CHAPTER XVIII.TEMPTATION.

Christ in the midst of His Apostles, from a painting in the Catacombs.

VERY early next morning a mule and guide came to the door of Chromatius’s villa. On it was packed a moderate pair of saddle-bags, the whole known property of Torquatus. Many friends were up to see him off, and receive from him the kiss of peace ere he departed. May it not prove like that of Gethsemani! Some whispered a kind, soft word in his ear, exhorting him to be faithful to the graces he had received; and he earnestly, and probably sincerely, promised that he would. Others, knowing his poverty, put a little present into his hand, and entreated him to avoid his old haunts and acquaintances. Polycarp, however, the director of the community, called him aside; and with fervent words and flowing tears, conjured him to correct the irregularities, slight perhaps, but threatening, which had appeared in his conduct, repress the levity which had manifested itself in his bearing, and cultivate more all Christian virtues. Torquatus, also with tears, promised obedience, knelt down, kissed the good priest’s hand, and obtained his blessing; then received from him letters of recommendation for his journey, and a small sum for its moderate expenses.

At length all was ready; the last farewell was spoken, the last good wish expressed; and Torquatus, mounted on his mule, with his guide at its bridle, proceeded slowly alongthe straight avenue which led to the gate. Long after every one else had re-entered the house, Chromatius was standing at the door, looking wistfully, with a moist eye, after him. It was just such a look as the Prodigal’s father kept fixed on his departing son.

As the villa was not on the high road, this modest quadrupedal conveyance had been hired to take him across the country to Fundi (now Fondi), as the nearest point where he could reach it. There he was to find what means he could for prosecuting his journey. Fabiola’s purse, however, had set him very much at ease on that score.

The road by which he travelled was varied in its beauties. Sometimes it wound along the banks of the Liris, gay with villas and cottages. Then it plunged into a miniature ravine, in the skirts of the Apennines, walled in by rocks, matted with myrtle, aloes, and the wild vine, amidst which white goats shone like spots of snow; while beside the path, gurgled and wriggled on, a tiny brook, that seemed to have worked itself into the bright conceit that it was a mountain torrent; so great was the bustle and noise with which it pushed on, and pretended to foam, and appeared to congratulate itself loudly on having achieved a waterfall by leaping down two stones at a time, and plunging into an abyss concealed by a wide acanthus-leaf. Then the road emerged, to enjoy a wide prospect of the vast garden of Campania, with the blue bay of Cajeta in the background, speckled by the white sails of its craft, that looked at that distance like flocks of bright-plumed waterfowl, basking and fluttering on a lake.

What were the traveller’s thoughts amidst these shifting scenes of a new act in his life’s drama? did they amuse him? did they delight him? did they elevate him, or did they depress? His eye scarcely noted them. It had run on far beyond them, to the shady porticoes and noisy streets of the

Interior of a Roman Theatre.

capital. The dusty garden and the artificial fountain, the marble bath and the painted vault, were more beautiful in his eyes than fresh autumn vineyards, pure streams, purple ocean, and azure sky. He did not, of course, for a moment turn his thoughts towards its foul deeds and impious practices, its luxury, its debauchery, its profaneness, its dishonesties, its calumnies, its treacheries, its uncleannesses. Oh, no! whatwould he, a Christian, have again to do with these? Sometimes, as his mind became abstracted, it saw, in a dark nook of a hall in the Thermæ, a table, round which moody but eager gamesters were casting their knuckle-bone dice; and he felt a quivering creep over him of an excitement long suppressed; but a pair of mild eyes, like Polycarp’s, loomed on him from behind the table, and aroused him. Then he caught himself, in fancy, seated at a maple board, with a ruby gem of Falernian wine, set in the rim of a golden goblet, and discourse, ungirded by inebriety, going round with the cup; when the reproving countenance of Chromatius would seem placed opposite, repelling with a scowl the approach of either.

Hall in the Baths of Caracalla.

He was, in fact, returning only to the innocent enjoyments of the imperial city, to its walks, its music, its paintings, its magnificence, its beauty. He forgot that all these were but the accessories to a living and panting mass of human beings, whose passions they enkindled, whose evil desires they inflamed, whose ambition they fanned, whose resolutionsthey melted, and whose minds they enervated. Poor youth! he thought he could walk through that fire and not be scorched! Poor moth! he imagined he could fly through that flame, and have his wings unscathed!

It was in one of his abstracted moods that he journeyed through a narrow overhung defile, when suddenly he found himself at its opening, with an inlet of the sea before him, and in it one solitary and motionless skiff. The sight at once brought to his memory a story of his childhood, true or false, it mattered not; but he almost fancied its scene was before him.

Once upon a time there was a bold young fisherman living on the coast of southern Italy. One night, stormy and dark, he found that his father and brothers would not venture out in their tight and strong smack; so he determined, in spite of every remonstrance, to go alone in the little cockle-shell attached to it. It blew a gale, but he rode it out in his tiny buoyant bark, till the sun rose, warm and bright, upon a placid, glassy sea. Overcome by fatigue and heat, he fell asleep; but, after some time, was awakened by a loud shouting at a distance. He looked round and saw the family-boat, the crew of which were crying aloud, and waving their hands to invite him back; but they made no effort to reach him. What could they want? what could they mean? He seized his oars, and began to pull lustily towards them; but he was soon amazed to find that the fishing-boat, towards which he had turned the prow of his skiff, appeared upon his quarter; and soon, though he righted his craft, it was on the opposite side. Evidently he had been making a circle; but the end came within its beginning, in a spiral curve, and now he was commencing another and a narrower one. A horrible suspicion flashed upon his mind: he threw off his tunic and pulled like a madman at his oars. But though he broke the circle a bit here and a bit there, still round he went, and every timenearer to the centre, in which he could see a downward funnel of hissing and foaming water. Then, in despair, he threw down his oars, and standing he flung up his arms frantically; and a sea-bird screaming near, heard him cry out as loud as itself, “Charibdis!”[69]And now the circle his boat went spinning round was only a few times longer than itself, and he cast himself flat down, and shut his ears and eyes with his hands, and held his breath, till he felt the waters gurgling above him, and he was whirled down into the abyss.

“I wonder,” Torquatus said to himself, “did any one ever perish in this way? or is it a mere allegory?—if so, of what? Can a person be drawn on gradually in this manner to spiritual destruction? are my present thoughts, by any chance, an outer circle, which has caught me, and——”

“Fundi!” exclaimed the muleteer, pointing to a town before them; and presently the mule was sliding along the broad flags of its pavement.

Torquatus looked over his letters, and drew one out for the town. He was taken to a little inn of the poorest class, by his guide, who was paid handsomely, and retired swearing and grumbling at the niggardliness of the traveller. He then inquired the way to the house of Cassianus, the school-master, found it, and delivered his letter. He received as kind a welcome as if he had arrived at home; joined his host in a frugal meal, during which he learned the master’s history.

A native of Fundi, he had started the school in Rome, with which we became acquainted at an early period of our history, and had proved eminently successful. But finding a persecution imminent, and his Christianity discovered, he had disposed of his school and retired to his small native town, where he was promised, after the vacation, the children of the principal inhabitants. In a fellow-Christian he saw nothing but a brother; and as such he talked freely with him, of hispast adventures and his future prospects. A strange idea dashed through the mind of Torquatus, that some day that information might be turned into money.

It was still early when Torquatus took his leave, and, pretending to have some business in the town, he would not allow his host to accompany him. He bought himself some more respectable apparel, went to the best inn, and ordered a couple of horses, with a postillion to accompany him; for, to fulfill Fabiola’s commission it was necessary to ride forward quick, change his horses at each relay, and travel through the night. He did so till he reached Bovillæ, on the skirts of the Alban hills. Here he rested, changed his travelling suit, and rode on gaily between the lines of tombs, which brought him to the gate of that city, within whose walls there was more of good and more of evil contained, than in any province of the empire.

The Peacock, as an Emblem of the Resurrection.

TORQUATUS, now elegantly attired, proceeded at once to the house of Fabius, delivered his letter, answered all inquiries, and accepted, without much pressing, an invitation to supper that evening. He then went to seek a respectable lodging, suited to the present state of his purse; and easily found one.

Fabius, we have said, did not accompany his daughter into the country, and rarely visited her there. The fact was, that he had no love for green fields or running brooks; his tastes were for the gossip and free society of Rome. During the year, his daughter’s presence was a restraint on his liberty; but when she was gone, with her establishment, into Campania, his house presented scenes and entertained persons, that he would not have presumed to bring in contact with her. Men of profligate life surrounded his table; and deep drinking till late hours, with gambling and loose conversation, generally followed his sumptuous entertainments.

Having invited Torquatus to sup with him, he went forth in search of guests to meet him. He soon picked up a batch of sycophants, who were loitering about his known haunts, in readiness for invitations. But as he was sauntering home from the baths of Titus, he saw two men in a small groveround a temple earnestly conversing together. After a moment’s look, he advanced towards them; but waited, at a small distance, for a pause in the dialogue, which was something to this effect.

“There is no doubt, then, about the news?”

“None at all. It is quite certain that the people have risen at Nicomedia and burnt down the church, as they call it, of the Christians, close to, and in sight of, the palace. My father heard it from the emperor’s secretary himself this morning.”

“What ever possessed the fools to go and build a temple, in one of the most conspicuous places of the metropolis? They must have known that, sooner or later, the religious spirit of the nation would rise against them and destroy the eye-sore, as every exhibition of a foreign religion must be to an empire.”

“To be sure, as my father says, these Christians, if they had any wit in them, would hide their heads, and slink into corners, when they are so condescendingly tolerated for a time by the most humane princes. But as they do not choose to do so, but will build temples in public instead of skulking in by-lanes, as they used to do, I for one am not sorry. One may gain some notoriety, and profit too, by hunting these odious people down, and destroying them if possible.”

“Well, be it so; but to come to the purpose. It is understood between us, that when we can discover who are Christians among the rich, and not too powerful at first, there shall be a fair division. We will aid one another. You propose bold and rough means; I will keep my counsel as to mine. But each shall reap all the profit from those whom he discovers; and his right proportion from those who are shared between us. Is it not so?”

“Exactly.”

Fabius now stepped forward, with a hearty “How are you,Fulvius? I have not seen you for an age; come and sup with me to-day, I have friends engaged; and your friend too,—Corvinus, I believe” (the gentleman alluded to made an uncouth bow), “will accompany you, I hope.”

“Thank you,” replied Fulvius; “but I fear I have an engagement already.”

“Nonsense, man,” said the good-natured knight; “there is nobody left in the city with whom you could sup, except myself. But has my house the plague, that you have never ventured into it, since you dined there with Sebastian, and quarrelled with him? Or did you get struck by some magical charm, which has driven you away?”

Fulvius turned pale, and drew away Fabius to one side, while he said: “To tell the truth, something very like it.”

“I hope,” answered Fabius, somewhat startled, “that the black witch has been playing no tricks with you; I wish heartily she were out of my house. But, come,” he continued in good humor, “I really thought you were struck by a better charm that evening. I have my eyes open; I saw how your heart was fixed on my little cousin Agnes.”

Fulvius stared at him, with some amazement; and, after a pause, replied: “And if it was so, I saw that your daughter made up her mind, that no good should ever come out of it.”

“Say you so? Then that explains your constant refusal to come to me again. But Fabiola is a philosopher, and understands nothing of such matters. I wish, indeed, she would give up her books, and think of settling herself in life, instead of preventing others. But I can give you better news than that; Agnes is as much attached to you as you can be to her.”

“Is it possible? How can you happen to know it?”

“Why, then, to tell you what I should have told you longsince, if you had not fought so shy of me, she confided it to me that very day.”

“To you?”

“Yes, to me; those jewels of yours quite won her heart. She told me as much. I knew she could only mean you. Indeed, I am sure she meant you.”

Fulvius understood these words of the rich gems which he displayed; while the knight spoke of the jewels which he imagined Agnes had received. She had proved, Fulvius was thinking, an easy prize, in spite of her demureness; and here lay fortune and rank open before him, if he could only manage his game; when Fabius thus broke in upon his dream: “Come now, you have only to press your suit boldly; and I tell you, you will win it, whatever Fabiola may think. But you have nothing to fear from her now. She and all her servants are absent; her part of the house is closed, and we enter by the back-door to the more enjoyable part of the establishment.”

“I will wait on you without fail,” replied Fulvius. “And Corvinus with you,” added Fabius, as he turned away.

We will not describe the banquet further than to say, that wines of rare excellence flowed so plentifully, that almost all the guests got, more or less, heated and excited. Fulvius, however, for one, kept himself cool.

The news from the East came into discussion. The destruction of the church at Nicomedia had been followed by incendiary fires in the imperial palace. Little doubt could exist that the Emperor Galerius was their author; but he charged them on the Christians; and thus goaded on the reluctant mind of Dioclesian to become their fiercest persecutor. Every one began to see that, before many months were over, the imperial edict to commence the work of destruction would reach Rome, and find in Maximian a ready executor.

The guests were generally inclined to gore the stricken deer; for generosity, in favor of those whom popular clamor hunts down, requires an amount of courage too heroic to be common. Even the most liberal found reasons for Christians being excepted from all kind consideration. One could not bear their mysteriousness, another was vexed at their supposed progress; this man thought them opposed to the real glory of the empire, that considered them a foreign element, that ought to be eliminated from it. One thought their doctrine detestable, another their practice infamous. During all this debate, if it could be so called, where both sides came to the same conclusion, Fulvius, after having glanced from one to the other of the guests, had fixed his evil eye upon Torquatus.

The youth was silent; but his countenance, by turns, was pale and flushed. Wine had given him a rash courage, which some strong principle restrained. Now he clenched his hand, and pressed it to his breast; now he bit his lip. At one time he was crumbling the bread between his fingers; at another, he drank off, unconsciously, a cup of wine.

“These Christians hate us, and would destroy us all if they could,” said one. Torquatus leaned forward, opened his lips, but remained silent.

“Destroy us, indeed! Did they not burn Rome, under Nero; and have they not just set fire to the palace in Asia, over the emperor’s head?” asked a second. Torquatus rose upon his couch, stretched forth his hand, as if about to reply, but drew it back.

“But what is infinitely worse is, their maintaining such anti-social doctrines, conniving at such frightful excesses, and degrading themselves to the disgusting worship of an ass’s head,” proceeded a third. Torquatus now fairly writhed; and rising, had lifted his arm, when Fulvius, with a cool calculation of time and words, added, in bitter sarcasm: “Ay,and massacre a child, and devour his flesh and blood, at every assembly.”[70]

The arm descended on the table, with a blow that made every goblet and beaker dance and ring, as, in a choked voice, Torquatus exclaimed: “It is a lie! a cursed lie!”

“How can you know that?” asked Fulvius, with his blandest tone and look.

“Because,” answered the other, with great excitement, “I am myself a Christian; and ready to die for my faith!”

If the beautiful alabaster statue, with a bronze head, in the niche beside the table, had fallen forward, and been smashed on the marble pavement, it could not have caused a more fearful sensation than this sudden announcement. All were startled for a moment. Next, a long blank pause ensued, after which, each began to show his feelings in his features. Fabius looked exceedingly foolish, as if conscious that he had brought his guests into bad company. Calpurnius puffed himself out, evidently thinking himself ill-used, by having a guest brought in, who might absurdly be supposed to know more about Christians than himself. A young man opened his mouth as he stared at Torquatus; and a testy old gentleman was evidently hesitating, whether he should not knock down somebody or other, no matter whom. Corvinus looked at the poor Christian with the sort of grin of delight, half idiotic, half savage, with which a countryman might gaze upon the vermin that he finds in his trap in a morning. Here was a man ready to hand, to put on the rack, or the gridiron, whenever he pleased. But the look of Fulvius was worth them all. If ever any microscopic observer has had the opportunity of witnessing the expression of the spider’s features, when, after a long fast, it sees a fly, plump with others’ blood, approach its net, and keenly watches every stroke of its wing, and studies how it can best throw onlythe first thread round it, sure that then all that gorges it shall be its own; that we fancy would be the best image of his looks, as certainly it is of his feelings. To get hold of a Christian, ready to turn traitor, had long been his desire and study. Here, he was sure, was one, if he could only manage him. How did he know this? Because he knew sufficient of Christians to be convinced, that no genuine one would have allowed himself either to drink to excess, or to boast of his readiness to court martyrdom.

The company broke up; every body slunk away from the discovered Christian, as from one pest-stricken. He felt alone and depressed, when Fulvius, who had whispered a word to Fabius, and to Corvinus, went up to him, and taking him by the hand said, courteously: “I fear, I spoke inconsiderately, in drawing out from you a declaration which may prove dangerous.”

“I fear nothing,” replied Torquatus, again excited; “I will stand to my colors to the last.”

“Hush, hush!” broke in Fulvius, “the slaves may betray you. Come with me to another chamber, where we can talk quietly together.”

So saying, he led him into an elegant room, where Fabius had ordered goblets and flagons of the richest Falernian wine to be brought, for such as, according to Roman fashion, liked to enjoy acommissatio, or drinking-bout. But only Corvinus, engaged by Fulvius, followed.

On a beautifully inlaid table were dice. Fulvius, after plying Torquatus with more liquor, negligently took them up, and threw them playfully down, talking in the mean time on indifferent subjects. “Dear me!” he kept exclaiming, “what throws! It is well I am not playing with any one, or I should have been ruined. You try, Torquatus.”

Gambling, as we learnt before, had been the ruin of Torquatus: for a transaction arising out of it he was in prisonwhen Sebastian converted him. As he took the dice into his hand, with no intention, as he thought, of playing, Fulvius watched him as a lynx might its prey. Torquatus’s eye flashed keenly, his lips quivered, his hand trembled. Fulvius at once recognized in all this, coupled with the poising of his hand, the knowing cast of the wrist, and the sharp eye to the value of the throw, the violence of a first temptation to resume a renounced vice.

“I fear you are not a better hand than I am at this stupid occupation,” said he indifferently; “but, I dare say, Corvinus here will give you a chance, if you will stake something very low.”

“It must be very low indeed,—merely for recreation; for I have renounced gambling. Once, indeed—but no matter.”

“Come on,” said Corvinus, whom Fulvius had pressed to his work by a look.

They began to throw for the most trifling stakes, and Torquatus generally won. Fulvius made him drink still, from time to time, and he became very talkative.

“Corvinus, Corvinus,” he said at length, as if recollecting himself, “was not that the name that Cassianus mentioned?”

“Who?” asked the other, surprised.

“Yes, it was,” continued Torquatus to himself,—“the bully, the big brute. Were you the person,” he asked, looking up to Corvinus, “who struck that nice Christian boy Pancratius?”

Corvinus was on the point of bursting into a rage; but Fulvius checked him by a gesture, and said, with timely interference:

“That Cassianus whom you mentioned is an eminent school-master; pray, where does he live?”

This he knew his companion wished to ascertain; and thus he quieted him. Torquatus answered:

“He lives, let me see,—no, no; I won’t turn traitor. No;I am ready to be burnt, or tortured, or die for my faith; but I won’t betray any one,—that I won’t.”

“Let me take your place, Corvinus,” said Fulvius, who saw Torquatus’s interest in the game deepening. He put forth sufficient skill to make his antagonist more careful and more intent. He threw down a somewhat larger stake. Torquatus, after a moment’s pause of deliberation, matched it. He won it. Fulvius seemed vexed. Torquatus threw back both sums. Fulvius seemed to hesitate, but put down an equivalent, and lost again. The play was now silent: each won and lost; but Fulvius had steadily the advantage, and he was the more collected of the two.

Once Torquatus looked up and started. He thought he saw the good Polycarp behind his adversary’s chair. He rubbed his eyes, and saw it was only Corvinus staring at him. All his skill was now put forth. Conscience had retreated; faith was wavering; grace had already departed. For the demon of covetousness, of rapine, of dishonesty, of recklessness, had come back, and brought with him seven spirits worse than himself, to that cleansed but ill-guarded soul; and as they entered in, all that was holy, all that was good, departed.

At length, worked up, by repeated losses and draughts of wine, into a frenzy, after he had drawn frequently upon the heavy purse which Fabiola had given him, he threw the purse itself upon the table. Fulvius coolly opened it, emptied it, counted the money, and placed opposite an equal heap of gold. Each prepared himself for a final throw. The fatal bones fell; each glanced silently upon their spots. Fulvius drew the money towards himself. Torquatus fell upon the table, his head buried and hidden within his arms. Fulvius motioned Corvinus out of the room.

Torquatus beat the ground with his foot; then moaned, next gnashed his teeth and growled; then put his fingers in

The Ruins of the Roman Forum, as they are To-day.

his hair, and begun to pull and tear it. A voice whispered in his ear, “Are you a Christian?” Which of the seven spirits was it? surely the worst.

“It is hopeless,” continued the voice; “you have disgraced your religion, and you have betrayed it too.”

“No, no,” groaned the despairing wretch.

“Yes; in your drunkenness you have told us all: quite enough to make it impossible for you ever to return to those you have betrayed.”

“Begone, begone,” exclaimed piteously the tortured sinner. “They will forgive me still. God——”

“Silence; utter not His name: you are degraded, perjured, hopelessly lost. You are a beggar; to-morrow you must beg your bread. You are an outcast, a ruined prodigal and gamester. Who will look at you? will your Christian friends? And nevertheless youarea Christian; you will be torn to pieces by some cruel death for it; yet you will not be worshipped by them as one of their martyrs. You are a hypocrite, Torquatus, and nothing more.”

“Who is it that is tormenting me?” he exclaimed, and looked up. Fulvius was standing with folded arms at his side. “And if all this be true, what is it to you? What have you to say more to me?” he continued.

“Much more than you think. You have betrayed yourself into my power completely. I am master of your money”—(and he showed him Fabiola’s purse)—“of your character, of your peace, of your life. I have only to let your fellow-Christians know what you have done, what you have said, what you have been to-night, and you dare not face them. I have only to let that ‘bully—that big brute,’ as you called him, but who is son of the prefect of the city, loose upon you, (and no one else can now restrain him after such provocation), and to-morrow you will be standing before his father’s tribunal to die for that religion which you have betrayed and disgraced. Are you readynow, any longer, to reel and stagger as a drunken gambler, to represent your Christianity before the judgment-seat in the Forum?”

The fallen man had not courage to follow the prodigal in repentance, as he had done in sin. Hope was dead in him; for he had relapsed into his capital sin, and scarcely felt remorse. He remained silent, till Fulvius aroused him by asking, “Well, have you made your choice; either to go at once to the Christians with to-night on your head, or to-morrow to the court? Which do you choose?”

Torquatus raised his eyes to him, with a stolid look, and faintly answered, “Neither.”

“Come, then, what will you do?” asked Fulvius, mastering him with one of his falcon glances.

“What you like,” said Torquatus, “only neither of those things.”

Fulvius sat down beside him, and said, in a soft and soothing voice, “Now, Torquatus, listen to me; do as I tell you, and all is mended. You shall have house, and food, and apparel, ay, and money to play with, if you will only do my bidding.”

“And what is that?”

“Rise to-morrow as usual; put on your Christian face; go freely among your friends; act as if nothing had happened; but answer all my questions, tell me every thing.”

Torquatus groaned, “A traitor at last!”

“Call it what you will; that or death! Ay, death by inches. I hear Corvinus pacing impatiently up and down the court. Quick! which is it to be?”

“Not death! Oh, no, any thing but that!”

Fulvius went out, and found his friend fuming with rage and wine; he had hard work to pacify him. Corvinus had almost forgotten Cassianus in fresher resentments; but all his former hatred had been rekindled, and he burnt for revenge.Fulvius promised to find out where he lived, and used this means to secure the suspension of any violent and immediate measure.

Having sent Corvinus sulky and fretting home, he returned to Torquatus, whom he wished to accompany, that he might ascertain his lodgings. As soon as he had left the room, his victim had arisen from his chair, and endeavored, by walking up and down, to steady his senses and regain self-possession. But it was in vain; his head was swimming from his inebriety, and his subsequent excitement. The apartment seemed to turn round and round, and float up and down; he was sick too, and his heart was beating almost audibly. Shame, remorse, self-contempt, hatred of his destroyers and of himself, the desolateness of the outcast, and the black despair of the reprobate, rolled like dark billows through his soul, each coming in turn uppermost. Unable to sustain himself longer on his feet, he threw himself on his face upon a silken couch, and buried his burning brow in his icy hands, and groaned. And still all whirled round and round him, and a constant moaning sounded in his ears.

A Dove, as an Emblem of the Soul.

Fulvius found him in this state, and touched his shoulder to rouse him. Torquatus shuddered, and was convulsed; then exclaimed: “Can this be Charybdis?”

Diogenes the excavator, from a painting in the Cemetery of Domitilla.[71]

THE scenes through which we have hitherto led our reader have been laid in one of those slippery truces, rather than peace, which often intervened between persecution and persecution. Already rumors of war have crossed our path, and its note of preparation has beendistinctly heard. The roar of the lions near the Amphitheatre, which startled but dismayed not Sebastian, the reports from the East, the hints of Fulvius, and the threats of Corvinus, have brought us the same news, that before long the horrors of persecution will re-appear, and Christian blood will have to flow, in a fuller and nobler stream than had hitherto watered the Paradise of the New Law. The Church, ever calmly provident, cannot neglect the many signs of a threatened combat, nor the preparations necessary for meeting it. From the moment she earnestly begins to arm herself, we date the second period of our narrative. It is the commencement of conflict.

Jonas, after a painting in the Cemetery of Callistus.

It was towards the end of October that a young man, not unknown to us, closely muffled up in his cloak, for it was dark and rather chill, might be seen threading his way through the narrow alleys of the district called the Suburra; a region, the extent and exact position of which is still under dispute, but which lay in the immediate vicinity of the Forum. As vice is unfortunately too often linked with poverty, the two found a common asylum here. Pancratius did not seem much at home in this part of the city, and made several wrong turns, till at length he found the street he was in search of. Still, without numbers on the doors, the house he wanted was an unsolved problem, although not quite insoluble. He looked for the neatest dwelling in the street; and

Lazarus raised from the dead. A similar representation is found in the CatacombInter duos lauros, and in the Cemetery of Saints Nereus and Achilles.

being particularly struck with the cleanliness and good order of one beyond the rest, he boldly knocked at its door. It was opened by an old man, whose name has already appeared in our pages, Diogenes. He was tall and broad-shouldered, as if accustomed to bear burdens, which, however, had given him a stoop in his gait. His hair was a perfect silver, and hung down at the sides of a large massive head; his features were strongly marked in deep melancholy lines, and though the expression of his countenance was calm, it was solemnly sad. He looked like one who had lived much among the dead, and was happiest in their company. His two sons, Majus and Severus, fine athletic youths, were with him. The first was busy carving, or scratching rather, a rude epitaph on an old slab of marble, the reverse of which still bore traces of a heathen sepulchral inscription, rudely effaced by its new possessor.

Twofossores, or excavators, from a picture in the Cemetery of Callistus.

Pancratius looked over the work in hand and smiled; there was hardly a word rightly spelt, or a part of speech correct; indeed, here it is:

DE BIANOBAPOLLECLA QVE ORDEV BENDET DE BIANOBA[72]

The other son was making a rough design, in which could be distinguished Jonas devoured by the whale, and Lazarus raised from the dead, both most conventionally drawn with charcoal on a board; a sketch evidently for a more permanent painting elsewhere. Further, it was clear that when the knock came to the door, old Diogenes was busy fitting a new handle to an old pick-axe. These varied occupations in one family might have surprised a modern, but they did not at all the youthful visitor; he well knew that the family belonged to the honorable and religious craft of the Fossores, or excavators of the Christian cemeteries. Indeed, Diogenes was the head and director of that confraternity. In conformity with the assertion of an anonymous writer, contemporary with St. Jerome, some modern antiquarians have considered thefossoras forming a lesser ecclesiastical order in the primitive Church, like thelector, or reader. But although this opinion is untenable, it is extremely probable that the duties of this office were in the hands of persons appointed and recognized by ecclesiastical authority. The uniform system pursued in excavating, arranging, and filling up of the numerous cemeteries round Rome, a system too, so complete from the beginning, as not to leave positive signs of improvement or change as time went on, gives us reason to conclude that these wonderful and venerable works were carried on under one direction, and probably by some body associated for that purpose. It was not a cemetery or necropolis company, which made a speculation of burying the dead, but rather a pious and recognized confraternity which was associated for the purpose.

A series of interesting inscriptions, found in the cemetery of St. Agnes, proves that this occupation was continued in particular families; grandfather, father, and sons, having carried it on in the same place.[73]We can thus easily understand the great skill and uniformity of practice observable in the catacombs. But thefossoreshad evidently a higher office, or even jurisdiction, in that underground world. Though the Church provided space for the burial of all her children, it was natural that some should make compensation for their place of sepulture, if chosen in a favorite spot, such as the vicinity of a martyr’s tomb. These sextons had the management of such transactions, which are often recorded in the ancient cemeteries. The following inscription is preserved in the Capitol:

EMPTV LOCVM AB ARTEMISIVM VISOMVM HOC ESTET PRAETIVM DATVM FOSSORI HILARO IDESTFOL NOOD PRAESENTIA SEVERI FOSS ET LAVRENTI

That is—

“This is the grave for two bodies, bought by Artimisius; and the price was given to the Fossor Hilarus,—that is, purses....[74]In the presence of Severus the Fossor and Laurentius.”

Possibly the last named was the witness on the purchaser’s side, and Severus on the seller’s. However this may be, we trust we have laid before our readers all that is known about the profession, as such, of Diogenes and his sons.

We left Pancratius amused at Majus’s rude attempts in glyptic art; his next step was to address him.

“Do you always execute these inscriptions yourself?”

“Oh, no,” answered the artist, looking up and smiling. “I do them for poor people who cannot afford to pay a better hand. This was a good woman who kept a small shop in theVianova, and you may suppose did not become rich, especially as she was very honest. And yet a curious thought struck me as I was carving her epitaph.”

“Let me hear it, Majus.”

“It was, that perhaps some thousand years hence or more, Christians might read with reverence my scratches on the wall, and hear of poor old Pollecla and her barley stall with interest, while the inscription of not a single emperor, who persecuted the Church, would be read or even known.”

“Well, I can hardly imagine that the superb mausoleums of sovereigns will fall to utter decay, and yet the memory of a market-wife descend to distant ages. But what is your reason for thinking thus?”

“Simply because I would sooner commit to the keeping of posterity the memory of the pious poor than that of the wickedrich. And my rude record may possibly be read when triumphal arches have been demolished. It’s dreadfully written though, is it not?”

A gallery in the Cemetery of St. Agnes, on the Nomentan Way.

“Never mind that; its simplicity is worth much fine writing. What is that slab leaning against the wall?”

“Ah, thatisa beautiful inscription brought us to put up; you will see the writer and engraver were different people. It is to go to the cemetery at the Lady Agnes’s villa, on the Nomentan way. I believe it is in memory of a most sweetchild, whose death is deeply felt by his virtuous parents.” Pancratius took a light to it, and read as follows:

Inscription of the Cemetery of Saint Agnes.

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