A few years later, when the son had reached manhood, and had abundantly unfolded his character, the mother died. Before her end, she had seen symptoms of her husband’s impending ruin; and, determined that her daughter should not be dependent on his careless administration, nor on her son’s ominous selfishness and ambition, she secured effectually from the covetousness of both, her own large fortune, which was settled on her daughter. She resisted every influence, and every art, employed to induce her to release this property, or allow it to merge in the family resources, and be made available towards relieving their embarrassments. And on her death-bed, among other solemn parental injunctions, she laid this on her daughter’s filial sense of duty, that she never would allow, after coming of age, any alteration in this arrangement.
Matters grew worse and worse; creditors pressed; property had been injudiciously disposed of; when a mysterious person, called Eurotas, made his appearance in the family. No one but its head seemed to know him; and he evidently looked upon him as at once a blessing and a curse, the bearer both of salvation and of ruin.
The reader is in possession of Eurotas’s own revelations; it is sufficient to add, that being the elder brother, but conscious that his rough, morose, and sinister character did not fit him for sustaining the position of head of the family and administering quietly a settled property, and having a haughty ambition to raise his house into a nobler rank, and increase even its riches, he took but a moderate sum of money as capital, vanished for years, embarked in the desperate traffic of interior Asia, penetrated into China and India, and came backhome with a large fortune, and a collection of rare gems, which helped his nephew’s brief career, but misguided him to ruin in Rome.
Eurotas, instead of a rich family, into which to pour superfluous wealth, found only a bankrupt house to save from ruin. But his family pride prevailed; and after many reproaches, and bitter quarrels with his brother, but concealed from all else, he paid off his debts by the extinction of his own capital, and thus virtually became master of all the wreck of his brother’s property, and of the entire family.
After a few years of weary life, the father sickened and died. On his death-bed, he told Orontius that he had nothing to leave him, that all he had lived on for some years, the very house over his head, belonged to his friend Eurotas, whose relationship he did not further explain, whom he must look up to entirely for support and guidance. The youth thus found himself, while full of pride, ambition, and voluptuousness, in the hands of a cold-hearted, remorseless, and no less ambitious man, who soon prescribed as the basis of mutual confidence, absolute submission to his will, while he should act in the capacity of an inferior, and the understood principle, that nothing was too great or too little, nothing too good or too wicked to be done, to restore family position and wealth.
To stay at Antioch was impossible after the ruin which had overtaken the house. With a good capital in hand, much might be done elsewhere. But now, even the sale of all left would scarcely cover the liabilities discovered after the father’s death. There was still untouched the sister’s fortune; and both agreed that thismustbe got from her. Every artifice was tried, every persuasion employed, but she simply and firmly resisted; both in obedience to her mother’s dying orders, and because she had in view the establishment of a house for consecrated virgins, in which she intended to pass her days. She was now just of legal age to dispose of herown property. She offered them every advantage that she could give them; proposed that for a time they should all live together upon her means. But this did not answer their purpose; and when every other course had failed, Eurotas began to hint, that one who stood so much in their way should be got rid of at any cost.
Orontius shuddered at the first proposal of the thought. Eurotas familiarized him gradually with it, till—shrinking yet from the actual commission of fratricide—he thought he had almost done something virtuous, as the brothers of Joseph imagined they did, by adopting a slower and less sanguinary method of dealing with an obnoxious brother. Stratagem and unseen violence, of which no law could take cognizance, and which no one would dare reveal, offered him the best chance of success.
Among the privileges of Christians in the first ages, we have already mentioned that of reserving the Blessed Eucharist at home for domestic communion. We have described the way in which it was enfolded in anorarium, or linen cloth, again often preserved in a richer cover. This precious gift was kept in a chest (arca) with a lid, as St. Cyprian has informed us.[220]Orontius well knew this; and he was moreover aware that its contents were more prized than silver or gold; that, as the Fathers tell us, to drop negligently a crumb of the consecrated bread was considered a crime;[221]and that the name of “pearl,” which was given to the smallest fragment,[222]showed that it was so precious in a Christian’s eye,that he would part with all he possessed to rescue it from sacrilegious profanation.
The scarf richly embroidered with pearls, which has more than once affected our narrative, was the outer covering in which Miriam’s mother had preserved this treasure; and her daughter valued it both as a dear inheritance, and as a consecrated object, for she continued its use.
One day, early in the morning, she knelt before her ark; and after fervent preparation by prayer, proceeded to open it. To her dismay she found it already unlocked, and her treasure gone! Like Mary Magdalen at the sepulchre, she wept bitterly, because they had taken her Lord, and she knew not where they had laid Him. Like her, too, “as she was weeping she stooped down and looked” again into her ark, and found a paper, which in the confusion of the first glance she had overlooked.
It informed her that what she sought was safe in her brother’s hands, and might be ransomed. She ran at once to him, where he was closeted with the dark man, in whose presence she always trembled; threw herself on her knees before him, and entreated him to restore what she valued more than all her wealth. He was on the point of yielding to her tears and supplications, when Eurotas fixed his stern eye upon him, overawed him, then himself addressed her, saying:
“Miriam, we take you at your word. We wish to put the earnestness and reality of your faith to a sufficient test. Are you truly sincere in what you offer?”
“I will surrender any thing, all I have, to rescue from profanation the Holy of Holies.”
“Then sign that paper,” said Eurotas, with a sneer.
She took the pen in her hand, and after running her eye over the document, signed it. It was a surrender of her entire property to Eurotas. Orontius was furious when hesaw himself overreached, by the man to whom he had suggested the snare for his sister. But it was too late; he was only the faster in his unsparing gripe. A more formal renunciation of her rights was exacted from Miriam, with the formalities required by the Roman law.
For a short time she was treated soothingly; then hints began to be given to her of the necessity of moving, as Orontius and his friend intended to proceed to Nicomedia, the imperial residence. She asked to be sent to Jerusalem, where she would obtain admission into some community of holy women. She was accordingly embarked on board a vessel, the captain of which bore a suspicious character, and was very sparingly supplied with means. But she bore round her neck what she had given proof of valuing, more than any wealth. For, as St. Ambrose relates of his brother Satyrus, yet a catechumen, Christians carried round their necks the Holy Eucharist, when embarking for a voyage.[223]We need not say that Miriam bore it securely folded in the only thing of price she cared to take from her father’s house.
When the vessel was out at sea, instead of coasting towards Joppe or any port on the coast, the captain stood straight out, as if making for some distant shore. What his purpose was, it was difficult to conjecture; but his few passengers became alarmed, and a serious altercation ensued. This was cut short by a sudden storm; the vessel was carried forward at the mercy of the winds for some days, and then dashed to pieces on a rocky island near Cyprus. Like Satyrus, Miriam attributed her reaching the shore in safety to the precious burden which she bore. She was almost the only survivor; at least she saw no other person saved. Those, therefore, that did live besides, on returning to Antioch, reported her death, together with that of the remaining passengers and crew.
She was picked up on the shore by men who lived on suchspoil. Destitute and friendless, she was sold to a trader in slaves, taken to Tarsus, on the mainland, and again sold to a person of high rank, who treated her with kindness.
After a short time, Fabius instructed one of his agents in Asia to procure a slave of polished manners and virtuous character, if possible, at any price, to attend on his daughter; and Miriam, under the name of Syra, came to bring salvation to the house of Fabiola.
Ordination, from a picture in the Catacombs.
Ordination, from a picture in the Catacombs.
Ordination, from a picture in the Catacombs.
IT was a few days after the occurrences related in our last chapter but one, that Fabiola was told, that an old man in great anguish, real or pretended, desired to speak with her. On going down to him and asking him his name and business, he replied:
“My name, noble lady, is Ephraim; and I have a large debt secured on the property of the late Lady Agnes, which I understand has now passed into your hands; and I am come, therefore, to claim it from you, for otherwise I am a ruined man!”
“How is that possible?” asked Fabiola in amazement. “I cannot believe that my cousin ever contracted debts.”
“No, notshe,” rejoined the usurer, a little abashed; “but a gentleman called Fulvius, to whom the property was to come by confiscation; so I advanced him large sums upon it.”
Her first impulse was to turn the man out of the house; but the thought of the sister came to her mind, and she civilly said to him:
“Whatever debts Fulvius has contracted I will discharge; but with only legal interest, and without regard to usurious contracts.”
“But think of the risks I ran, madam. I have been most moderate in my rates, I assure you.”
“Well,” she answered, “call on my steward, and he shall settle all. You are running no risks now at least.”
She gave instructions, accordingly, to the freed-man who managed her affairs, to pay this sum on those conditions, which reduced it to one half the demand. But she soon engaged him in a more laborious task, that of going through the whole of her late father’s accounts, and ascertaining every case of injury or oppression, that restitution might be made. And further, having ascertained that Corvinus had really obtained the imperial rescript, through his father, by which her own lawful property was saved from confiscation, though she refused ever to see him, she bestowed upon him such a remuneration as would ensure him comfort through life.
These temporal matters being soon disposed of, she divided her attention between the care of the patient and preparation for her Christian initiation. To promote Miriam’s recovery, she removed her, with a small portion of her household, to a spot dear to both, the Nomentan villa. The spring had set in, and Miriam could have her couch brought to the window, or, in the warmest part of the day, could even be carried down into the garden before the house, where, with Fabiola on one side and Emerentiana on the other, and poor Molossus, who had lost all his spirit, at her feet, they would talk of friends lost, and especially of her with whom every object around was associated in their memories. And no sooner was the name of Agnes mentioned, than her old faithful guard would prick up his ears and wag his tail, and look around him. They would also frequently discourse on Christian subjects, when Miriam would follow up, humbly and unpretendingly, but with the warm glow which had first charmed Fabiola, the instructions given by the holy Dionysius.
Thus, for instance, when he had been treating of the virtue and meaning of the sign of the cross to be used in baptism, “whether on the forehead of believers, or over the water, by which they were to be regenerated, or the oil with which, as well as the chrism, they were anointed, or the sacrifice by which they are fed;”[224]Miriam explained to the catechumens its more domestic and practical use, and exhorted them to practise faithfully what all good Christians did, that is, to make this holy sign upon themselves already, “in the course and at the beginning of every work, on coming in and going out, when putting on their clothes, or sandals, when they washed, sat down to table, lighted their lamp, lay down in bed, or sat on a chair, in whatever conversation they should be engaged.”[225]
But it was observed with pain, by all but Fabiola, that the patient, though the wound had healed, did not gain strength. It is often the mother or sister that is last to see the slow waste of illness, in child or sister. Love is so hopeful, and so blind! There was a hectic flush on her cheek, she was emaciated and weak, and a slight cough was heard from time to time. She lay long awake, and she desired to have her bed so placed that from early dawn she could look out upon one spot more fair to them all than the richest parterre.
There had long been in the villa an entrance to the cemetery on this road; but from this time it had already received the name of Agnes; for near its entrance had this holy martyr been buried. Her body rested in acubiculumor chamber, under an arched tomb. Just above the entrance into this chamber, and in the middle of the grounds, was an opening, surrounded above by a low parapet, concealed by shrubs,
Fabiola went down herself, with a few servants, and what was her distress at finding poor Emerentiana lying weltering in her blood, and perfectly dead.
Fabiola went down herself, with a few servants, and what was her distress at finding poor Emerentiana lying weltering in her blood, and perfectly dead.
Fabiola went down herself, with a few servants, and what was her distress at finding poor Emerentiana lying weltering in her blood, and perfectly dead.
which gave light and air to the room below. Towards this point Miriam loved to look, as the nearest approach she could make, in her infirm health, to the sepulchre of one whom she so much venerated and loved.
Early one morning, beautiful and calm, for it wanted but a few weeks to Easter, she was looking in that direction, when she observed half-a-dozen young men, who on their way to angle in the neighboring Anio, were taking a short cut across the villa, and so committing a trespass. They passed by this opening; and one of them, having looked down, called the others.
“This is one of those underground lurking-places of the Christians.”
“One of their rabbit-holes into the burrow.”
“Let us go in,” said one.
“Yes, and how shall we get up again?” asked a second.
This dialogue she could not hear, but she saw what followed it. One who had looked down more carefully, shading his eyes from the light, called the others to do the same, but with gestures which enjoined silence. In a moment they pulled down large stones from the rock-work of a fountain, close at hand, and threw down a volley of them at something below. They laughed very heartily as they went away; and Miriam supposed that they had seen some serpent or other noxious animal below, and had amused themselves with pelting it.
When others were stirring she mentioned the occurrence, that the stones might be removed. Fabiola went down herself with a few servants, for she was jealous of the custody of Agnes’s tomb. What was her distress at finding poor Emerentiana gone down to pray at her foster-sister’s tomb, lying weltering in her blood, and perfectly dead. It was discovered that, the evening before, passing by some Pagan orgies nearthe river, and being invited to join in them, she had not only refused, but had reproached the partakers in them with their wickedness, and with their cruelties to Christians. They assailed her with stones, and grievously wounded her; but she escaped from their fury into the villa. Feeling herself faint and wounded, she crept unnoticed to the tomb of Agnes, there to pray. She had been unable to move away when some of her former assailants discovered her. Those brutal Pagans had anticipated the ministry of the Church, and had conferred upon her the baptism of blood. She was buried near Agnes, and the modest peasant child received the honor of annual commemoration among the Saints.
Fabiola and her companions went through the usual course of preparation, though abridged on account of the persecution. By living at the very entrance into a cemetery, and one furnished with such large churches, they were enabled to pass through the three stages of catechumenship. First they werehearers,[226]admitted to be present, while the lessons were read; thenkneelers,[227]who assisted at a portion of the liturgical prayers; and lastlyelect, orpetitioners[228]for baptism.
Once in this last class, they had to attend frequently in church, but more particularly on the three Wednesdays following the first, the fourth, and the last Sundays in Lent, on which days the Roman Missal yet retains a second collect and lesson, derived from this custom. Any one perusing the present rite of baptism in the Catholic Church, especially that of adults, will see condensed into one office what used to be anciently distributed through a variety of functions. On one day the renunciation of Satan was made, previous to its repetition just before baptism; on another the touching of the ears and nostrils, or theEphpheta, as it was called. Then were
Baptism, in the Early Ages of the Church.
Baptism, in the Early Ages of the Church.
Baptism, in the Early Ages of the Church.
repeated exorcisms, and genuflections, and signings of crosses on the forehead and body,[229]breathings upon the candidate, and other mysterious rites. More solemn still was the unction, which was not confined to the head, but extended to the whole body.
The Creed was also faithfully learnt, and committed to memory. But the doctrine of the Blessed Eucharist was not imparted till after baptism.
In these multiplied preparatory exercises the penitential time of Lent passed quickly and solemnly, till at last Easter-eve arrived.
It does not fall to our lot to describe the ceremonial of the Church in the administration of the Sacraments. The liturgical system received its great developments after peace had been gained; and much that belongs to outward forms and splendor was incompatible with the bitter persecution which the Church was undergoing.
It is enough for us to have shown, how not only doctrines and great sacred rites, but how even ceremonies and accessories were the same in the three first centuries as now. If our example is thought worth following, some one will perhaps illustrate a brighter period than we have chosen.
The baptism of Fabiola and her household had nothing to cheer it but purely spiritual joy. The titles in the city were all closed, and among them that of St. Pastor with its papal baptistery.
Early, therefore, on the morning of the auspicious day, the party crept round the walls to the opposite side of the city, and following the Via Portuensis, or road that led to the port at the mouth of the Tiber, turned into a vineyard near Cæsar’s gardens, and descended into the cemetery of Pontianus, celebrated as the resting-place of the Persian martyrs, SS. Abdon and Sennen.
The morning was spent in prayer and preparation, when towards evening the solemn office, which was to be protracted through the night, commenced.
When the time for the administration of baptism arrived, it was indeed but a dreary celebration that it introduced. Deep in the bowels of the earth the waters of a subterranean stream had been gathered into a square well or cistern, from four to five feet deep. They were clear, indeed, but cold and bleak, if we may use the expression, in their subterranean bath, formed out of thetufa, or volcanic rock. A long flight of steps led down to this rude baptistery, a small ledge at the side sufficed for the minister and the candidate, who was thrice immersed in the purifying waters.
The whole remains to this day, just as it was then, except that over the water is now to be seen a painting of St. John baptizing our Lord, added probably a century or two later.
Immediately after Baptism followed Confirmation, and then the neophyte, or new-born child of the Church, after due instruction, was admitted for the first time to the table of his Lord, and nourished with the Bread of angels.
It was not till late on Easter-day that Fabiola returned to her villa; and a long and silent embrace was her first greeting of Miriam. Both were so happy, so blissful, so fully repaid for all that they had been to one another for months, that no words could give expression to their feelings. Fabiola’s grand idea and absorbing pride, that day was, that now she had risen to the level of her former slave: not in virtue, not in beauty of character, not in greatness of mind, not in heavenly wisdom, not in merit before God; oh! no; in all this she felt herself infinitely her inferior. But as a child of God, as heiress to an eternal kingdom, as a living member of the body ofChrist, as admitted to a share in all His mercies, to all the price of His redemption, as a new creature in Him, she felt that she was equal to Miriam, and with happy glee she told her so.
Never had she been so proud of splendid garment as she was of the white robe, which she had received as she came out of the font, and which she had to wear for eight days.
But a merciful Father knows how to blend our joys and sorrows, and sends us the latter when He has best prepared us for them. In that warm embrace which we have mentioned, she for the first time noticed the shortened breath, and heaving chest of her dear sister. She would not dwell upon it in her thoughts, but sent to beg Dionysius to come on the morrow. That evening they all kept their Easter banquet together; and Fabiola felt happy to preside at Miriam’s side over a table, at which reclined or sat her own converted slaves, and those of Agnes’s household, all of whom she had retained. She never remembered having enjoyed so delightful a supper.
Early next morning, Miriam called Fabiola to her side, and with a fond, caressing manner, which she had never before displayed, said to her:
“My dear sister, what will you do, when I have left you?”
Poor Fabiola was overpowered with grief. “Are you then going to leave me? I had hoped we should live for ever as sisters together. But if you wish to leave Rome, may I not accompany you, at least to nurse you, to serve you?”
Miriam smiled, but a tear was in her eye, as taking her sister’s hand, she pointed up towards heaven. Fabiola understood her, and said: “O, no, no, dearest sister. Pray to God, who will refuse you nothing, that I may not lose you. It isselfish, I know; but what can I do without you? And now too, that I have learnt how much they who reign with Christ can do for us by intercession, I will pray to Agnes[230]and Sebastian, to interpose for me, and avert so great a calamity.
“Do get well: I am sure there is nothing serious in the matter; the warm weather, and the genial climate of Campania, will soon restore you. We will sit again together by the spring, and talk over better things than philosophy.”
Miriam shook her head, not mournfully, but cheerfully, as she replied:
“Do not flatter yourself, dearest; God has spared me till I should see this happy day. But His hand is on me now for death, as it has been hitherto for life; and I hail it with joy. I know too well the number of my days.”
“Oh! let it not be so soon!” sobbed out Fabiola.
“Not while you have on your white garment, dear sister,” answered Miriam. “I know you would wish to mourn for me; but I would not rob you of one hour of your mystic whiteness.”
Dionysius came, and saw a great change in his patient, whom he had not visited for some time. It was as he had feared it might be. The insidious point of the dagger had curled round the bone, and injured the pleura; and phthisis
Administering the Sacrament of Extreme Unction, in the Early Ages of the Church.
Administering the Sacrament of Extreme Unction, in the Early Ages of the Church.
Administering the Sacrament of Extreme Unction, in the Early Ages of the Church.
had rapidly set in. He confirmed Miriam’s most serious anticipations.
Fabiola went to pray for resignation at the sepulchre of Agnes; she prayed long and fervently, and with many tears, then returned.
“Sister,” she said with firmness, “God’s will be done, I am ready to resign even you to Him. Now, tell me, I entreat you, what would you have me do, after you are taken from me?”
Miriam looked up to heaven, and answered, “Lay my body at the feet of Agnes, and remain to watch over us, to pray to her, and for me; until a stranger shall arrive from the East, the bearer of good tidings.”
On the Sunday following, “Sunday of the white garments,” Dionysius celebrated, by special permission, the sacred mysteries in Miriam’s room, and administered to her the most holy Communion, as her viaticum. This private celebration, as we know from St. Augustine and others was not a rare privilege.[231]Afterwards, he anointed her with oil, accompanied by prayer, the last Sacrament which the Church bestows.
Fabiola and the household who had attended these solemn rites, with tears and prayers, now descended into the crypt, and after the divine offices returned to Miriam in their darker raiment.
“The hour is come,” said she, taking Fabiola’s hand. “Forgive me, if I have been wanting in duty to you, and in good example.”
This was more than Fabiola could stand, and she burst into tears. Miriam soothed her, and said, “Put to my lips the sign of salvation when I can speak no more; and, good Dionysius, remember me at God’s altar when I am departed.”
He prayed at her side, and she replied, till at length her voice failed her. But her lips moved, and she pressed them on the cross presented to her. She looked serene and joyful, till at length raising her hand to her forehead, then bringing it to her breast, it fell dead there, in making the saving sign. A smile passed over her face, and she expired, as thousands of Christ’s children have expired since.
Fabiola mourned much over her; but this time she mourned as they do who have hope.
Portrait of Our Saviour, from the Catacomb of St. Callistus.
Portrait of Our Saviour, from the Catacomb of St. Callistus.
Portrait of Our Saviour, from the Catacomb of St. Callistus.
Constantine, the first Christian Emperor, after a medal of the time.
Constantine, the first Christian Emperor, after a medal of the time.
Constantine, the first Christian Emperor, after a medal of the time.
WE appear to ourselves to be walking in solitude. One by one, those whose words and actions, and even thoughts, have hitherto accompanied and sustained us, have dropped off, and the prospect around looks very dreary. But is all this unnatural? We have been describing not an ordinary period of peace and every-day life, but one of warfare, strife, and battle. Is it unnatural that the bravest, the most heroic, should have fallen thick around us? We have been reviving the memory of the cruellest persecution which the Church ever suffered, when it was proposed to erect a column bearing the inscription that the Christian name had been extinguished. Is it strange that the holiest and purest should have been the earliest to be crowned?
Dioclesian.After a medal in the Cabinet of France.
Dioclesian.After a medal in the Cabinet of France.
Dioclesian.
After a medal in the Cabinet of France.
And yet the Church of Christ has still to sustain manyyears of sharper persecution than we have described. A succession of tyrants and oppressors kept up the fearful war upon her, without intermission, in one part of the world or another for twenty years, even after Constantine had checked it wherever his power reached. Dioclesian, Galerius, Maximinus, and Lucinius in the East, Maximian and Maxentius in the West, allowed no rest to the Christians under their several dominions. Like one of those rolling storms which go over half the world, visiting various countries with their ravaging energy, while their gloomy foreboding or sullen wake simultaneously overshadow them all, so did this persecution wreak its fury first on one country, then on another, destroying every thing Christian, passing from Italy to Africa, from Upper Asia to Palestine, Egypt, and then back to Armenia, while it left no place in actual peace, but hung like a blighting storm-cloud over the entire empire.
Lucinius.From a Gold Medal in the French Collection.Maxentius.From a Silver Medal in the French Collection.Galerius-Maximinus.From a Silver Medal in the French Collection.
Lucinius.From a Gold Medal in the French Collection.Maxentius.From a Silver Medal in the French Collection.Galerius-Maximinus.From a Silver Medal in the French Collection.
Lucinius.
From a Gold Medal in the French Collection.
Maxentius.
From a Silver Medal in the French Collection.
Galerius-Maximinus.
From a Silver Medal in the French Collection.
And yet the Church increased, prospered, and defied this world of sin. Pontiff stepped after Pontiff at once upon the footstool of the papal throne and upon the scaffold; councils were held in the dark halls of the catacombs; bishops came to Rome, at risk of their lives, to consult the successor of St. Peter; letters were exchanged between Churches far distant and the supreme Ruler of Christendom, and between different Churches, full of sympathy, encouragement and affection; bishop succeeded bishop in his see, and ordained priests and other ministers to take the place of the fallen, and be a mark set upon the bulwarks of the city for the enemy’s aim; and the work of Christ’s imperishable kingdom went on without interruption, and without fear of extinction.
Indeed it was in the midst of all these alarms and conflicts, that the foundations were being laid of a mighty system, destined to produce stupendous effects in after ages. The persecution drove many from the cities, into the deserts of Egypt, where the monastic state grew up, so as to make “the wilderness rejoice and flourish like the lily bud forth and blossom, and rejoice with joy and praise.”[232]And so, when Dioclesian had been degraded from the purple, and had died a peevish destitute old man, and Galerius had been eaten up alive by ulcers and worms, and had acknowledged, by public edict, the failure of his attempts, and Maximian Herculeus had strangled himself, and Maxentius had perished in the Tiber, and Maximinus had expired amidst tortures inflicted by Divine justice equal to any he had inflicted on Christians, his very eyes having started from their sockets, and Licinius had been put to death by Constantine; the spouse of Christ, whom they had all conspired to destroy, stood young and blooming as ever, about to enter into her great career of universal diffusion and rule.
It was in the year 313 that Constantine, having defeated Maxentius, gave full liberty to the Church. Even if ancient writers had not described it, we may imagine the joy and gratitude of the poor Christians on this great change. It was like the coming forth, and tearful though happy greeting, of the inhabitants of a city decimated by plague, when proclamation has gone forth that the infection has ceased. For here, after ten years of separation and concealment, when families could scarcely meet in the cemeteries nearest to them, manydid not know who among friends or kinsfolk had fallen victims, or who might yet survive. Timid at first, and then more courageous, they ventured forth; soon the places of old assembly, which children born in the last ten years had not seen, were cleansed, or repaired, refitted and reconciled,[233]and opened to public, and now fearless, worship.
TheLabarumor Christian Standard. From a coin of Constantine.
TheLabarumor Christian Standard. From a coin of Constantine.
TheLabarumor Christian Standard. From a coin of Constantine.
Constantine also ordered all property, public or private, belonging to Christians and confiscated, to be restored; but with the wise provision that the actual holders should be indemnified by the imperial treasury.[234]The Church was soon in motion to bring out all the resources of her beautiful forms and institutions; and either the existing basilicas were converted to her uses, or new ones were built on the most cherished spots of Rome.
Let not the reader fear that we are going to lead him forward into a long history. This will belong to some one better qualified, for the task of unfolding the grandeur and charms of free and unfettered Christianity. We have only to show the land of promise from above, spread like an inviting paradise before our feet; we are not the Josue that must lead others in. The little that we have to add in this brief third part of our humble book, is barely what is necessary for its completion.
We will then suppose ourselves arrived at the year 318, fifteen years after our last scene of death. Time and permanent laws have given security to the Christian religion, and the Church is likewise more fully establishing her organization.
A Marriage in the Early Ages of the Church.
A Marriage in the Early Ages of the Church.
A Marriage in the Early Ages of the Church.
Many who on the return of peace had hung down their heads, having by some act of weak condescension escaped death, had by this time expiated their fall by penance; and now and then an aged stranger would be saluted reverently by the passers-by, when they saw that his right eye had been burned out, or his hand mutilated; or when his halting gait showed that the tendons of the knee had been severed, in the late persecution, for Christ’s sake.[235]
If at this period our friendly reader will follow us out of the Nomentan gate, to the valley with which he is already acquainted, he will find sad havoc among the beautiful trees and flower-beds of Fabiola’s villa. Scaffold-poles are standing up in place of the first; bricks, marbles, and columns lie upon the latter. Constantia, the daughter of Constantine, had prayed at St. Agnes’s tomb, when not yet a Christian, to beg the cure of a virulent ulcer, had been refreshed by a vision, and completely cured. Being now baptized, she was repaying her debt of gratitude, by building over her tomb her beautiful basilica. Still the faithful had access to the crypt in which she was buried; and great was the concourse of pilgrims, that came from all parts of the world.
One afternoon, when Fabiola returned from the city to her villa, after spending the day in attending to the sick, in an hospital established in her own house, thefossor, who had charge of the cemetery, met her with an air of great interest, and no small excitement, and said:
“Madam, I sincerely believe that the stranger from the East, whom you have so long expected, is arrived.”
Fabiola, who had ever treasured up the dying words of Miriam, eagerly asked, “Where is he?”
“He is gone again,” was the reply.
The lady’s countenance fell. “But how,” she asked again, “do you know it was he?” The excavator replied:
“In the course of the morning I noticed, among the crowd, a man not yet fifty, but worn by mortification and sorrow, to premature old age. His hair was nearly grey, as was his long beard. His dress was eastern, and he wore the cloak which the monks from that country usually do. When he came before the tomb of Agnes, he flung himself upon the pavement with such a passion of tears, such groans, such sobs, as moved all around to compassion. Many approached him, and whispered, ‘Brother, thou art in great distress; weep not so, the saint is merciful.’ Others said to him, ‘We will all pray for thee, fear not.’[236]But he seemed to be beyond comfort. I thought to myself, surely in the presence of so gentle and kind a saint, none ought to be thus disconsolate or heart-broken, except only one man.”
“Go on, go on,” broke in Fabiola; “what did he next?”
“After a long time,” continued the fossor, “he arose, and drawing from his bosom a most beautiful and sparkling ring, he laid it on her tomb. I thought I had seen it before, many years ago.”
“And then?”
“Turning round he saw me, and recognized my dress. He approached me, and I could feel him trembling, as, without looking in my face, he timidly asked me: ‘Brother, knowest thou if there lie buried any where here about a maiden from Syria, called Miriam?’ I pointed silently to the tomb. After a pause of great pain to himself, so agitated now that his voice faltered, he asked me again: ‘Knowest thou, brother, of what she died?’ ‘Of consumption,’ I replied. ‘Thank God!’ he ejaculated, with the sigh of relieved anguish, and fell prostrate on the ground. Here too he moaned and criedfor more than an hour, then, approaching the tomb, affectionately kissed its cover, and retired.”
“It is he, Torquatus, it is he!” warmly exclaimed Fabiola; “why did you not detain him?”
“I durst not, lady; after I had once seen his face, I had not courage to meet his eye. But I am sure he will return again; for he went towards the city.”
Noe and the Ark, as a symbol of the Church, from a picture in the Catacombs.
Noe and the Ark, as a symbol of the Church, from a picture in the Catacombs.
Noe and the Ark, as a symbol of the Church, from a picture in the Catacombs.
“He must be found,” concluded Fabiola. “Dear Miriam, thou hadst, then, this consoling foresight in death!”
EARLY next morning, the pilgrim was passing through the Forum, when he saw a group of persons gathered round one whom they were evidently teasing. He would have paid but little attention to such a scene in a public thoroughfare, had not his ear caught a name familiar to it. He therefore drew nigh. In the centre was a man, younger than himself; but ifhelooked older than he was, from being wan and attenuated, the other did so much more from being the very contrary. He was bald and bloated, with a face swelled, and red, and covered with blotches and boils. A drunken cunning swam in his eye, and his gait and tone were those of a man habitually intoxicated. His clothes were dirty, and his whole person neglected.
“Ay, ay, Corvinus,” one youth was saying to him, “won’t you get your deserts, now? Have you not heard that Constantine is coming this year to Rome, and don’t you think the Christians will have their turn about now?”
“Not they,” answered the man we have described, “they have not the pluck for it. I remember we feared it, when Constantine published his first edict, after the death of Maxentius, about liberty for the Christians, but next year heput us out of fear, by declaring all religions to be equally permitted.”[237]
“That is all very well, as a general rule,” interposed another, determined further to plague him; “but is it not supposed that he is going to look up those who took an active part in the late persecution, and have thelex talionis,[238]executed on them; stripe for stripe, burning for burning, and wild beast for wild beast?”
“Who says so?” asked Corvinus turning pale.
“Why, it would surely be very natural,” said one.
“And very just,” added another.
“Oh, never mind,” said Corvinus, “they will always let one off for turning Christian. And, I am sure, I would turn any thing, rather than stand—”
“Where Pancratius stood,” interposed a third, more malicious.
“Hold your tongue,” broke out the drunkard, with a tone of positive rage. “Mention his name again, if you dare!” And he raised his fist, and looked furiously at the speaker.
“Ay, because he told you how you were to die,” shouted the youngster, running away. “Heigh! Heigh! a panther here for Corvinus!”
All ran away before the human beast, now lashed into fury, more than they would have done from the wild one of the desert. He cursed them, and threw stones after them.
The pilgrim, from a short distance, watched the close of the scene, then went on. Corvinus moved slowly along the same road, that which led towards the Lateran basilica, now the Cathedral of Rome. Suddenly a sharp growl was heard,and with it a piercing shriek. As they were passing by the Coliseum, near the dens of the wild beasts, which were prepared for combats among themselves, on occasion of the emperor’s visit, Corvinus, impelled by the morbid curiosity natural to persons who consider themselves victims of some fatality, connected with a particular object, approached the cage in which a splendid panther was kept. He went close to the bars, and provoked the animal, by gestures and words; saying: “Very likely, indeed, that you are to be the death of me! You are very safe in your den.” In that instant, the enraged animal made a spring at him, and through the wide bars of the den, caught his neck and throat in its fangs, and inflicted a frightful lacerated wound.
The wretched man was picked up, and carried to his lodgings, not far off. The stranger followed him, and found them mean, dirty, and uncomfortable in the extreme; with only an old and decrepit slave, apparently as sottish as his master, to attend him. The stranger sent him out to procure a surgeon, who was long in coming; and, in the meantime, did his best to stanch the blood.
While he was so occupied, Corvinus fixed his eyes upon him with a look of one delirious, or demented.
“Do you know me?” asked the pilgrim, soothingly.
“Know you? No—yes. Let me see—Ha! the fox! my fox! Do you remember our hunting together those hateful Christians. Where have you been all this time? How many of them have you caught?” And he laughed outrageously.
“Peace, peace, Corvinus,” replied the other. “You must be very quiet, or there is no hope for you. Besides, I do not wish you to allude to those times; for I am myself now a Christian.”
“You a Christian?” broke out Corvinus savagely. “You who have shed more of their best blood than any man? Haveyou been forgiven for all this? Or have you slept quietly upon it? Have no furies lashed you at night? no phantoms haunted you? no viper sucked your heart? If so, tell me how you have got rid of them all, that I may do the same. If not, they will come, they will come! Vengeance and fury! why should they not have tormented you as much as me?”
“Silence, Corvinus; I have suffered as you have. But I have found the remedy, and will make it known to you, as soon as the physician has seen you, for he is approaching.”
The doctor saw him, dressed the wound, but gave little hope of recovery, especially in a patient whose very blood was tainted by intemperance.
The stranger now resumed his seat beside him, and spoke of the mercy of God, and His readiness to forgive the worst of sinners; whereof he himself was a living proof. The unhappy man seemed to be in a sort of stupor; if he listened, not comprehending what was said. At length his kind instructor, having expounded to him the fundamental mysteries of Christianity, in hope, rather than certainty, of being attended to, went on to say:
“And now, Corvinus, you will ask me, how is forgiveness to be applied to one who believes all this? It is by Baptism, by being born again of water and the Holy Ghost.”
“What?” exclaimed the sick man loathingly.
“By being washed in the laver of regenerating water.”
He was interrupted by a convulsive growl rather than a moan. “Water! water! no water for me! Take it away!” And a strong spasm seized the patient’s throat.
His attendant was alarmed, but sought to calm him. “Think not,” he said, “that you are to be taken hence in your present fever, and to be plunged into water” (the sickman shuddered, and moaned); “in clinical baptism,[239]a few drops suffice, not more than is in this pitcher.” And he showed him the water in a small vessel. At the sight of it, the patient writhed and foamed at the mouth, and was shaken by a violent convulsion. The sounds that proceeded from him, resembled a howl from a wild beast, more than any utterance of human lips.
The pilgrim saw at once that hydrophobia, with all its horrible symptoms, had come upon the patient, from the bite of the enraged animal. It was with difficulty that he and the servant could hold him down at times. Occasionally he broke out into frightful paroxysms of blasphemous violence against God and man. And then, when this subsided, he would go on moaning thus;
“Water they want to give me! water! water! none for me! It is fire! fire! that I have, and that is my portion. I am already on fire, within, without! Look how it comes creeping up, all round me, it advances every moment nearer and nearer!” And he beat off the fancied flame with his hands on either side of his bed, and he blew at it round his head. Then turning towards his sorrowful attendants, he would say, “why don’t you put it out? you see it is already burning me.”
Thus passed the dreary day, and thus came the dismal night, when the fever increased, and with it the delirium, and the violent accesses of fury, though the body was sinking. At length he raised himself up in bed, and looking with half-glazed eyes straight before him, he exclaimed in a voice choked with bitter rage:
“Away, Pancratius, begone! Thou hast glared on me long enough. Keep back thy panther! Hold it fast; itis going to fly at my throat. It comes! Oh!” And with a convulsive grasp, as if pulling the beast from off his throat, he plucked away the bandage from his wound. A gush of blood poured over him, and he fell back, a hideous corpse, upon the bed.