperor’s own account of the circumstances which led up to it.
This was the official story, as it might have appeared in a Roman Court
Circular at the time when Eusebius wrote.
But when did Eusebius write _The Life of Constantine_, from which we
have taken this narrative? Not until Constantine himself was dead, not,
that is to say, until after 337, fully a quarter of a century after the
event described. The date is important. In twenty-five years a story may
be transfigured out of all knowledge through constant repetition by the
narrator, to say nothing of the changes it suffers if it passes in
active circulation from mouth to mouth. Has this been the fate of the
story of the Vision of the Cross? _The Life of Constantine_ was not the
first volume of contemporary history published by Eusebius. He had
already written a _History of the Church_, which he issued to the world
in 326. What, then, had the author to say in that year about this
marvellous vision? Nothing. There is not a word about the flaming cross,
or the coming of Christ to Constantine in a dream, or the fashioning of
the Labarum. All Eusebius says, in his _History_, of the conversion of
Constantine, is that the Emperor “piously called to his aid the God of
Heaven and his son Jesus Christ.” It is a strange silence. If the
heavenly cross had been seen by the whole army; if the current version
of the story had been the same in 326 as it was in 337, it is at least
difficult to understand why Eusebius omitted all mention of an event
which must have been the talk of the whole Roman world and must have
made the heart of every Christian exult. Such manifest signs from Heaven
were scarcely so common in the opening of the fourth century that an
ecclesiastical historian would think any allusion to it unnecessary. The
argument from silence is never absolutely conclusive, but the reticence
of Eusebius in 326 at least warrants a strong suspicion that the legend
had not then crystallised itself into its final shape.
Of even greater importance are the extraordinary discrepancies between
the versions of Eusebius and Lactantius. Lactantius wrote his treatise
_On the Deaths of the Persecutors_ very shortly after the battle of the
Milvian Bridge, and it has a special value, therefore, as containing the
earliest account of the vision. The author, who was the tutor of the
Emperor’s son, Crispus, must have known all there was to be known of the
incident, for he lived in the closest intimacy with the court circle. We
should confidently expect, therefore, that the author who retails
verbatim the conversation of Diocletian and Galerius in the penetralia
of the palace of Nicomedia would be fully aware of what took place in
full view of Constantine’s army.
What then is the version of Lactantius? It is that just before the
battle of the Milvian Bridge, Constantine was warned in a dream to have
the divine sign of the cross (_cœleste signum_) inscribed on the shields
of his soldiers before leading them to the attack. He did as he was
bidden, and the letter ASTERISK, with one of the bars slightly
bent—thus, ASTERISK—to form the sacred monogram, was placed upon his
legionaries’ shields. Such is the legend in its earliest guise. There is
not a word about Constantine’s anxiety and searching of soul. The event
is placed, not at the opening of the campaign, as Eusebius would seem to
suggest though he does not expressly say so, but on the eve of the
decisive battle. There is nothing about the cross flaming in the
afternoon sky, nothing of the inscription, “Conquer by This,” nothing of
the entire army being witness of the portent. Constantine simply has a
dream and is warned (_commonitus_) to place the initial of Christ on his
soldiers’ shields. It is not even said who gave the warning; there is
not a hint that it was Christ Himself—as in the story of Eusebius—who
appeared to Constantine; there is no mention of the Labarum. Obviously,
Lactantius was aware of no triumphant answer to Constantine’s prayer for
a sign. According to him, the Emperor was merely warned in a dream that
victory would reward him if he dedicated his weapons to the honour and
service of Christ.
We come back, therefore, to the official version of Eusebius somewhat
shaken in our belief of its literal accuracy. Let us note, too, the
extreme vagueness of the time and the place where the incident is
reported to have taken place, and remember that one who had dwelt with
Diocletian and Galerius when they signed the edicts of persecution could
not possibly have been ignorant of the principles of Christianity, which
was no longer the religion of an obscure sect. We need not, indeed, find
any difficulty in accepting the first part of the story of Eusebius in
so far as it represents Constantine anxiously enquiring after divine
protection. It has been urged, very shrewdly, that the story would have
been idealised if it had been altogether invented. Constantine was
afraid that he had rashly committed himself and that Maxentius had
already secured the favour of the Roman gods. His objective, too, was
Rome, still regarded with superstitious dread and reverence throughout
the world, and reverenced all the more, no doubt, in proportion as
distance lent enchantment to the view. What then more natural than that
he should take for granted that, if ever the gods of Rome had interfered
in mortal affairs, they would do so now on behalf of Maxentius, who had
been raised to empire as Rome’s champion? Constantine was not one of
those rarer and choicer spirits, who seek truth for its own sake without
regard for material advantage. Conversion in his case did not mean some
sudden or even gradual change permanently altering his outlook upon
life, and refining and transmuting personal character. It merely meant
worshipping at another shrine, entering another temple, reciting another
formula. His ruling motive was ambition. He would worship the god who
should bring victory to his arms. The intensity of his conviction was to
be measured by the extent of his success and by the height to which he
carried his fortunes.
But what of the second part of the story—the vision of the cross flaming
in the sky in full view of Constantine and his army? Even those who
admit miracles into critical history allow that the evidence for this
one is exceedingly inconclusive. We need not doubt that Eusebius related
the story just as it was told to him by Constantine, though the Bishop,
if there were choice of versions, would unhesitatingly accept the one
which contained most of the miraculous and the abnormal. Nor does the
oath which Constantine swore in support of his story add anything to its
credibility. It was his habit to swear an oath when he wished to be
emphatic. Are we, then, to consider that the whole legend was an
invention of the Emperor’s from beginning to end? In this connection it
is important to take into account the narrative of Nazarius, a
rhetorician who delivered a formal panegyric upon Constantine on the
anniversary of his tenth year of rule, and took the opportunity of
reviewing the whole campaign against Maxentius. Nazarius was a pagan;
what then was the pagan version, if any, of the miracle described by
Eusebius and the Emperor? Did the pagans attribute divine assistance to
Constantine throughout this critical campaign? The answer is
unmistakable. They did so most unequivocally. Nazarius tells us[52] that
all Gaul was talking with awe and wonder of the marvels which had taken
place, how the soldiers of Constantine had seen in the sky celestial
armies marching in battle array and had been dazzled by their flashing
shields and glittering armour. Not only had the dull eyes of earthly men
for once availed to look upon heavenly brightness; Constantine’s
soldiery had also heard the shouts of these armies in the sky, “We seek
Constantine; we are marching to the aid of Constantine.”[53] Clearly the
pagan as well as the Christian world insisted upon attributing divine
assistance to Constantine and had its own version of how that succour
came. Nazarius’s explanation was simple. According to him, it was
Constantius Chlorus, the deified Emperor, who was leading up the hosts
of heaven, and such miraculous intervention was due to the supreme
virtue of the father, which had descended to the son.
-----
Footnote 52:
_Pan. Vet._, x., 14.
Footnote 53:
_Constantinum petimus: Constantino imus auxilio._
-----
The question at once arises whether this is merely a pagan version of
the Christian legend. Unable to deny the miracle, did the pagans, in
order to rob the Christians of this wonderful testimony to the truth of
their religion, invent the story of Constantius and the heavenly hosts?
Such a theory is absolutely untenable. It leaves out of sight the
all-important fact that public opinion in the fourth century—as indeed
for many centuries both before and after—was not only willing to believe
in supernatural intervention at moments of great crisis, but actually
insisted that there should be such intervention. The greater the crisis,
the more entirely reasonable it was that some deity or deities should
make their influence especially felt and turn the scale to one side or
the other. Every Roman believed that Castor and Pollux had fought for
Rome in the supreme struggle against Hannibal. Julius believed that the
favour of Venus Genetrix, the special patroness of the Julian House, had
helped him to win the battle of Pharsalus. Augustus was just as certain
that Apollo had fought on his side at Philippi and at Actium. It was
easy—and modest—for the winner to believe in his protecting deity’s
strength of arm.
One curious phrase employed by Nazarius is worth noting. It is that in
which he claims that the special interference of Heaven on behalf of
Constantine was not merely an extraordinary and gratifying tribute to
the Emperor’s virtues, but that it was no more than his due. In short,
the crisis was so tremendous that Heaven would have stood convicted of a
strange failure to see events in their just proportion if it had not
done “some great thing,” and wrought some corresponding wonder. Such was
the idea at the back of Nazarius’s mind; we suspect that it was not
wanting in the mind of Eusebius or of Constantine. We may put the matter
paradoxically and say that a miracle in those days was not much
considered unless it was a very great one. People who were accustomed to
see—or to think that they saw—statues sweating blood, and to hear words
proceeding from lips of bronze or marble, and were accustomed to treat
such untoward events merely as portents denoting that something unusual
was about to happen, must have been difficult people to surprise.
Naturally, therefore, legends grew more and more marvellous with
repetition after the event. The oftener a man told such a story the less
appeal it would make to his own wonder, unless he fortified it with some
new incident. But to impress one’s auditors it is above all things
necessary to be impressed oneself. Hence the well-garnished narrative of
Nazarius. The idea of armies marching along the sky was common enough.
Any one can imagine he sees the glint of weapons as the sun strikes the
clouds. But this does not satisfy the professional rhetorician. He bids
us see the proud look in the faces of the heavenly hosts, and
distinguish the cries with which they move to battle. But if Nazarius is
suspect, why not Eusebius and Constantine? Unless, indeed, there is to
be one standard for pagan and another for Christian miracles!
But was there some unusual manifestation in the sky which was the common
basis of the stories of Eusebius and Nazarius? It is not unreasonable to
suppose so. Scientists say that the natural phenomenon known as the
parhelion not infrequently assumes the shape of a cross, and Dean
Stanley, while discussing this possible explanation in his _Lectures on
the Eastern Church_, instanced the extraordinary impression made upon
the minds of the vulgar by the aurora borealis of November, 1848. He
recalled how, throughout France, the people thought they saw in the sky
the letters L. N.—the initials of Louis Napoleon—and took them as a
clear indication from Heaven of how they ought to vote at the impending
Presidential election, and as an omen of the result. That was the
interpretation in France. In Rome—where the people knew and cared
nothing for Louis Napoleon—no one saw the Napoleonic initials. The lurid
gleam in the sky was there thought to be the blood of the murdered
Rossi, which had risen to heaven and was calling for vengeance. In
Oporto, on the other hand, the conscience-stricken populace thought the
fire was coming down from heaven to punish them for their profligacy. If
such varying interpretations of a natural if rare phenomenon were
possible in the middle of the nineteenth century, what interpretation
was not possible in the fourth? The world was profoundly superstitious.
When people believe in manifest signs they usually see them. Some
Polonius, gifted either with better vision or livelier imagination than
his fellows, declares that he can distinguish clear and definite shapes
amid the vague outline of the clouds; the report spreads; the legend
grows. And when legends are found to serve a useful purpose the
authorities lend them countenance, guarantee their accuracy, and even
take to themselves the credit of their authorship. At the outbreak of
the Russo-Japanese war a strange story came from St. Petersburg that the
Russian moujiks were passing on from village to village the legend that
St. George had been seen in the skies leading his hosts to the Far East
against the infidel Japanese. Had Russian victories followed, what
better “proof” of celestial aid could have been desired? But as disaster
ensued, it is to be supposed that St. George remembered midway that he
also had interests in the Anglo-Japanese alliance, and remained strictly
neutral.
But though we may be justly sceptical of the circumstances attending the
conversion of Constantine, there is no room to doubt the conversion
itself. We do not believe that he fought the battle of the Milvian
Bridge as the avowed champion of Christianity, but the probabilities are
that he had made up his mind to become a Christian when he fought it.
The miraculous vision in the heavens, the dream in the quiet of the
night, the appearance of Christ by the bedside of the Emperor—as to
these things we may keep an open mind, but the fashioning of the
Labarum—the sacred standard which was preserved for so many centuries as
the most precious of imperial heirlooms and was seen and described as
late as the ninth century—this was the outward and visible proof of the
change which had come over the Emperor. He had abandoned Apollo for
Christ. The sun-god had been the favourite deity of his youth and early
manhood, as it had been of Augustus Cæsar, the founder of the Empire,
and the originator of the close association between the worship of
Apollo and the worship of the reigning Cæsar. Constantine would not fail
to note that many of the most gracious attributes of Apollo belonged
also to Christ.
He soon manifested the sincerity of his conversion. After a short stay
in Rome, he went north to Milan, where he gave the hand of his sister,
Constantia, to his ally, Licinius. Diocletian was invited, but declined
to make the journey. The two Emperors, no doubt, desired to secure the
prestige of his moral support in their mutual hostility to the Emperor
of the East, and the benefit of his counsel in their deliberations upon
the state of the Empire. But even if Diocletian had been tempted to
leave his cabbages to join in the marriage festivities and the political
conference at Milan, we imagine that he would still have declined if he
had been given any hint of the intentions of Constantine and Licinius
with respect to the great question of religious toleration or
persecution. He might have been candid enough to admit the failure of
his policy, but he would still have shrunk from proclaiming it with his
own lips. For, before the festivities at Milan were interrupted by the
news that Maximin had thrown down the gage of battle, Constantine and
Licinius issued in their joint names the famous Edict of Milan, which
proclaimed for the first time in its absolute entirety the noble
principle of complete religious toleration. Despite their length, it
will be well to give in full the more important clauses. They are found
in the text which has been happily preserved by Lactantius[54] in the
original Latin, while we also have the edict in Greek in the
_Ecclesiastical History_ of Eusebius (x. 5). It runs as follows:
“Inasmuch as we, Constantine Augustus and Licinius Augustus, have met
together at Milan on a joyful occasion, and have discussed all that
appertains to the public advantage and safety, we have come to the
conclusion that, among the steps likely to profit the majority of
mankind and demanding immediate attention, nothing is more necessary
than to regulate the worship of the Divinity.
“We have decided, therefore, to grant both to the Christians and to
all others perfect freedom to practise the religion which each has
thought best for himself, that so whatever Divinity resides in heaven
may be placated, and rendered propitious to us and to all who have
been placed under our authority. Consequently, we have thought this to
be the policy demanded alike by healthy and sound reason—that no one,
on any pretext whatever, should be denied freedom to choose his
religion, whether he prefers the Christian religion or any other that
seems most suited to him, in order that the Supreme Divinity, whose
observance we obey with free minds, may in all things vouchsafe to us
its usual favours and benevolences.
“Wherefore, it is expedient for your Excellency to know that we have
resolved to abolish every one of the stipulations contained in all
previous edicts sent to you with respect to the Christians, on the
ground that they now seem to us to be unjust and alien from the spirit
of our clemency.
“Henceforth, in perfect and absolute freedom, each and every person
who chooses to belong to and practise the Christian religion shall be
at liberty to do so without let or hindrance in any shape or form.
“We have thought it best to explain this to your Excellency in the
fullest possible manner that you may know that we have accorded to
these same Christians a free and absolutely unrestricted right to
practise their own religion.
“And inasmuch as you see that we have granted this indulgence to the
Christians, your Excellency will understand that a similarly free and
unrestricted right, conformable to the peace of our times, is granted
to all others equally to practise the religion of their choice. We
have resolved upon this course that no one and no religion may seem to
be robbed of the honour that is their due.”
-----
Footnote 54:
_De Mort. Persec._, c. 48.
-----
Then follow the most explicit instructions for the restoration to the
Christians of the properties of which they had been robbed during the
persecutions, though the robbery had been committed in accordance with
imperial command. Whether a property had been simply confiscated, or
sold, or given away, it was to be handed back without the slightest cost
and without any delays or ambiguities (_Postposita omni frustratione
atque ambiguitate_). Purchasers who had bought such properties in good
faith were to be indemnified from the public treasury by grace of the
Emperor.
But the abiding interest of this celebrated edict lies in the general
principles there clearly enunciated. Every man, without distinction of
rank or nationality, is to have absolute freedom to choose and practise
the religion which he deems most suited to his needs (_Libera atque
absoluta colendæ religionis suæ facultas_). The phrase is repeated with
almost wearisome iteration, but the principle was novel and strange, and
one can see the anxiety of the framers of this edict that there shall be
no possible loophole for misunderstanding. Everybody is to have free
choice; all previous anti-Christian enactments are annulled; not only is
no compulsion to be employed against the Christian, he is not even to be
troubled or annoyed (_Citra ullam inquietudinem ac molestiam_). The
novelty lay not so much in the toleration of the existence of
Christianity,—both Constantine and Licinius had two years before signed
the edict whereby Galerius put an end to the persecution,—but in its
formal official recognition by the State.
What motives, then, are assigned by the Emperors for this notable change
of policy? Certainly not humanity. Nothing is said of the terrors of the
late persecutions and the horrible sufferings of the Christians—there is
merely a bald reference to previous edicts which the Emperors consider
“unjust and alien from the spirit of our clemency” (_Sinistra et a
nostra clementia aliena esse_). There is no appeal to political
necessity, such as the exhaustion of the world and its palpable need of
rest. The motives assigned are purely religious. The Emperors proclaim
religious toleration in order that they and their subjects may continue
to receive the blessings of Heaven. One of them at least had just
emerged victoriously from the manifold hazards of an invasion of Italy.
Surely we can trace a reference to the battle of the Milvian Bridge and
the overthrow of Maxentius in the mention of “the Divine favour towards
us, which we have experienced in affairs of the highest moment”
(_Divinus juxta nos favor quem in tantis sumus rebus experti_). What
Constantine and Licinius hope to secure is a continuance of the favour
and benevolence of the Supreme Divinity, the patronage of the ruling
powers of the sky. The phraseology is important. The name of God is not
mentioned—only the vague “_Summa Divinitas_,“ ”_Divinus favor_,” and the
still more curious and non-committal phrase, “_Quicquid est Divinitatis
in sede cœlesti_.” In Eusebius the same phrase appears in a form still
more nebulous (ὅτι ποτέ ἐστι θειότης καὶ οὐρανίου πράγματος). A pagan
philosopher, more than half sceptical as to the existence of a personal
God, might well employ such language, but it reads strangely in an
official edict.
But then this edict was to bear the joint names of Constantine and
Licinius. Constantine might be a Christian, but Licinius was still a
pagan, and Licinius was not his vassal, but his equal. He would
certainly not have been prepared to set his name to an edict which
pledged him to personal adherence to the Christian faith. Constantine,
in the flush of triumph, would insist that the persecution of the
Christians should cease, and that the Christian religion should be
officially recognised. Licinius would raise no objection. But they would
speedily find, when it came to drafting a joint edict, that the only
religious ground common to them both was very limited in extent, and
that the only way to preserve a semblance of unity was to employ the
vaguest phraseology which each might interpret in his own fashion. If we
can imagine the Pope and the Caliph drafting a joint appeal to mankind
which necessitated the mention of the Higher Power, they would find
themselves driven to use words as cloudy and indistinct as the “Whatever
Divinity there is and heavenly substance” of Eusebius. No, it was not
that Constantine’s mind was in the transitional stage; it was rather
that he had to find a common platform for himself and Licinius.
But to have converted Licinius at all to an official recognition of the
Christians and complete toleration was a great achievement, for the
principle, as we have said, was entirely new. M. Gaston Boissier, in
discussing this point, recalls how even the broad-minded Plato had found
no place in his ideal republic for those who disbelieved in the gods of
their fatherland and of the city of their birth. Even if they kept their
opinions to themselves and did not seek to disturb the faith of others,
Plato insisted upon their being placed in a House of Correction—it is
true he calls it a Sophronisterion, or House of Wisdom—for five years,
where they were to listen to a sermon every day; while, if they were
zealous propagandists of their pernicious doctrines, he proposed to keep
them all their lives in horrible dungeons and deny their bodies after
death the right of sepulture. How, one wonders, would Socrates have
fared in such a state? No better, we fancy, than he fared in his own
city of Athens. But, throughout antiquity, every lawgiver took the same
view, that a good citizen must accept without question the gods of his
native place who had been the gods of his fathers; and it was a simple
step from that position to the stern refusal to allow a man, in the
vigorous words of the Old Testament, to go a-whoring after other gods.
“For I, thy God, am a jealous God.” The God of the Jews was not more
jealous than the gods of the Assyrians, the Egyptians, the Greeks, or
the Romans would like to have been, had they had the same power of
concise expression.
What was the theory of the State religion in Rome? Cicero tells us in a
well-known passage in his treatise _On the Laws_, where he quotes the
ancient formula, “Let no man have separate gods of his own: nor let
people privately worship new gods or alien gods, unless they have been
publicly admitted.”[55] Nothing could be more explicit. But theory and
practice in Rome had a habit of becoming divorced from one another. It
is a notorious fact that, as Rome’s conquering eagles flew farther
afield, the legions and the merchants who followed in their track
brought all manner of strange gods back to the city, where every
wandering Chaldæan thaumaturgist, magician, or soothsayer found welcome
and profit, and every stray goddess—especially if her rites had
mysteries attached to them—received a comfortable home. In a word, Rome
found new religions just as fascinating—for a season or two—as do the
capitals of the modern world, and these new religions were certainly not
“publicly admitted” by the _Pontifex Maximus_ and the representatives of
the State religion. Occasionally, usually after some outbreak of
pestilence or because an Emperor was nervous at the presence of so many
swarthy charlatans devoting themselves to the Black Arts, an order of
expulsion would be issued and there would be a fluttering of the
dove-cotes. But they came creeping back one by one, as the storm blew
over. While, therefore, in theory the gods of Rome were jealous, in
practice they were not so. The easy scepticism or eclecticism of the
cultured Roman was conducive to tolerance. Cicero’s famous sentence in
the _Pro Flacco_, “Each state has its own religion, Lælius: we have
ours,” shews how little of the religious fanatic there was in the
average Roman, who stole the gods of the people he conquered and made
them his own, so that they might acquiesce in the Roman domination. The
Roman was tolerant enough in private life towards other people’s
religious convictions: all he asked was reciprocity, and that was
precisely what the Christian would not and could not give him. If the
Christian would have sacrificed at the altars of the State gods, the
Roman would never have objected to his worship of Christ for his own
private satisfaction. There lies the secret of the persecutions, and of
the fierce anti-Christian hatreds.
Constantine and Licinius, by their edict of recognition and toleration,
“publicly admitted” into the Roman worship the God of the Christians.
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Footnote 55:
_Separatim nemo habessit deos: neve novos, sive advenas, nisi publice
adscitos privatim colunto._—_De Leg._, ii., 8.
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