“Child of dust, corruption’s son,
By pride deceived, by pride undone;
Willing captive, yet be free,
Take my yoke and learn of me.”
BOWDLER.
Where the Christian Church was at this period, was a question naturally
occurring to the mind of the Gentile then, and the believer now. Rome
anciently stood within the broken centre of a volcano,—an inference
drawn by modern geologists from a careful survey of its strata. The
city, as it extended, was gradually built over the old quarries from
whence the volcanic substances, pozzolana and tufo, were obtained for
the buildings of the city. These species of stone were very easily
worked, and the spot where they were found was called Arenaria.[10] As
these labyrinths extended a considerable way underneath the city, they
naturally became the refuge of the unfortunate. They had, therefore,
been the hiding-place occasionally of runaway slaves in the time of the
old republic; but when the persecution of Nero blazed against the
Christians, these gloomy cells afforded a secure refuge to the infant
Church of Christ. Here thousands of Christians lived, died, and were
buried; here were their churches and their sepulchres; for they, “of
whom the world was not worthy,” dwelt in caves and dens, forsaking all
things, so that they might but win Christ. The existence of these
quarries or catacombs were known to the Roman people; but the
intricacies of their winding passages had not been explored perhaps for
centuries. With many villas and houses the entrances of the Arenaria
communicated; for when the inhabitants professed the new faith, they
were able to attend the services of the primitive Church without serious
danger; these openings also enabled them to escape to their brethren
when denounced to the heathen ruler of their people. In some cases these
desolate asylums had not remained inviolate, for more than once the
faithful pastor had been torn from his flock and hurried to the block,
the fire, or the cross, according as his rank or station might be. The
Roman citizen was generally beheaded, the slave was always crucified or
burned alive. Accident or treason alone occasioned the fierce heathen to
enter these hidden places of worship, but it was a time when brother
rose against brother, to put them to death; besides, we must not be
surprised at finding Judases among the primitive Church when there was
one in the little fold of Christ.
It was to these depths that Linus had retired after his deliverance by
Lucia Claudia; it was here he had offered up his prayers for the
conversion of the heathen priestess, over whom he had watched with the
tender compassion of a Christian and the vigilance of a shepherd seeking
to save a wandering sheep. Among the slaves of Julius Claudius were many
Christians, who belonged to his flock. From them he had learned that
Lucia Claudia was influenced by different motives to those ascribed to
her by the world, that she spent her time in privacy and prayer, and
that they suspected she had become a proselyte to the Jewish faith,
since she was known to converse more frequently with the Hebrew slave
Adonijah than it was customary for noble Roman ladies to do. The
influence this captive Jew seemed to have acquired over Lucia Claudia
was even superior to that he had held over the mind of her deceased
brother, and certainly they thought might be adduced to the same cause.
Linus rejoiced to find that religious motives alone had induced the
vestal to leave her cloistered seclusion, and, being accurately informed
of her movements, he had followed her to the gardens of Lucullus, and
addressed her as we have seen. He hoped to bring Adonijah also within
the fold of Christ, as the rich reward of his having won these noble
Romans from the night of pagan darkness in which they had been involved,
till this Israelite indeed brought them to worship the only true God in
spirit and in truth.
Lucia Claudia was surprised to receive from the aged Fulvia, one of her
brother’s bondwomen, the sign which was to convey to her an intimation
that she was the Christian to whom she and Cornelia were to intrust
themselves. In that humble old woman she had not expected to find a
Christian, but she returned the signal, upon which Fulvia, with great
animation, embraced her, saying, “Lady Lucia, my prayers for thee are
heard. Go, for God is with thee, and fear nothing. Yea, be strong and
courageous in the Lord, trusting the brethren in the household, who will
guide thee faithfully to the Church beneath, in the hope that the
doctrines thou wilt hear there to-night will lead thee to the Church of
the blessed one above.”
“Thou art then a Christian,” replied Lucia.
“Noble Lady, I am a deaconess of the Church, and many of this household,
both male and female, are worshippers also of the Lord Jesus Christ.”
Lucia looked at Cornelia in mute surprise, and then at Fulvia.
“Yes, Lady Lucia, even in Cæsar’s household there are men who are ready
to die for that faith the emperor persecutes. Already ‘its sound has
gone forth into all lands, and its words to the end of the earth,’ and
‘the gates of hell shall not prevail against it.’ Dare you trust the
slaves who have become the freed-men of the Lord, and have embraced
Christianity at a time when its converts are assailed with fire and
sword? If so, I will come to you in the dead hour of midnight as your
guide.”
“I dare,” replied Lucia Claudia, and she looked at Cornelia. “Thou, too,
wilt go with me, my nurse?”
“I follow thee, my foster-child, to death,” was the answer of the humble
but truly attached friend. Fulvia smiled benignantly upon the new
converts and withdrew.
In the still hour of midnight Fulvia, veiled in the Christian fashion,
entered the apartment where Lucia and Cornelia anxiously awaited her
coming, enveloped also in their veils and palliums. Without uttering a
syllable, Fulvia motioned them to follow her. Softly she glided along
the corridor, till she gained the door that opened into the offices
belonging to the house. Then she entered the court which was
appropriated to the slaves, and, threading the mazes of a covered
passage, struck sharply against the wall, when, to the surprise of her
trembling companions, a large stone sliding back revealed a flight of
steps, feebly illuminated by the light of a lamp, that glimmered in the
distance like a faint star. Lucia did not perceive by what means the
solid stone had receded from its place; to her it seemed the work of
magic art, and she shuddered and clung to the arm of her nurse.
Cornelia, more self-possessed, had noticed that it was drawn up by two
men, aided by some powerful machinery, and that it was cautiously and
instantly replaced. With Fulvia for a guide, the new converts traversed
many winding passages, sometimes turning to the right or left, till they
overtook some persons with torches in their hands, who gave them the
sign of brotherhood, and in whom they recognised a part of the
household. These slaves greeted Lucia Claudia with more than usual
respect, and, falling back, permitted her to pass them, with the
exception of Glaucus, the freedman of Julius Claudius, who held a torch
in his hand, and now preceded the sister of his lord. Perceiving that
Lucia was not entirely without fear, he occasionally addressed her,
explaining that she was in the Arenaria, and that many of the passages
she crossed led under the principal streets and palaces of Rome, and
that the converts of the new faith had pierced openings from their own
houses, as the slaves in her brother’s household had done. He bade her
observe how curiously these vaults were supported without the aid of
masonry, and that they were seemingly as firm as when hollowed many
centuries before. Suddenly he ceased speaking, but, striking sharply
with his staff against the wall, paused for an instant, when a groove
was suddenly drawn back, and a stream of light flashed upon the eyes of
Lucia and her nurse, and Linus, in his white stole, came forward and
welcomed them to his church. Then the slaves who had followed Lucia
Claudia arranged themselves on each side of the chapel, the women
covered with their veils, the men uncovered. Each person hid their faces
in their hands and said a short prayer. Linus stood before the altar
awaiting the gathering together of his flock, who kept flowing in from
the opposite entrance. The short delay permitted Lucia to examine the
curious cavern that the Christians had dedicated to the worship of their
God, which here was of width and length capable of holding several
hundred persons; the roof was supported by its own strength, without the
aid of pillars; it was rather low than lofty; the walls were pierced
with niches, filled in with marble or tiles; the same emblems adorned
these tablets as Fulvia had displayed that evening. From the
inscriptions upon them Lucia discovered that they were the tombs of
Christian martyrs, for the palm and the cross were the distinguishing
marks of a Christian sepulchre in that day. The altar was the tomb of a
martyr; thus even the dead in Christ seemed to appeal to the living,
that they also might follow the example of their constancy.
The prayers, the hymns, the spiritual worship of the primitive Church,
the eloquence of its oratory, found its way to the bosom of the new
converts, and when they came forward at the termination of the service
to offer themselves as candidates for baptism, they were greeted by the
whole assembly with the utmost affection. The slaves of Julius’s
household shed tears of joy. Linus then addressed to them a short but
impressive admonition. He told them that the times were perilous, and
that those who embraced the faith of Jesus must first count the cost,
since they warred not only with flesh and blood, and with spiritual
wickedness in high places, but with the whole powers of darkness. That
they were bidden to take up the cross, not counting their lives dear
unto them, but forsaking all to follow Christ.
Upon Lucia and her nurse declaring their readiness to do this, Linus
accepted them as candidates for baptism, and at parting gave them the
vellum rolls containing the Gospel of St. Luke; then, solemnly blessing
the assembly, the congregation dispersed, Fulvia and the household
slaves again taking charge of the new converts, and the whole party
safely regained their abode before the dawn could betray their holy
vigils. It was in this manner the primitive Church kept her sabbaths.
The simplicity, the purity of the worship of the Christians had nothing
in it to captivate the senses, but it had everything to touch the heart.
The gorgeous ceremonial of pagan mythology might dazzle the imagination
of its votaries; it could never regenerate the soul: and what was its
doubtful future when contrasted with the paradise promised to those who
lived and died in the Christian faith? Lucia Claudia, in her beautiful
enthusiasm, would at that moment have given her body to be burned, or
yielded her neck to the sword, rather than have given up her hope in
Christ. Yes, she would have done all this; but would she have given up
the idol of her soul, the beloved Adonijah? Ah, weak as a child with
regard to the affections, she forgot that to some natures the fiery
trial of martyrdom was easier than the call to give up the dearest
object of the heart, if love of that object clashed with the profession
of the Christian faith.
We know less of this portion of the first Christian century than any
other, for the bitter persecution which had fallen upon the Roman
Christians, and deprived them of their glorious Apostolic teachers St.
Peter and St. Paul, had compelled them to conceal themselves from
observation; therefore we have no exact account of the manner in which
they worshipped God, for the history of the Church of Christ given in
the Acts ended with the two years’ sojourn of St. Paul in his own hired
house. We must therefore draw on later authorities for the description
of Christian ritual.
The age was still Apostolic, two of the companions of the Saviour yet
survived in the persons of Symeon and John; therefore no liturgy, unless
we admit that of St. James[11] to be genuine, was in use, at least not
in the Gentile Churches. In the early Apologies of Athenagoras, Justin
Martyr, and Tertullian, and in the letter of Pliny the Younger, the
reader will find the primitive order in which the Sabbath services were
celebrated. Afterwards the prayers of devout Christians were collected
and arranged in the liturgical order in which we now have them. The
manner in which the Psalms are read in the English Church was adopted by
the early one of Alexandria, from the Jewish ritual.
The primitive service, according to our earliest account, that drawn
from the lips of the deaconesses by Pliny, commenced with a hymn in
honour of Christ, sung alternately, which was followed by the
worshippers binding themselves to observe the moral law with scrupulous
exactness; after which they separated, but met together in a general
repast, partaken together, temperately and without disorder. But the
Christian authors cited give a perfect view of divine worship in the
second century, which consisted of singing, prayer, preaching, and the
reception of the Lord’s Supper, the substance being essentially the same
as it is now,—the arrangement alone being different. The liturgy
growing as it were out of the injunction of St. Paul, “Let everything be
done with decency and order.”
-----
[10] Now called Satterrania, by the Romans, from Subterranea, the modern
Latin name of these quarries.
[11] As the Jewish Church always had, and still has, a liturgical
arrangement, the litany of St. James may have been used in the Christian
Church of Jerusalem, but certainly without the additions at the end,
which now disfigure it, as no invocations to saints were admitted into
the worship of the primitive times. The prayer itself is very
evangelical and beautiful.