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FABIOLA;
OR,
THE CHURCH OF THE CATACOMBS,
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Br HIS EMIJ^EJTCE CARDIJfAL WiSEMAJY.
H^C, SUB ALTARI SITA SEMPITEBNO, LAPSIBOS NOSTRIS VENIAM PRECATUR TURBA, QUAM SERVAT PROCERUM CREATRIX PURPHREORUM.
PrudetOius.
HEBE, BENEATH THE ETERNAL ALTAR,
LIES THAT THRONG OF ILLPSTBIOUS M^
WHO ASK PARDON FOR OUR SINS,
AND OVER WHOM THE CITY THAT GAVE THEM BIRTH WATCHES.
a l^istotical picture SUFFERINGS OF THE EARLY CHURCH
IN PAGAN ROME,
ILLUSTRATING THE AS EXEMPLIFIED IN THE LIVES OF
The fair young Virgin, St. Agnes ; the heroic Soldier, St. Sebastian ; the devoted Youth, St. Panoratius; etc., etc.
IL.L.USTKA.TDBD EJDITION.
IV/T// A PREFACE BY
Rev. Richard Brennan, LL.D.,
Pastor of St. Rose of Lima's Churcli, New York.
NOV 27 1885j^/
NEW YORK, CINCINNATI, AND ST. LOUIS :
BENZIGER BROTHERS,
PRINTERS TO THE HOLY APOSTOLIC SEE. 1886.
□
Copyright, 1885, by Benziger Brothers.
Blectrot3rped t>y SMITH & McDOTJGAL, New Torfc.
P R E FAC E
TO THE ILLUSTRATED EDITION,
HE late Cardinal Wiseman's admirable story, "Fabiola," has been read for the last thirty years in many lands and many tongues. At this late day, to say that it has been every- where productive of inestimable good to Chris- tian souls, would be the utterance of the merest truism. But while its salutary influence has been felt far and wide, it seems to have been fraught with special blessings most peculiarly adapted to the religious circumstances of our own land ; where, thirty years ago, when the work made its first 51 appearance among us, the condition of the Chui-ch was not alto- ^)j gether dissimilar from that of the early Church in pagan Rome at the date of the story. Although the sun of divine faith had long before begun to warm with its vivifying and sanctifying rays the virgin soil of this western land of ours, yet it had hardly risen above the horizon when dark and threat- ening clouds of persecution seemed aSbout to obscure its light, promising, instead of a bright and cheerful day for the Church, a night of disap- pointment and suffering. The good already accomplished by the early missionaries seemed imperilled by the coming storm, and the work at that time in progress was meeting with fierce and even cruel opposition. Then it was that men asked themselves, was it necessary that the found- ing of Christ's Church in America should undergo a process similar to
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that which it had undergone in pagan Rome. Although the Catholics of America thirty years ago had little cause to fear the torch or the axe of the executioner, though they could hardly hope for the blood-stained crown of martyrdom in the public arena, though they heard not the cry, "to the wild beasts with the Christians," yet they dwelt amid much religious privation, underwent keen mental persecution, and were made the victims of rampant bigotry, furious political partisanship, and humiliating social ostracism. Like the heroic characters so graphically portrayed by the Cardinal' s graceful pen in the history of Fabiola, the Catholics in America professed a faith imperfectly known in the land, or known only to be despised and hated by the great majority of the American j)eople, just as that self-same faith had been misrepresented, detested and persecuted in the early ages, by the misguided citizens of pagan Rome.
In such times. Catholics sorely needed the help of bright examples of courage, zeal and perseverance, to beckon them on in the steady pursuit of their arduous and sometimes perilous task of preserving, practising, and declaring their faith. Such examples they found in Cardinal Wiseman' s beautiful work, models of fidelity to faith, heroes and heroines who in their patient lives and cruel deaths gave testimony unto Christ Jesus, producing such fruits of virtue, and showing forth so beautifully and so powerfully the effects of the true faith, that that faith itself finally triumphed over all opposition ; and verifying the words of the Apostle, became a victory that conquered the world : " Haec est victoria, quae vincit mundum, fides nostra." " This is the victory which overcometh the world, our faith."
By the study of these models, as presented in the story of Fabiola, the struggling Catholics of this country learned how to possess their souls in patience. While admiring the heroic fortitude of those martyrs, though not presuming always to imitate their extraordinary ways, our predecessors in the faith felt themselves encouraged to follow in their footsteps, bearing patiently all religious privations and adhering to their faith amid hatred and contempt, and giving bold testimony of it before unbelieving men.
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Inspired by the example of these primitive Christians, the priests and j)eople alike of the past generation were strengthened in the convic- tion that in their poor despised Church, at that time remarkable for its poverty and obscurity, there dwelt the eternal truth brought down to earth from heaven by the Son of the living God, the truth which He had confirmed by miracles and sealed with His precious life' s blood ; the truth in whose defence millions of the holiest and greatest men sacrificed their very lives ; the truth in whose possession the noblest and most enlightened aniong the children of Adam had found peace in life and consolation in death. For tkis truth, they were willing to die.
How opportune, at that time, was the appearance in our midst of a work from a master-hand, presenting to view in a most vivid and realistic light the trials and triumphs of those heroes in the Church who raised the cross of Christ, bedewed with martyr-blood, upon the dome of the Roman Capitol ! Like the cheering flambeau borne in the hands of the acolyte of the Catacombs, the story of Fabiola served to brighten and cheer the arduous path of many a despised if not persecuted Catholic, amid the religious wilderness then to a great extent prevailing over our broad land.
But as the primitive Church emerged fi'om her hiding-places, so, thank God, has that same Chiu'ch in our own country bounded forth from obscurity and contempt into the broad light of day, where she stands confessed in all her truth and beauty, at once the envy and admii-ation of her recent opponents.
"While to-day, ^otestantism is an enemy that no Catholic need fear, a new and more formidable foe confronts us in the shape of materialism. The contest between truth and error is as fierce as ever, though the tactics are changed. We should arm ourselves for the battle against materialism as our fathers did against protestantism. We can win no laurels in a war against protestantism, for it has been subdued by those ahead of us in the ranks. Such laurels have been gathered by earlier and worthier hands than ours. Nor are there places for us by the side of the martyrs Pancratius, Sebastian, and other heroes of primitive Christianity. Yet a great trust has descended to our hands, and sacred
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obligations have devolved on the present generation of Catholics. There remains to us a great duty of defence and preservation, and there lies open before us a grand and glorious pursuit to which the religious needs of the times loudly call us. We live in an age of sordid material- ism, when it is of vital importance to turn the thoughts of all Christians to the really heroic ages of the Church, and to the lives of men and women who have done honor to principle, glorified God and benefited their fellow-beings by their holy and self-sacrificing lives.
As the story of Fabiola taught our immediate predecessors in the faith, to admire and imitate the virtues of the primitive Christians, so should we learn to cherish the names and memories of the devoted ones who, amid hardships, privations and contempt, laid the solid foundations in this land, of that stately and magnificent structure beneath whose hallowed roof it is our happy lot to dwell unmolested in peace and prosperity.
Therefore we gladly welcome this first illustrated edition of Cardinal Wiseman's "Fabiola." Viewed in its improved mechanical aspect, it is emblematic of the wondrous development of our Catholic literature, and when contrasted with the simpler and humbler editions which we received thirty years ago, seems like the stately cathedral that has taken the place of the lowly wooden chapel of that period. Its many beautiful engravings will bring more vividly before the reader the scenes of cruel persecution already graphically described, and with its bright examples of constancy and self-sacrifice serve to stimulate and fortify Catholics of the present and future generations in their contest with worldliness, materialism, and, we may say, unmitigated paganism.
R. B.
St. Rose's Rectory, All Saints' Day, 1885.
PREFACE.
^HEN tlie plan of the Popular CatTioUc Library was formed, the author of the following little work was consulted upon it. He not only approved of the design, Tbut ventui-ed to suggest, among others, a series of tales illustrative of the condition of the Church in different periods of her past existence. One, for instance, might be called " The Church of the Catacombs ; " a second, "The Church of the Basilicas;" each comprising three hundred years : a third would be on " The Church of the Cloister ;" and then, perhaps, a fourth might be added, called "The Church of the Schools."
In proposing this sketch, he added,— perhaps the reader will find indiscreetly,— that he felt half inclined to undertake the first, by way of illustrating the proposed plan. He was taken at his word, and urged strongly to begin the work. After some reflection, he consented ; but with an understanding, that it was not to be an occupation, but only the recreation of leisure hours. With this condition, the work was com- menced early in this year ; and it has been carried on entirely on that principle.
It has, therefore, been written at all sorts of times and in all sorts of places ; early and late, when no duty urged, in scraps and fragments of time, when the body was too fatigued or the mind too worn for heavier occupation ; in the road-side inn, in the halt of travel, in strange houses, in every variety of situation and circumstances— sometimes try- ing ones. It has thus been composed bit by bit, in portions varying from ten lines to half-a-dozen pages at most, and generally with few books or resources at hand. But once begun, it has proved what it was taken for,— a recreation, and often a solace and a sedative ; from the memories it has revived, the associations it has renewed, the scattered and broken remnants of old studies and early readings which it has
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combined, and by the familiarity which it has cherished with better times and better things than surround us in our age.
Why need the reader be told all this 'i For two reasons :
First, this method of composition may possibly be reflected on the work ; and he may find it patchy and ill-assorted, or not well connected in its parts. If so, this account will explain the cause.
Secondly, he will thus be led not to expect a treatise or a learned work even upon ecclesiastical antiquities. Nothing would have been easier than to cast an air of erudition over this little book, and till half of each page with notes and references. But this was never the writer' s idea. His desire was rather to make his reader familiar with the usages, habits, condition, ideas, feeling, and spirit of the early ages of Christian- ity. This required a certain acquaintance with places and objects con- nected with the period, and some familiarity, more habitual than learned, with the records of the time. For instance, such writings as the Acts of primitive Martyrs should have been frequently read, so as to leave impressions on the author"' s mind, rather than have been examined scientifically and critically for mere antiquarian purposes. And so, such places or monuments as have to be explained should seem to stand be- fore the eye of the describer, from frequently and almost casually seeing them, rather than have to be drawn from books.
Another source of instruction has been freely iised. Any one ac- quainted with the Roman Breviary must have observed, that in the ofiices of certain saints a peculiar style prevails, which presents the holy per- sons commemorated in a distinct and characteristic form. This is not the result so much of any continuous narrative, as of expressions put into their mouths, or brief descriptions of events in their lives, repeated often again and again, in antiphons, responsoria to lessons, and even versicles ; till they put before us an individuality, a portrait clear and definite of singular excellence. To this class belong the ofiices of SS. Agnes, Agatha, Csecilia, and Lucia ; and those of St. Clement and St. Martin. Each of these saints stands out before our minds with distinct features ; almost as if we had seen and known them.
If, for instance, we take the first that we have named, we clearly draw out the following circumstances. She is evidently pursued by some heathen admirer, whose suit for her hand she repeatedly rejects. Sometimes she tells him that he is forestalled by another, to whom she is betrothed ; sometimes she describes this object of her choice under various images, representing him even as the object of homage to sun and moon. On another occasion she describes the rich gifts, or the beautiful garlands with which he has adorned her, and the chaste caresses by which he has endeared himself to her. Then at last, as if more impor-
tunately pressed, slie rejects the love of perishable man, "the food of death," and triumphantly proclaims herself the spouse of Christ. Threats are used ; but she declares herself under the protection of an angel who will shield her.
This history is as plainly written by the fragments of her office, as a word is by scattered letters brought, and joined together. But through- out, one discerns another peculiarity, and a truly beautiful one in her character. It is clearly represented to us, that the saint had ever before her the unseen Object of her love, saw Him, heard Him, felt Him, and entertained, and had returned, a real affection, such as hearts on earth have for one another. She seems to walk in perpetual vision, almost in ecstatic fruition, of her Spouse's presence. He has actually put a ring upon her finger, has transferred the blood from His own cheek to hers, has crowned her with budding roses. Her eye is really upon him, with unerring gaze, and returned looks of gracious love.
What writer that introduced the person would venture to alter the character? Who would presume to attempt one at variance with it? Or who would hope to draw a portrait more life-like and more exquisite than the Church has done ? For, putting aside all inquiry as to the genuineness of the acts by which these passages are suggested ; and still more waving the question whether the hard critical spirit of a former age too lightly rejected such ecclesiastical documents, as Gueranger thinks ; it is clear that the Church, in her office, intends to place before us a cer- tain type of high virtue embodied in the character of that saint. The writer of the following pages considered himself therefore bound to adhere to this view.
Whether these objects have been attained, it is for the reader to judge. At any rate, even looking at the amount of information to be expected from a work in this form, and one intended for general reading, a comparison between the subjects introduced, either formally or casu- ally, and those given in any elementary work, such as Fleury's Man- ners of tJie Christians, which embraces several centuries more, will show that as much positive knowledge on the practices and belief of that early peiiod is here imparted, as it is usual to communicate in a more didactic form.
At the same time, the reader must remember that this book is not historical. It takes in but a period of a few months, extended in some concluding chapters. It consists rather of a series of pictures than of a narrative of events. Occurrences, therefore, of different epochs and dif- ferent countries have been condensed into a small space. Chronology has been sacrificed to this purpose. The date of Dioclesian' s edict has been anticipated by two months : the martyrdom of St. Agnes by a
year; the period of St. Sebastian, though uncertain, has been brought down later. All that relates to Christian topography has been kept as accurate as possible. A martyrdom has been transferred from Imola to Fondi.
It was necessary to introduce some view of the morals and opinions of the Pagan world, as a contrast to those of Christians. But their worst aspect has been carefully suppressed, as nothing could be admitted here which the most sensitive Catholic eye would shrink from contemplating. It is indeed earnestly desired that this little work, written solely for recreation, be read also as a relaxation from graver pursuits ; but that, at the same time, the reader may rise from its perusal with a feeling that his time has not been lost, nor his mind occupied vdth frivolous ideas. Rather let it be hoped, that some admiration and love may be inspired by it of those primitive times, which an over-excited interest in later and more brilliant epochs of the Church is too apt to diminish or obscure.
The Bark of Peter, as found in the Catacombs.
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CONTENTS
PAGE
Preface to the Illustrated Edition iii
Author's Preface '^li
List of Illustrations xiii
CHAP.
PART I.
I. The Christian House 19
II. The Martyr's Box . . 26
III. The Dedication 32
IV. The Heathen Household 42
V. The Visit 58
VI. The Banquet • • • • 64
VII. Poor and Rich '72
VIII. The First Day's Conclusion 82
IX. Meetings 88
X. Other Meetings 106
XI. A Talk with the Reader 119
XII. The Wolf and the Fox 129
XIII. Charity 1^5
XIV. Extremes Meet 139
XV. Charity Returns . . . 149
XVI. The Month of October 154
XVII. The Christian Community • 170
XVIII. Temptation 183
XIX. The Pall . . 190
PART 11.
I. Diogenes 205
II. The Cemeteries 219
III. What Diogenes could not tell about the Catacombs . 239
CHAP. PAGE
IV. What Diogenes did tell about the Catacombs . . 248
V. Above Ground 261
VI. Deliberations 265
VII. Dark Death . . . 275
VIII. Darker Still 280
IX. The False Brother . 285
X. The Ordination in December 291
XI. The Virgins 300
XII. The Nomentan Villa 308
XIII. The Edict 315
XIV. The Discovery . .325
XV. Explanations 330
XVI. The Wole in the Fold .335
XVII. The First Flower 356
XVIII. Retribution 368
XIX. Twofold Revenge . . . . . . . 381
XX. The Public Works 390
XXI. The Prison 396
XXII. The Viaticum 403
XXIII. The Fight 419
XXIV. The Christian Soldier 431
XXV. The Rescue , ... 437
XXVI. The Revival 448
XXVII. The Second Crown 457
XXVIII. The Critical Day : its First Part .... 464 XXIX. The same Day : its Second Part .... 473
XXX. The same Day : its Third Part 491
XXXI. DioNYSius, Priest and Physician .... 507 XXXII. The Sacrifice Accepted . 513
XXXIII. Miriam's History 523
XXXIV. Bright Death 533
PART III
I. The Stranger from the East ...... 549
II. The Stranger in Rome 558
III. And Last 664
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LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.
FULL-PAGE ILLUSTRATIONS. "^ Chkomolithogeaph of St. Agnes, Viegist akd Martyr. Frontispiece.
FROM ORIGINAL DRAWJNGS BY VAN DARGENT.
PAGE
Ordination, in the Early Ages of the Church .... 33
'/ The Sacrament of Penance, in the Early Ages of the Church . 125
The Blessed Eucharist, in the Early Ages of the Church . . 337
Confirmation, in the Early Ages of the Church ... 343
Baptism, in the Early Ages of the Church 539
Administering the Sacrament of Extreme Unction, in the Early
Ages of the Church 545
, A Marriage, in the Early Ages of the Church .... 553
FROM ORIGINAL DRAWINGS BY JOSEPH BLANC.
" With trembling hands she drew from her neck the golden chain" 39
"Fabiola grasped the style in her right hand, and made an almost blind thrust at the unflinching handmaid " . . 51
"He who watched with beaming eye the alms-coffers of Jerusa- lem, AND noted the WIDOW'S MITE, ALONE SAW DROPPED INTO THE
chest, by the bandaged arm of a foreign female slave, a
valuable emerald ring" 55
" ' Hare ! ' said Pancratius, ' these are the trumpet-notes that
SUMMON us'" 95
" ' Here it goes ! ' and he thrust it into the blazing fire " . . 321
" * Is it possible ? ' SHE EXCLAIMED WITH HORROR, ' Is THAT TaECISIUS
WHOM I MET A FEW MOMENTS AGO, SO FAIR AND LOVELY ? ' " . . 409
PAOK
"Each one, approaching devoutly, and with tears of gratitude, received from his consecrated hand his shake — that is, the whole of the mystical food" 415
"PaNCRATIUS was STILL STANDING IN THE SAME PLACE, FACING THE
Emperor, apparently so absorbed in higher thoughts as not TO heed the movements of his enemy" 427
"The Judge angrily reproved the executioner for his hesita- tion, and bid him at once do his duty " 481
"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 " 535
The Euins of the Coliseum, as seen from the Palatine of St.
Bonaventure 89
St. Lawrence Display'ing his Treasures 151
Interior of the Temple of Jupiter 163
The Euins of the Eoman Forum, as they are to-day . . . 199
The Martyr's Widow 321
The Tomb of St. C-ecilia 227
A Columbarium, or Underground Sepulchre, in which the Eomans
Deposited the Urns Containing the Ashes of the Dead . . 233
The Claudian Aqueduct 267
Instruments of Torture used against the Christians, from Eoller's
"Catacombes de Eome" 287
An Attack in the Catacombs 349
The Martyr C^ecilia 363
The Martyr's Burial 377
The North- West Side of the Forum 453
The Christian Martyr . 485
LLUSTRATIONS IN THE TEXT.
exclusive of ornamental initials.
The Bark of Peter, as found in the Catacombs
Interior of a Eoman Dwelling at Pompeii ....
Plan of Pansa's House at Pompeii
Door of Pansa's House, with the Greeting SALVE or WELCOME
12 19
20 22
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PAGE
Atkium of a Pompeian House 23
Ateium of a House ix Pompeii 23
Clepsydea, or Water-clock, from a Bas-Eelief ix the Maitei Palace,
Rome 25
A PoriTRAiT of Christ, from the Catacomb of St. Poxtiantjs . 25 A Piece of a "Gold Glass" fouxd ix the Catacombs . . .41
Pompeiax Couch 44
Table, after a Paixtixg ix Hercuxaxeum 44
Couch from Herculaxeum 45
Elaborate Seat from Herculaxeum 46
A Slave, from a Paixtixg in Herculaxeum 48
A Lamp fouxd ix^ the Catacombs 57
Saixt Agxes, from ax Old Vase 60
Saixt Agxes, from ax Old Vase Preserved ix the Vaticax Mu- seum 61
Baxquet Table, from a Pompeiax Paixtixg 67
David with his Slixg, from the Catacomb of St. Peteoxilla . . 71
A Dove, as a Symbol of the Soul, fouxd ix the Catacombs . . 81
Volumixa, from a Paixtixg of Pompeii 84
SCRIXILII, FROM A PICTURE IX THE CeMETERT OF St. CaLLISTUS . . 84
Our Saviour, from a Repeesextatiox fouxd ix the Catacombs . 87
Meta Sudaxs, after a Broxze OF Vespasiax 91
The Arch of TituS 92
The Appiax Way, as it was 102
Emblematic Eepeesextatiox of Paradise, fouxd ix the Catacombs 105 Saixt Sebastiax, from the "Roma Sotteraxea" of De Rossi . . 107 Military Tribuxes, after a Bas-Relief ox Trajax's Coloix . . 108
The Eomax Forum m
A Lamb with a Milk Cax, fouxd ix the Catacomb of SS. Peter
axd Maecellix 118
St. Ignatius, Bishop of Axtioch 12i
MOXOGEAMS OF ChEIST, FOUXD IX THE CATACOMBS, 128, 169, 264, 274, 279,
324, 334, 395, 436, 472.
RoMAX Gaedexs, from ax Old Paixtixg 130
A Lamp, with the Moxogbam of Christ 134
A Deacox, feom De Rossi's « Roma Sotteraxea " 137
A Fish Carryixg Bread axd Wixe, from the Cemetery of St. Lucixa 138 A Wall Paixtixg, from the Cemetery of St. Priscilla . . .148
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PAGE
Chkist in the Midst of His Apostles, from a Painting in the Cata- combs 1^^
Interior of a Eoman Theatre 185
Halls in the Baths of Caracalla 186
The Peacock, as an Emblem of the Resurrection . . • .189
A Dote, as an Emblem of the Soul 203
Diogenes, the Excatator, from a Painting in the Cemetery of
Domitilla 205
Jonas, after a Painting in the Cemetery of Oallistus . . . 206 Lazarus Raised from the Dead 307
Two POSSORES, OR EXCAVATORS, FROM A PICTURE AT THE CeMETERT OF
Callistus 208
A Gallery in the Cemetery of St. Agnes, on the Nomentan Way 211 Inscription of the Cemetery of St. Agnes . . . • . 212
An Arcosolium 213
Our Satiour Blessing the Bread, from a Picture in the Catacombs 218
A Staircase in the Catacombs 220
A Chapel of the Blessed Sacrament 224
Underground Gallery in the Catacombs, from Th. Roller's " Cata-
coMBBS de Rome" .......••• 225
A Loculus, Closed 231
" " Open 235
A Lamb with a Milk Pail, Emblematic of the Blessed Eucharist,
found in the catacombs 238
St. Cornelius and St. Cyprian, from De Rossi's " Roma Sotteranea " 244
The Tomb of Cornelius 247
A Lamp with a Representation of the Good Shepherd, found at
Ostium, prior to the Third Century, from Roller's "Cata-
combes" 249
CuBicuLUM, OR Crypt, as found in the Catacombs .... 250 The Last Supper, from a Painting in the Cemetery of St. Callistus 251 A Ceiling in the Catacombs, from De Rossi's "Roma Sotteranea" 252 Our Lord Under the Symbol of Orpheus, from a Picture in the
Cemetery of Domitilius . . . , 253
The Good Shepherd, a Woman Pra:ying, from the Arcosolium of the
Cemetery of SS. Nereus and Achilleus 254
A Ceiling in the Catacombs, in the Cemetery of Domitilla, Third
Century 255
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PAGE
The Fishes and Anchor, the Fishes and Doves . . . .356 The Blessed Virgin and the Magi, from a Picture in the Ceme- tery OP Callistus 258
Moses Striking the Rock, from the Cemetery of " Inter Duos Lauros " 260 Maximilian Herculeus, from a Bronze Medal in the Collection
OF France 366
The Peacock, as an Emblem of the Eesurrection, found in the
Catacombs 284
Christ and His Apostles, from a Picture in the Catacombs . . 390
St. Pudentiana, St. Priscilla, and St. Praxedes 293
Our Saviour Represented as the Good Shepherd, with a Milk Can
AT His Side, as found in the Catacombs 399
Chair of St. Peter 304
The Anchor and Fishes, an Emblem of Christianity, found in the
Catacombs .... 307
" Haughty Roman dame ! Thou shalt bitterly rue this day and
HOUR" 313
A Lamb Between Wolves, Emblematic of the Church, from a Pic- ture IN the Cemetery of St. Pr^etextatus 314
An Emblem of Paradise, found in the Catacombs .... 329 Ruins of the Basilica of St. Alexander, on the Nomentan Wat,
FROM Roller's " Catacombes de Rome " 342
Plan of Subterranean Church, in the Cemetery of St. Agnes . 345 A Cathedra, or Episcopal Chair, in Catacomb of St. Agnes . . 346 An Altar with its Episcopal Chair, in the Cemetery of St. Agnes 348
An Altar in the Cemetery of St. Sixtus 353
The Cure of the Man Born Blind, from a Picture in the Cata- combs 355
The Woman of Samaria, from a Picture in the Cemetery of St.
domitilla 36^
Jesus Cures the Blind Man, from a Picture in the Cemetery of
St. Domitilla 3gQ
The Anchor and Fish, Emblematic of Christianity, found in the
Catacombs 339
The Mamertine Prison 393
The Blessed Virgin, from a Portrait found in the Cemetery of
St. Agnes
403
The Coliseum 420
XVll
PAGE
A Lamp Bearing a Monogram of Christ, found in the Catacombs 430 Elias Carried to Heaven, from a Picture found in the Catacombs 447 Moses Receiving the Law, from a Picture in the Cemetery of
"Inter Duos Lauros" 456
Christ Blessing a Child, from a Picture in the Cemetery of the
Latin Way - ... - 463
Chains for the Martyrs, after a Picture found in 1841, in a Crypt
at Milan - 480
A Blood Urn, used as a Mark for a Martyr's Grave . . . 489 The Resurrection of Lazarus, from the Cemetery of St. Domitilla 490
Cemetery of Callistus 508
Ordination, from a Picture in the Catacombs .... 531
Portrait of Our Saviour, from the Catacomb of St. Callistus . 548
CONSTANTINE, THE FiRST CHRISTIAN EmPEROR, AFTER A MeDAL OF THE
Time 549
Dioclesian, after a Medal in the Cabinet of Prance . . . 650 LuciNius, Masentius, Galerius-Maximinus, from Gold and Silver
Medals in the French Collection 550
The Labarum, or Christian Standard, from a Coin of Constantine 552 NoE AND the Ark, as a Symbol of the Church, from a Picture in
THE Catacombs 557
The Sacrifice of Abraham, from a Picture in the Catacombs 563
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walk,
Interior of a Roman dwelling at Pompeii.
|Jart JFir0t-|Jcace«
CHAPTER I. THE CHRISTIAN HOUSE.
T is on an afternoon in September of the year 302, that we invite our reader to accompany us through the streets of Rome. The sun has declined, and is about two hours from his setting ; the day is cloudless, and its heat has cooled, so that multi- tudes are ii:ssuing from their houses, and making their way towards Caasar's gardens on one side, or Sallust's on the, other, to enjoy their evening and learn the news of the day.
But the part of the city to which we wish to conduct our friendly reader is that know^n by the name of the Campus Mar- tins. It comiDrised the flat alluvial plain betw^een the seven hills of older Rome and the Tiber. Before the close of the repub- lican period, this field, once left bare for the athletic and war-
^y^ Street of tlip Thp-ms.
§
Plan of Pant-a's house, at Pompeii
like exercises of the j^eoi^le, had begun to be encroached upon by public buildings. Pompey had erected in it his theatre ; soon after, Agrippa raised the Pantheon and its adjoining baths. But gradually it became occupied by private dwellings ; while
TO
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the hills, in the early empire the aiistocratic portion of the city, were seized upon for greater edifices. Thus the Palatine, after Nero's fire, became almost too small for the Imperial residence and its adjoining Circus Maximus. The Esquiline was usuiped by Titus's baths, built on the ruins of the Golden House, the Aventine by Caracalla's; and at the period of which we write, the Emperor Dioclesian was covering the space sufficient for many lordly dwellings, by the erection of his Thermae * on the Quirinal, not far from Sallust's garden, just alluded to.
The particular spot in the Campus Martins to which we will direct our steps, is one whose situation is so definite, that we can accurately describe it to any one acquainted with the topography of ancient or modern Kome. In republican times there was a large square space in the Campus Martius, sur- rounded by boarding, and divided into pens, in which the Comi- tia, or meetings of the tribes of the people, were held, for gi\-ing their votes. This was called the Septa, or Ovik, from its resem- blance to a sheepfold. Augustus carried out a plan, described by Cicero in a letter to Atticus,t of transforming this homely contrivance into a magnificent and solid structure. The Septa Julia, as it was thenceforth called, was a splendid portico of 1000 by 500 feet, supported by columns, and adorned with paintings. Its ruins are clearly traceable; and it occupied the space now covered by the Doria and Yerospi palaces (run- ning thus along the present Corso), the Roman College, the Church of St. Ignatius, and the Oratory of the Caravita.
The house to which we invite our reader is exactly oppo- site, and on the east side of this edifice, including in its area the present church of St. Marcellus, whence it extended back towards the foot of the Quirinal hill. It is thus found to covei-, as noble Roman houses did, a considerable extent of ground. From the outside it presents but a blank and dead appear-
* Hot-baths. f Lib. iv. ep. 16.
■^-t^
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Iff
ance. The walls are plain, without architectural ornament, not high, and scarcely broken by windows. In the middle of one side of this quadrangle is a door, in antis, that is, merely relieved by a tympanum or triangular cornice, resting on two half columns. Using our privilege as "artists of fiction," of invisible ubiquity, we will enter in with our friend, or " shadow," as he would have been anciently called. Passing through the porch, on the pavement of which we read with pleasure, in mosaic, the greeting Salve, or Welcome, we find ourselves in the atrium, or first court of the house, surrounded by a portico or colonnade.*
In the centre of the marble pave- ment a softly warbling jet of pure water, brought by the Claudian aqueduct from the Tnsculan hills, springs into the air, now- higher, now lower, and falls into an elevated basin of red marble, over the sides of which it flows in downy waves ; and before reaching its lower and wdder recipient, scatters a gentle shower on the rare and brilliant flowers placed in elegant vases around. Under the portico we see furniture disposed, Door of pa„ea'Bhoase,^wiattie greeting SAI.VE of a Hch and somctimes rarcchar-
acter; couches inlaid with ivory, and even silver ; tables of oriental woods, bearing candelabra, lamps, and other household implements of bronze or silver ; delicately chased busts, vases, tripods, and objects of mere art. On the walls are paintings evidently of a former period, still, however, retaining all their brightness of color and fresh- ness of execution. These are sepai-ated by niches with stat-
* The Pompeian Court in the Crystal Palace, London, will have familiarized many readers with the forms of an ancient house.
ues, representing indeed, like the pictures, mythological or historical subjects ; but we cannot help observing that noth- ing meets the eye which could offend the most delicate mind. Here and there an empty niche, or a covered painting, proves that this is not the result of accident.
Atrium of a Pompeian house.
As outside the columns, the coving roof leaves a large square opening in its centre, called the impluvium, there is drawn across it a curtain, or veil of dark canvas, which keeps out the sun and rain. An artificial twilight therefore alone
m
AtriuTR of a house in Pompeii.
enables us to see all that we have described ; but it gives greater effect to what is beyond. Through an arch, opposite
to the one whereby we have entered, we catch a glimpse of an inner and still richer court, paved with variegated marbles, and adorned with bright gilding. The veil of the opening above, which, however, here is closed with thick glass or talc {lapis speculmns), has been partly withdrawn, and admits a bright but softened ray from the evening sun on to the place, where we see, for the first time, that we are in no enchanted hall, but in an inhabited house.
Beside a table, just outside the columns of Phrygian mar- ble, sits a matron not beyond the middle of life, whose feat- ures, noble yet mild, show traces of having passed through sorrow at some earlier period. But a powerful influence has subdued the recollection of it, or blended it with a sweeter thought ; and the two always come together, and have long dwelt united in her heart. The simplicity of her appearance strangely contrasts with the richness of all around her ; her hair, streaked with silver, is left uncovered, and unconcealed by any artifice ; her robes are of the plainest color and text- ure, without embroidery, except the purple ribbon sewed on, and called the segmentwn, which denotes the state of widow- hood ; and not a jewel or precious ornament, of which the Roman ladies were so lavish, is to be seen upon her person. The only thing approaching to this is a slight gold cord or chain round her neck, from which apparently hangs some ob- ject, carefully concealed within the upper hem of her dress.
At the time that we discover her she is busily engaged over a piece of work, which evidently has no personal use. Upon a long rich strip of gold cloth she is embroidering with still richer gold thread ; and occasionally she has recourse to one or another of several elegant caskets upon the table, from which she takes out a pearl, or a gem set in gold, and intro- duces it into the design. It looks as if the precious orna- ments of earlier days were being devoted to some higher purpose.
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But as time goes on, some little uneasiness may be ob- served to come over her calm thoughts, hitherto absorbed, to all appearance, in her work. She now occasionally raises her eyes from it towards the entrance ; sometimes she listens for footsteps, and seems disap- pointed. She looks up towards the sun ; then perhaps turns her glance towards a clepsydra or water-clock, on a bracket near her, but just '^^^'^"CsS/ hJ^the
/> 1 • /> • • j_ 1 • j_ Mattel palace, Rome.
as a leeling or more serious anxiety begins to make an impression on her countenance, a cheerful rap strikes the house-door, and she bends forward with a radiant look to meet the welcome visitor.
A Portrait of Christ, from the Catacomb of St. Pontlanns
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CHAPTER II. THE MARTYR'S BOY.
'T is a youth full of grace, and sprightli- ness, and candor, that comes forward with light and buoyant steps across the atrium, towards the inner-hall; and we shall hardly find time to sketch him before he reaches it. He is about four- teen years old, but tall for that age, with elegance of form and manliness of bear- ing. His bare neck and limbs are well developed by healthy exercise ; his features display an open and warm heart, while his lofty forehead, round which his brown hair naturally curls, beams with a bright intelligence. He wears the usual youth's garment, the short 2^'<xtexta, reaching below the knee, and a golden bulla, or hollow spheroid of gold suspended round his neck. A bundle of papers and vellum rolls fastened together, and carried by an old servant behind him, shows us that he is just returning home from school.*
While we have been thus noting him, he has received his mother's embrace, and has sat himself low by her feet. She gazes upon him for some time in silence, as if to discover in his countenance the cause of his unusual delay, for he is an hour late in his return. But he meets her glance with so
* This custom suggests to St. Augustine the beautiful idea, that the Jews were the pcedagogi of Christianity,— carrying for it the books which they them- selves could not understand.
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frank a look, and with such a smile of innocence, that every cloud of doubt is in a moment dispelled, and she addresses him as follows :
"What has detained you to-day, my dearest boy? No accident, I trust, has happened to you on the way?"
"Oh, none, I assure you, sweetest* mother; on the con- trary, all has been delightful, — so much so, that I can scarcely venture to tell you."
A look of smiling expostulation drew from the open- hearted boy a delicious laugh, as he continued :
"Well, I suppose I must. You know I am never happy, and cannot sleep, if I have failed to tell you all the bad and the good of the day about myself." (The mother smiled again, wondering what the bad was.) "I was reading the other day that the Scythians each evening cast into an urn a white or a black stone, according as the day had been happy or unhappy; if I had to do so, it would serve to mark, in white or black, the days on which I have, or have not, an opportunity of relating to you all that I have done. But to-day, for the first time, I have a doubt, a fear of conscience, whether I ought to tell you all."
Did the mother's heart flutter more than usual, as from a first anxiety, or was there a softer solicitude dimming her eye, that the youth sliould seize her hand and put it tenderly to his lips, while he thus replied ?
"Fear nothing, mother most beloved, your son has done nothing that may give you pain. Only say, do you wish to hear all that has befallen me to-day, or only the cause of my late return home?"
"Tell me all, dear Pancratius," she answered; "nothing that concerns you can be indifferent to me."
" Well, then," he began, " this last day of my frequenting school appears to me to have been singularly blessed, and yet
* The peculiar epithet of the Catacombs.
&
full of strange occurrences. First, I was crowned as the successful competitor in a declamation, which our good master Cassianus set us for our work during the morning hours ; and this led, as you will hear, to some singular discoveries. The subject was, 'That the real philosopher should be ever ready to die for truth.' I never heard anything so cold or insipid (I hope it is not wrong to say so) as the compositions read by my companions. It was not their fault, poor fellows! what truth can they possess, and what inducements can they have, to die for any of their vain opinions? But to a Christian, what charming suggestions such a theme naturally makes! And so I felt it. My heart glowed, and all my thoughts seemed to burn, as I wrote my essay, full of the lessons you have taught me, and of the domestic examples that are before me. The son of a martyr could not feel otherwise. But when my turn came to read my declamation, I found that my feelings had nearly fatally betrayed me. In the warmth of my recitation the word ' Christian ' escaped my lips instead of 'philosopher,' and 'faith' instead of 'truth.' At the first mistake I saw Cassianus start; at the second, I saw a tear glisten in his eye, as bending affectionately toAvards me, he said, in a whisper, ' Beware, my child ; there are sharp ears listening.' "
"What, then," interrupted the mother, "is Cassianus a Christian ? I chose his school for you because it was in the highest repute for learning and for morality ; and now indeed I thank God that I did so. But in these days of danger and apprehension we are obliged to live as strangers in our own land, scarcely knowing the faces of our brethren. Certainly, had Cassianus proclaimed his faith, his school would soon have been deserted. But go on, my dear boy. Were his apprehensions well grounded? "
" I fear so; for while the great body of my school-fellows, not noticing these slips, vehemently applauded my hearty
declamation, I saw the dark eyes of Corviniis bent scowlingly upon me, as he bit his lip in manifest anger."
"And who is he, my child, that was so displeased, and wherefore?"
"He is the oldest and strongest, but, unfortunately, the dullest boy in the school. But this, you know, is not his fault. Only, I know not why, he seems ever to have had an ill-will and grudge against me, the cause of which I cannot understand."
" Did he say aught to you, or do?"
"Yes, and was the cause of my delay. For when we went forth from school into the field by the river, he addressed me insultingly in the presence of our companions, and said, 'Come, Pancratius, this, I understand, is the last time we meet here' (he laid a particular emphasis on the word) ; 'but I have a long score to demand payment of from you. You have loved to show your superiority in school over me and others older and better than yourself; I saw your supercilious looks at me as you spouted your high-flown declamation to-day; ay, and I caught expressions in it Avhich you may live to rue, and that very soon ; for my father, you well know, is Prefect of the city' (the mother slightly started); 'and something is preparing which may nearly concern you. Before you leave us I must have my revenge. If you are worthy of your name, and it be not an empty word,* let us fairly contend in more manly strife than that of the style and tables, t Wrestle with me, or try the cestust against me. I burn to humble you as you deserve, before these witnesses of your insolent triumphs.' "
* The |jff7icr«JmH! was the exercise which combined all other personal contests, — wrestling, boxing, etc.
f The implements of writing in schools, the tablets being covered with wax, on which the letters were traced by the sharp point, and effaced by the flat top, of the style.
I The hand-bandages worn in pugilistic combats.
The anxious mother bent eagerly forward as she listened, and scarcely breathed. "And what," she exclaimed, "did you answer, my dear son?"
"I told him gently that he was quite mistaken; for never had I consciously done anything that could give pain to him or any of my school-fellows ; nor did I ever dream of claiming superiority over them. 'And as to what you propose,' I added, 'you know, Corvinus, that I have always refused to indulge in j^ersonal combats, which, beginning in a cool trial of skill, end in an angry strife, hatred, and wish for revenge. How much less could I think of entering on them now, when you avow that you are anxious to begin them with those evil feelings which are usually their bad end ? ' Our school-mates had now formed a circle round us ; and I clearly saw that they were all against me, for they had hojDed to enjoy some of the delights of their cruel games ; I therefore cheerfully added, 'And now, my comrades, good-bye, and may all happiness attend you. I part from you, as I have lived with you, in peace.' 'Not so,' rei:)lied Corvinus, now purple in the face with fury ; ' but ' "—
The boy's countenance became crimsoned, his voice quiv- ered, his body trembled, and, half choked, he sobbed out, " I cannot go on; I dare not tell the rest ! "
" I entreat you, for God's sake, and for the love you bear your father's memory," said the mother, placing her hand upon her son's head, " conceal nothing from me. I shall never again have rest if you tell me not all. What further said or did Corvinus?"
The boy recovered himself by a moment's pause and a silent prayer, and then proceeded :
" ' JSTot so ! ' exclaimed Corvinus, ' not so do you depart, cowardly worshipper of an ass's head ! * Ton have concealed your abode from us, but I will find you out; till then bear
* One of the many calumnies popular among the heatheus.
this token of my determined purpose to be revenged ! ' So saying he dealt me a furious blow upon the face, which made me reel and stagger, while a shout of savage delight broke forth from the boys around us."
He burst into tears, which relieved him, and then went on :
" Oh, how I felt my blood boil at that moment ! how my heart seemed bursting within me ; and a voice appeared to whisper in my ear scornfully the name of ' coward ! ' It surely was an evil spirit. I felt that I was strong enough — my rising anger made me so — to seize my unjust assailant by the throat, and cast him gasping on the ground. I heard already the shout of applause that would have hailed my victory and turned the tables against him. It was the hardest struggle of my life; never were flesh and blood so strong within me. 0 God! may they never be again so tremendously powerful ! "
"And what did you do, then, my darling boy?" gasped forth the trembling matron.
He replied, " My good angel conquered the demon at my side. I thought of my blessed Lord in the house of Caiphas, surrounded by scoffing enemies, and struck ignominiously on the cheek, yet meek and forgiving. Could I wish to be otherwise?* I stretched forth my hand to Corvinus, and said, 'May God forgive you, as I freely and fully do; and may He bless you abundantly.' Cassianus came up at that moment, having seen all from a distance, and the youthful crowd quickly dispersed. I entreated him, by our common faith, now acknowledged between us, not to pursue Corvinus for what he had done; and I obtained his promise. And now, sweet mother," murmured the boy, in soft, gentle accents, into his parent's bosom, "do you not think I may call this a happy day ? "
* This scene is taken from a real occurrence.
CHAPTER III
THE DEDICATION.
iHILE the foregoing conversation was held, the day had fast declined. An aged female servant now entered unnoticed, and lighted the lamps placed on marble and bronze candelabra, and quietly re- tired. A bright light beamed upon the unconscious group of mother and son, as they remained silent, after the holy matron Lucina had answered Pancratius's last question only by kissing his glowing brow. It was not merely a maternal emotion that was agitating her bosom ; it was not even the happy feeling of a mother who, having trained her child to certain high and difficult principles, sees them put to the hardest test, and nobly stand it. Neither was it the joy of having for her son one, in her estimation, so heroically virtuous at such an age; for surely, with much greater justice than the mother of the Gracchi showed her boys to the astonished matrons of republican Rome as her only jewels, could that Christian mother have boasted to the Church of the son she had brought up.
But to her this was an hour of still deeper, or, shall we say, sublimer feeling. It was a period looked forward to anxiously for years ; a moment prayed for with all the fervor of a mother's supplication. Many a pious parent has devoted her infant son from the cradle to the holiest and noblest state
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4pillJi|lll1111ilIWI|](llll|PIII| llllllllilllll I 1 111 II 1 M »*^A"'?' I W« «\\#
Ordination in the Early Ages of the Church.
that earth possesses ; has prayed and longed to see him grow up to be, first a spotless Levite, and then a holy priest at the altar; and has watched eagerly each growing inclination, and tried gently to bend the tender thought towards the sanctuary of the Lord of Hosts. And if this was an only child, as Samuel was to Anna, that dedication of all that is dear to her keenest affection, may justly be considered as an act of maternal heroism. What then must be said of ancient matrons, — Felicitas, Symphorosa, or the unnamed mother of the Maccabees, — who gave up or offered their children, not one, but many, yea all, to be victims whole-burnt, rather than priests, to God ?
It was some such thought as this which filled the heart of Lucina in that hour ; while, with closed eyes, she raised it high to heaven, and prayed for strength. She felt as though called to make a generous sacrifice of what was dearest to her on earth ; and though she had long foreseen it and desired it, it was not without a maternal throe that its merit could be gained. And what was passing in that boy's mind, as he too remained silent and abstracted ? Not any thought of a high destiny awaiting him. No vision of a venerable Basilica, eagerly visited 1600 years later by the sacred antiquary and the devout pilgrim, and giving his name, which it shall bear, to the neighboring gate of Rome.* No anticipation of a church in his honor to rise in faithful ages on the banks of the distant Thames, which, even after desecration, should be loved and eagerly sought as their last resting-place, by hearts faithful still to his dear Eome.t No forethought of a silver canopy or ciborium, weighing 287 lbs., to be placed over the por- phyry urn that should contain his ashes, by Pope Honorius I.t
* Church and gate of Sau Pancrazio.
t Old St. Pancras's Church, London, the favorite burial-place of Catholics, till they had cemeteries of their own.
X Anastastasius, Biblioth, in vita Honorii.
m
No idea that his name would be enrolled in every niartyr- ology, his picture, crowned with rays, hung over many altars, as the boy -martyr of the early Church. He was only the simple-hearted Christian youth, who looked upon it as a matter of course that he must always obey God's law and His Gospel ; and only felt happy that he had that day performed his duty, when it came under circumstances of more than usual trial. There was no pride, no self-admiration in the reflec- tion ; otherwise there would have been no hei'oism in his act.
When he raised again his eyes, after his calm reverie of peaceful thoughts, in the new light which brightly filled the hall, they met his mother's countenance gazing anew upon him, radiant with a majesty and tenderness such as he never recollected to have seen before. It was a look almost of in- spiration ; her face was as that of a vision ; her eyes what he would have imagined an angel's to be. Silently, and almost unknowingly, he had changed his position, and was kneeling before her; and well he might; for was she not to him as a guardian sj^irit, who had shielded him ever from evil; or might he not well see in her the living saint whose virtues had been his model from childhood? Lucina broke the silence, in a tone full of grave emotion.
" The time is at length come, my dear child," she said, " which has long been the subject of my earnest prayer, which I have yearned for in the exuberance of maternal love. Eagerly have I watched in thee the opening germ of each Christian virtue, and thanked God as it appeared. I have noted thy docility, thy gentleness, thy diligence, thy piety, and thy love of God and man. I have seen with joy thy lively faith, and thy indifference to worldly things, and thy tenderness to the poor. But I have been waiting with anx- iety for the hour which should decisively show me whether thou wouldst be content with the poor legacy of thy mother's weakly virtue, or art the true inheritor of thy martyred
father's nobler gifts. That hour, thank God, has come to- day!"
" What have I done, then, that should thus have changed or raised thy opinion of me ? " asked Pancratius.
" Listen to me, my son. This day, which was to be the last of thy school education, methinks that our merciful Lord has been pleased to give thee a lesson worth it all ; and to prove that thou hast put off the things of a child, and must be treated henceforth as a man; for thou canst think and speak, yea, and act as one."
" How dost thou mean, dear mother? " " What thou hast told me of thy declamation this morn- ing," she replied, "proves to me how full thy heart must have been of noble and generous thoughts ; thou art too sin- cere and honest to have written, and fervently expressed, that it was a glorious duty to die for the faith, if thou hadst not believed it and felt it."
" And truly I do believe and feel it," interrupted the boy. "What greater happiness can a Christian desire on earth? "
" Yes, my child, thou sayest most truly," continued Lucina. " But 1 should not have been satisfied with words. What fol- lowed afterwards has proved to me that thou canst bear in- trepidly and patiently, not merely pain, but what I know it must have been harder for thy young patrician blood to stand, the stinging ignominy of a disgraceful blow, and the scorntul words and glances of an unpitying multitude. Nay more; thou hast proved thyself strong enough to forgive and to pray for thine enemy. This day thou hast trodden the higher paths of the mountain, with the cross upon thy shoulders ; one step more, and thou wilt plant it on its summit. Thou hast proved thyself the genuine son of the martyr Quintinus. Dost thou wish to be like him ? "
"Mother, mother! dearest, sweetest mother!" broke out the panting youth ; " could I be his genuine son, and not wish
to resemble him ? Though I never enjoyed the happiness of knowing him, has not his image been ever before my mind ? Has he not been the very pride of my thoughts? When each year the solemn commemoration has been made of him, as of one of the white-robed army that surrounds the Lamb, in whose blood he washed his garments, how have my heart and my flesh exulted in his glory ; and how have I prayed to him, in the warmth of filial piety, that he would obtain for me, not fame, not distinction, not wealth, not earthly joy, but what he valued more than all these: nay, that the only thing which he has left on earth may be ap- plied, as I know he now considers it would most usefully and most nobly be."
" What is that, my son ? "
"It is his blood," replied the youth, "which yet remains flowing in my veins, and in these only. I know he must wish that it too, like what he held in his own, may be poured out in love of his Kedeemer, and in testimony of his faith."
" Enough, enough, my child ! " exclaimed the mother, thrilling with a holy emotion; "take from thy neck the badge of childhood, I have a better token to give thee."
He obeyed, and put away the golden bulla.
"Thou hast inherited from thy father," spoke the mother, with still deeper solemnity of tone, " a noble name, a high station, ample riches, every worldly advantage. But there is one treasure which I have reserved for thee from his inherit- ance, till thou shouldst j)rove thyself worthy of it. I have concealed it from thee till now, though I valued it more than gold and jewels. It is now time that I make it over to thee."
With trembling hands she drew from her neck the golden chain which hung round it, and for the first time her son saw that it supported a small bag or purse richly embroidered and set with gems. She opened it, and drew from it a sponge, dry indeed, but deeply stained.
•^Arull trembling hands she drew from her neck the golden ehai:
"This, too, is thy father's blood, Pancratius," she said, with faltering voice and streaming eyes. " I gathered it my- self from his death-wound, as, disguised, I stood by his side, and saw him die from the wounds he had received for Christ."
She gazed upon it fondly, and kissed it fervently ; and her gushing tears fell on it, and moistened it once more. And thus liquefied again, its color glowed bright and warm, as if it had only just left the martyr's heart.
The holy matron put it to her son's quivering lips, and they were empurpled with its sanctifying touch. He vener- ated the sacred relic with the deepest emotions of a Christian and a son ; and felt as if his father's spirit had descended into him, and stirred to its depths the full vessel of his heart, that its waters might be ready freely to flow. The whole family thus seemed to him once more united. Lucina replaced her treasure in its shrine, and hung it round the neck of her son, saying : " When next it is moistened, may it be from a nobler stream than that which gushes from a weak woman's eyes ! " But heaven thought not so; and the future combatant was anointed, and the future martyr was consecrated, by the blood of his father mingled Avith his mother's tears.
A piece of a "Gold glass" fonnd in the Catacomha.
CTtf
CHAPTER IV. THE HEATHEN HOUSEHOLD.
HILE the scenes described in the three last chapters were taking place, a very different one presented itself in another house, situ- ated in the valley between the Quirinal and Esquiline hills. It was that of Fabius, a man of the equestrian order, whose family, by farming the revenues of Asiatic provinces, had amassed immense wealth. His house was larger and more splendid than the one we have already visited. It contained a third large peristyle, or court, surrounded by immense apartments ; and 'besides possessing many treasures of European art, it abounded with the rarest i^roductions of the East. Carpets from Persia were laid on the ground, silks from China, many- colored stuffs from Babylon, and gold embroidery from India and Phrygia covered the furniture; while curious works in ivory and in metals, scattered about, were attributed to the inhabitants of islands beyond the Indian ocean, of monstrous form and fabulous descent.
Fabius himself, the owner of all this treasure and of large estates, was a true specimen of an easy-going Eoman, who was determined thoroughly to enjoy this life. In fact, he never dreamt of any other. Believing in nothing, yet worshipping, as a matter of course, on all proper occasions, whatever deity happened to have its turn, he passed for a man as good as his neighbors ; and no one had a right to exact more. The
greater part of his day was passed at one or other of the great baths, which, besides the purposes implied in their name, comprised in their many adjuncts the equivalents of clubs, reading-rooms, gambling-houses, tennis-courts, and gymna- siums. There he took his bath, gossiped, read, and whiled away his hours ; or sauntered for a time into the Forum to hear some orator speaking, or some advocate pleading, or into one of the many public gardens, whither the fashionable world of Rome repaired. He returned home to an elegant supper, not later than our dinner; where he had daily guests, either previously invited, or picked up during the day, among the many parasites on the look-out for good fare.
At home he was a kind and indulgent master. His house w^as well kept for him by an abundance of slaves; and, as trouble was what most he dreaded, so long as every thing was comfortable, handsome, and well-served about him, he let things go on quietly, under the direction of his freedmen.
It is not, however, so much to him that we wish to intro- duce our reader, as to another inmate of his house, the sharer of its splendid luxury, and the sole heiress of his wealth. This is his daughter, who, according to Roman usage, bears the father's name, softened, however, into the diminutive Fabiola.* As we have done before, we will conduct the reader at once into her apartment. A marble staircase leads to it from the second court, over the sides of w^hich extends a suite of rooms, opening upon a terrace, refreshed and adorned by a graceful fountain, and covered with a profusion of the rarest exotic plants. In these chambers is concentrated whatever is most exquisite and curious, in native and foreign art. A refined taste directing anqDle means, and peculiar op])ortunities, has evidently presided over the collection and ari-angement of all around. At this moment, the hour of the evening repast is approaching ; and we discover the mistress
* Pronounced with the accent on the i.
of this dainty abode engaged in preparing herself, to appear with becoming splendor.
Pompeian Couch.
She is reclining on a couch of Athenian workmanship, inlaid with silver, in a room of Cyzicene form ; that is, hav- ing glass windows to the ground, and so opening on to the flowery terrace. Against the wall opposite to her hangs a
Table, after a painting in Herculanetun.
mirror of polished silver, sufficient to reflect a whole standing figure; on a porphyry-table beside it is a collection of the innumerable rare cosmetics and perfumes, of which the Roman
ladies had become so fond, and on which they lavished immense sums.* On another, of Indian sandal-wood, was a rich display of jewels and trinkets in their precious caskets, from which to select for the day's use.
It is by no means our intention, nor our gift, to describe persons or features ; we wish more to deal with minds. We will, therefore, content ourselves with saying, that Fabiola, now at the age of twenty, was not considered inferior in appearance to other ladies of her rank, age, and fortune, and had many aspirants for her hand. But she was a contrast to her father in temper and in character. Proud, haughty, imperious, and irritable, she ruled like an empress all that
Couch from Herculaneum.
surrounded her, with one or two exceptions, and exacted humble homage from all that approached her. An only child, whose mother had died in giving her birth, she had been nursed and brought up in indulgence by her careless, good-natured father; she had been provided with the best masters, had been adorned with every accomplishment, and allowed to gratify every extravagant Avish. She had never known what it was to deny herself a desire.
Having been left so much to herself, she had read much, and especially in profounder books. She had thus become a complete philosopher of the refined, that is, the infidel and intellectual, epicureanism, which had been long fashionable in Kome. Of Christianity she knew nothing, except that she
* The milk of 500 asses per day was required to furnish Poppaea, Nero's wife, with one cosmetic.
understood it to be something very low, material, and vulgar. She despised it, in fact, too much to think of inquiring into it. And as to paganism, with its gods, its vices, its fables, and its idolatry, she merely scorned it, though outwardly she followed it. In fact, she believed in nothing beyond the present life, and thought of nothing except its refined enjoyment. But her very pride threw a shield over her virtue ; she loathed the wickedness of heathen society, as she despised the frivolous
Elaborate Seat from Herculaueam.
youths who paid her jealously exacted attention, for she found amusement in their follies. She was considered cold and selfish, but she was morally iri-eproachable.
If at the beginning we seem to indulge in long descrip- tions, we trust that our reader will believe that they are requisite, to put him in possession of the state of material and social Kome at the period of our narrative; and will make this the more intelligible. And should he be tempted to think that we describe things as over splendid and refined for an age of decline in arts and good taste, we beg to remind him, that the year we are supposed to visit Rome is not as remote
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from the better periods of Roman art, for example, that of the Antonines, as our age is from that of CelHni, Raffaele, or Donatello. Yet in how many Italian palaces are still pre- served works by these great artists, fully prized, though no longer imitated? So, no doubt, it was with the houses belonging to the old and wealthy families of Rome.
We find, then, Fabiola reclining on her couch, holding in her left hand a silver mirror with a handle, and in the other a strange instrument for so fair a hand. It is a sharp-pointed stiletto, with a delicately carved ivory handle, and a gold ring, to hold it by. This was the favorite weapon with which Roman ladies punished their slaves, or vented their passion on them, upon suffering the least annoyance, or when irritated by pettish anger. Three female slaves are now engaged about their mistress. They belong to different races, and have been purchased at high prices, not merely on account of their appearance, but for some rare accomplishment they are sup- posed to possess. One is a black ; not of the degraded negro stock, but from one of those races, such as the Abyssinians and Numidians, in whom the features are as regular as in the Asiatic people. She is supposed to have great skill in herbs, and their cosmetic and healing properties, perhaps also in more dangerous uses — in compounding philtres, charms, and possibly poisons. She is merely known by her national designation as- Afra. A Greek comes next, selected for her taste in dress, and for the elegance and purity of her accent ; she is therefore called Graia. The name which the third bears, Syra, tells us that she comes from Asia; and she is distinguished for her exquisite embroidering, and for her assiduous diligence. She is quiet, silent, but completely engaged with the duties which now devolve upon her. The other two are garrulous, light, and make great pretence about any little thing they do. Every moment they address the most extravagant flattery to their young mistress, or try to
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promote the suit of one or other of the profligate candidates for her hand, who has best or last bribed them.
"How delighted I should be, most noble mistress," said the black slave, "if I could only be in the triclinium* this evening as you enter in, to observe the brilliant effect of this new stibium t on your guests ! It has cost me many trials
A Slave. From a painting in Hercolaneum.
A Slave. Prom a painting in Pompeii.
before I could obtain it so perfect : I am sure nothing like it has been ever seen in Rome."
" As for me," interrupted the wily Greek, " I should not presume to aspire to so high an honor. I should be satisfied to look from outside the door, and see the magnificent effect of this wonderful silk tunic, which came with the last remit-
* The dininff-liall.
f Black antimony applied on the eyelids.
©" ^
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tance of gold from Asia. Nothing can equal its beauty ; nor, I may add, is its arrangement, the result of my study, unworthy of the materials."
"And you, Syra," interposed the mistress, with a con- temptuous smile, "what would you desire? and what have you to praise of your own doing?"
" Nothing to desire, noble lady, but that you may be ever happy; nothing to praise of my own doing, for I am not conscious of having done more than my duty," was the modest and sincere reply.
It did not please the haughty lady, who said, "Methinks, slave, that you are not over given to praise. One seldom hears a soft word from your mouth."
"And what worth would it be from me," answered Syra; " from a poor servant to a noble dame, accustomed to hear it all day long from eloquent and polished lips? Do you believe it when you hear it from them ? Do you not despise it when you receive it from usf^^
A look of spite was darted at her from her two companions. Fabiola, too, was angry at what she thought a reproof. A lofty sentiment in a slave !
"Have you yet to learn, then," she answered haughtily, " that you are mine, and have been bought by me at a high price, that you might serve me as / please ? I have as good a right to the service of your tongue as of your arms ; and if it please me to be praised, and iiattered, and sung to, by you, do it you shall, whether you like it or not. A new idea, indeed, that a slave has to have any will but that of her mistress, when her very life belongs to her ! "
"True," replied the handmaid, calmly but with dignity, " my life belongs to you, and so does all else that ends with life,— time, health, vigor, body, and breath. All this you have bought with your gold, and it has become your property. But I still hold as my OAvn what no emperor's
wealth can purchase, no chains of slavery fetter, no limit of life contain."
" And pray what is that? "
" A soul."
"A soul!" re-echoed the astonished Fabiola, who had never before heard a slave claim ownership of sucli a property. " And pray, let me ask you, what you mean by the word ? "
" I cannot speak philosophical sentences," answered the servant, "but I mean that inward living consciousness within me, which makes me feel to have an existence with, and among, better things than surround me, which shrinks sensi- tively from destruction, and instinctively from what is allied to it, as disease is .to death. And therefore it abhors all flattery, and it detests a lie. While I possess that unseen gift, and die it cannot, either is impossible to me."
The other two could understand but little of all this ; so they stood in stupid amazement at the presumption of their companion. Fabiola too was startled ; but her pride soon rose again, and she spoke with visible impatience.
"Where did you learn all this folly? Who has taught you to prate in this manner ? For my part, I have studied for many years, and have come to the conclusion, that all ideas of spiritual existences are the dreams of poets, or sophists ; and as such I despise them. Do you, an ignorant, uneducated slave, pretend to know better than your mistress ? Or do you really fancy, that when, after death, your corpse will be thrown on the heap of slaves who have drunk them- selves, or have been scourged, to death, to be burnt in one ignominious pile, and when the mingled ashes have been buried in a common pit, you will survive as a conscious being, and have still a life of joy and freedom to be lived?"
"' Non omnis moriar,''* as one of your poets says," replied
* N'ot all of me will die.
' Fabiola grasped the style in her right hand, and made an almost blind thrust at the unflinching handmaid."
modestly, but with a fervent look that astonished her mistress, the foreign slave ; " yes, I hope, nay, I intend to survive all this. And more yet ; I believe, and know, that out of that charnel- pit which you have so vividly described, there is a hand that will pick out each charred fragment of my frame. And there is a power that will call to reckoning the four winds of heaven, and make each give back every grain of my dust that it has scattered ; and I shall be built up once more in this my body, not as yours, or any one's, bondwoman, but free, and joyful, and glorious, loving for ever, and beloved. This certain hope is laid up in my bosom." *
"What wild visions of an eastern fancy are these, unfitting you for every duty ? You must be cured of them. In what school did you learn all this nonsense ? I never read of it in any Greek or Latin author."
" In one belonging to my own land ; a school in which there is no distinction known, or admitted, between Greek or barbarian, freeman or slave."
"What! " exclaimed, with strong excitement, the haughty lady, "without waiting even for that future ideal existence after death ; already, even now, you presume to claim equality with me? Nay, who knows, perhaps superiority ovei' me. Come, tell me at once, and without daring to equivocate or disguise, if you do so or not? " And she sat up in an atti- tude of eager expectation. At every word of the calm reply her agitation increased ; and violent passions seemed to con- tend within her, as Syra said:
" Most noble mistress, far superior are you to me in place, and power, and learning, and genius, and in all that enriches and embellishes life ; and in every grace of form and linea- ment, and in every charm of act and speech, high are you raised above all rivalry, and far removed from envious thought, from one so lowly and so insignificant as I. But if I
* Job xix. 27.
I®
must answer simple truth to your authoritative question " — she paused, as faltering ; but an imperious gesture from her mis- tress bade her continue — "then I put it to your own judgment, whether a poor slave, who holds an unquenchable conscious- ness of possessing within her a spiritual and living intelli- gence, whose measure of existence is immortality, whose only true place of dwelling is above the skies, whose only rightful prototype is the Deity, can hold herself inferior in moral dig- nity, or lower in greatness of thought, than one who, however gifted, owns that she claims no higher destiny, recognizes in herself no sublimer end, than what awaits the pretty irra- tional songsters that beat, without hope of liberty, against the gilded bars of that cage." *
Fabiola's eyes flashed with fury ; she felt herself, for the first time in her life, rebuked, humbled by a slave. She grasped the style in her right hand, and made an almost blind thrust at the unflinching handmaid. Syra instinctively put forward her arm to save her person, and received the point, which, aimed upwards from the couch, inflicted a deeper gash than she had ever before suffered. The tears started into her eyes through the smart of the wound, from which the blood gushed in a stream. Fabiola was in a mo- ment ashamed of her cruel, though unintentional, act, and felt still more humbled before her servants.
" Go, go," she said to Syra, who was stanching the blood with her handkerchief, "go to Euphrosyne, and have the wound dressed. I did not mean to hurt you so grievously. But stay a moment, I must make you some compensation." Then, after turning over her trinkets on the table, she continued, "Take this ring; and you need not return here again this evening."
Fabiola's conscience was quite satisfied; she had made
* See the noble answer of Evalpistus, an imperial slave, to the judge, in the Acts of St. Justin, ap. Euinart, torn. i.
"He who watched with beaming eye, the alms-eoffers of Jerusalem, and noted the widow's mite, alone saw dropped into the ehest, by the iDandaged arm of a foreign female slave, a valuable emerald ring."
what she considered ample atonement for the injury she had inflicted, in the shape of a costly present to a menial de- pendant. And on the following Sunday, in the title* of St. Pastor, not far from her house, among the alms collected for the poor was found a valuable emerald ring, which the good priest Polycarp thought must have been the offering of some very rich Koman lady; but which He who watched, with beaming eye, the alms-coffers of Jerusalem, and noted the widow's mite, alone saw dropped into the chest by the ban- daged arm of a foreign female slave.
* Church.
A Lamp, found in the Catacombs.
E
CHAPTER V.
THE VISIT.
jTJKING tlie latter part of the dialogue just recorded, and the catastrophe which closed it, there took place an apparition in Fabi- ola'sroom, which, if seen by her, would prob- qMj have cut short the one and prevented the other. The interior chambers in a Eo- man house were more frequently divided by curtains across their entrances than by doors; and thus it was easy, especially during such an excited scene as had just taken place, to enter unobserved. This was the case now ; and when Syra turned to leave the room she was almost startled at seeing standing, in bright relief before the deep crimson door-curtain, a figure which she immediately recognized, but which we must briefly describe.
It was that of a lady, or rather a child not more than twelve or thirteen years old, dressed in pure and spotless white, withont a single ornament about her person. In her countenance might be seen united the simplicity of childhood with the intelligence of a maturer age. There not merely dwelt in her eyes that dove-like innocence which the sacred poet describes,* but often there beamed from them rather an intensity of pure affection, as though they were looking be- yond all surrounding objects, and rested upon one, unseen by all else, but to her really present and exquisitely dear. Her
* " Thy eyes are as those of doves. — Gantic. i. 14.
forehead was the very seat of candor, open and bright with un- disguising truthfulness ; a kindly smile played about the lips, and the fresh, youthful features varied their sensitive expres- sion with guileless earnestness, passing rapidly from one feel- ing to the other, as her warm and tender heart received it. Those who knew her believed that she never thought of her- self, but was divided entirely between kindness to those about her, and affection for her unseen love.
When Syra saw this beautiful vision, like that of an angel, before her, she paused for a moment. But the child took her hand and reverently kissed it, saying, "I have seen all; meet me in the small chamber near the entrance, when I go out."
She then advanced ; and as Fabiola saw her, a crimson blush mantled in her cheek; for she feared the child had been witness of her undignified burst of passion. With a cold wave of her hand she dismissed her slaves, and then greeted her kinswoman, for such she was, with cordial affection. We have said that Fabiola's temper made a few exceptions in its haughty exercise. One of these was her old nurse and freed- woman Euphrosyne, who directed all her private household, and whose only creed was, that Fabiola was the most perfect of beings, the wisest, most accomplished, most admirable lady in Eome. Another was her young visitor, whom she loved, and ever treated with gentlest affection, and whose society she always coveted.
" This is really kind of you, dear Agnes," said the softened Fabiola, "to come at my sudden request, to join our table to-day. But the fact is, my father has called in one or two new people to dine, and I was anxious to have some one with whom I could have the excuse of a duty to converse. Yet I own I have some curiosity about one of our new guests. It is Fulvius, of whose grace, wealth, and accomplishments I hear so much ; though nobody seems to know who or what he is, or whence he has sprung up."
" My dear Fabiola," replied Agnes, "you know I am always happy to visit you, and my kind parents willingly allow me ; therefore, make no apologies about that."
" And so you have come to me as usual," said the other playfully, "in your own snow-white dress, without jewel or ornament, as if you were every day a bride. You always seem to me to be celebrating one eternal espousal. But, good heavens ! what is this ? Are you hurt ? Or are you
Saint Agu(
aware that there is, right On the bosom of your tunic, a large red spot — it looks like blood. If so, let me change your dress at once."
" ISTot for the world, Fabiola ; it is the jewel, the only orna- ment I mean to wear this evening. It is blood, and that of a slave ; but nobler, in my eyes, and more generous, than flows in your veins or mine."
The whole truth flashed upon Fabiola' s mind. Agnes had seen all; and humbled almost to sickening, she said some- what pettishly, "Do you then wish to exhibit proof to all the world of my hastiness of temper, in over-chastising a forward slave?"
"JSTo, dear cousin, far from it. I only wish to preserve
TO
for myself a lesson of fortitude, and of elevation of mind, learnt from a slave, such as few patrician philosophers can teach us."
"What a strange idea! Indeed, Agnes, I have often thought that you make too much of that class of people. After all, what are they?"
" Human beings as much as ourselves, endowed with the same reason, the same feelings, the same organization. Thus
Saint Agnes. From an old vase preserved in the Vatican Museum.
far you will admit, at any rate, to go no higher. Then they form part of the same family ; and if God, from whom comes owr life, is thereby our Father, He is theirs as much, and con- sequently they are our brethren."
"A slave my brother or sister, Agnes? The gods forbid it! They are our property and our goods; and I have no notion of their being allowed to move, to act, to think, or to feel, except as it suits their masters, or is for their advantage."
"Come, come," said Agnes, with her sweetest tones, "do not let us get into a warm discussion. Tou are too candid and honorable not to feel, and to be ready to acknowledge, that to-day you have been outdone by a slave in all that you
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g^
most admire, — in mind, in reasoning, in truthfulness, and in heroic fortitude. Do not answer me; I see it in that tear. But, dearest cousin, I will save you from a repetition of your pain. Will you grant me my request? "
'Any in my power."
" Then it is, that you will allow me to purchase Syra — I think that is her name. You will not like to see her about you."
" You are mistaken, Agnes. I will master pride for once, and own, that I shall now esteem her, perhaps almost admire her. It is a new feeling in me towards one in her station."
"But I think, Fabiola, I could make her happier than she is."
"No doubt, dear Agnes; you have the power of making every body happy about you. I never saw such a household as yours. You seem to carry out in practice that strange philosophy which Syra alluded to, in which there is no distinction of freeman and slave. Every body in your house is always smiling, and cheerfully anxious to discharge his duty. And there seems to be no one who thinks of com- manding. Come, tell me your secret." (Agnes smiled.) "I suspect, you little magician, that in that mysterious chamber, Avhich you will never open for me, you keep your charms and potions by which you make every body and every thing love you. If you were a Christian, and were exposed in the amphitheatre, I am sure the very leopards would crouch and nestle at your feet. But why do you look so serious, child ? You know I am only joking."
Agnes seemed absorbed ; and bent forward that keen and tender look which we have mentioned, as though she saw before her, nay, as if she heard si)eaking to her, some one delicately beloved. It passed away, and she gaily said, "Well, well, Fabiola, stranger things have come to pass; and at any rate, if aught so dreadful had to happen, Syra
would just be the sort of person one would like to see near one ; so you really must let me have her."
" For heaven's sake, Agnes, do not take my words so seriously. I assure you they were spoken in jest. I have too high an opinion of your good sense to believe such a calamity possible. But as to Syra's devotedness, you are right. When last summer you were away, and I was so dangerously ill of contagious fever, it required the lash to make the other slaves approach me; while that poor thing would hardly leave me, but watched by me, and nursed me day and night, and I really believe greatly promoted my recovery."
" And did you not love her for this ? "
"Love her! Love a slave, child! Of course, I took care to reward her generously; though I cannot make out what she does with what I give her. The others tell me she has nothing put by, and she certainly spends nothing on herself. Nay, I have even heard that she foolishly shares her daily allowance of food with a blind beggar-girl. What a strange fancy, to be sure ! "
" Dearest Fabiola," exclaimed Agnes, " she must be mine ! You promised me my request. Name your price, and let me take her home this evening."
"Well, be it so, you most irresistible of petitioners. But we will not bargain together. Send some one to-morrow, to see my father's steward, and all will be right. And now this great piece of business being settled between us, let us go down to our guests."
"But you have forgotten to put on your jewels."
"Never mind them; I will do without them for once; I feel no taste for them to-day."
ffi
CHAPTER VI.
THE BANQUET.
IHET found, on descending, all the guests as- sembled in a hall below. It was not a state banquet which they were going to share, but the usual meal of a rich house, where preparation for a tableful of friends was always made. We will therefore content ourselves with saying that every thing was elegant and exquisite in arrangement and material ; and we will confine ourselves entirely to such incidents as may throw a light upon our story.
When the two ladies entered the exedra or hall, Fabius, after saluting his daughter, exclaimed, " Why, my child, you have come down, though late, still scarcely fittingly arranged ! You have forgotten your usual trinkets."
Fabiola was confused. She knew not what answer to make : she was ashamed of her weakness about her angry display ; and still more of what she now thought a silly way of punishing herself for it. Agnes stepped in to the rescue, and blushingly said : " It is my fault, cousin Fabius, both that she is late and that she is so plainly dressed. I detained her with my gossip, and no doubt she wishes to keep me in coun- tenance by the simplicity of her attire."
"You, dear Agnes," replied the father, "are privileged to do as you please. But, seriously speaking, I must say that, even with you, this may have answered while you were a
mere child ; now that you are marriageable,* you must begin to make a little more display, and try to win the affections of some handsome and eligible youth. A beautiful necklace, for instance, such as you have plenty of at home, would not make you less attractive. But you are not attending to me. Come, come, I dare say you have some one already in view."
During most of this address, which was meant to be thor- oughly good-natured, as it was perfectly worldly, Agnes ap- peared in one of her abstracted moods, her bewitched looks, as Fabiola called them, transfixed, in a smiling ecstasy, as if attending to some one else, but never losing the thread of the discourse, nor saying any thing out of place. She therefore at once answered Fabius: "Oh, yes, most certainly, one who has already pledged me to him by his betrothal-ring, and has adorned me with immense jewels, "t
" Keally ! " asked Fabius, " with what? "
" Why," answered Agnes, with a look of glowing earnest- ness, and in tones of artless simplicity, "he has girded my hand and neck with precious gems, and has set in my ears rings of peerless pearls."!
" Goodness ! who can it be ? Come, Agnes, some day you must tell me your secret. Your first love, no doubt ; may it last long and make you happy ! "
"For ever! " was her reply, as she turned to join Fabiola, and enter with her into the dining-room. It was well she had not overheard this dialogue, or she would have been hurt to the quick, as thinking that Agnes had concealed the most important thought of her age, as she would have considered it, from her most loving friend. But while Agnes was defend-
* Twelve was the age for marriage according to the Roman law.
f "Annnlo fidei sues subarrhavit me, et immensis monilibiis ornavit me." — Office of St. Agnes.
I "Dexteram meam et collum meum cinxit lapidibus pretiosis, tradidit auri- bus meis insestimabiles margaritas."
ing her, she had turned away from her father, and had been attending to the other guests. One was a heavy, thick-necked Roman sophist, or dealer in universal knowledge, named Cal- purnius ; another, Proculus, a mere lover of good fare, often at the house. Two more remain, deserving further notice. The first of them, evidently a favorite both with Fabiola and Agnes, was a tribune, a high officer of the imperial or praetorian guard. Though not above thirty years of age, he had already distinguished himself by his valor, and enjoyed the highest favor with the emperors Dioclesian in the East, and Maximian Herculius in Rome, He was free from all affectation in man- ner or dress, though handsome in person ; and though most engaging in conversation, he manifestly scorned the foolish topics which generally occupied society. In short, he was a perfect specimen of a noble-hearted youth, full of honor and generous thoughts; strong and brave, without a particle of pride or display in him.
Quite a contrast to him was the last guest, already alluded to by Fabiola, the new star of society, Fulvius. Young, and almost effeminate in look, dressed with most elaborate ele- gance, with brilliant rings on every finger and jewels in his dress, affected in his speech, which had a slightly foreign accent, overstrained in his courtesy of manners, but apparently good-natured and obliging, he had in a short time quietly pushed his way into the highest society of Rome. This was, indeed, owing partly to his having been seen at the imperial court, and partly to the fascination of his manner. He had arrived in Rome accompanied by a single elderly attendant, evidently deeply attached to him ; whether slave, freedman, or friend, nobody well knew. They spoke together always in a strange tongue, and the swarthy features, keen fiery eye, and unamiable expression of the domestic, inspired a certain degree of fear in his dependants ; for Fulvius had taken an apartment in what was called an insula, or house let out in
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parts, had furnished it luxuriously, and had peopled it with a sufficient bachelor's establishment of slaves. Profusion rather than abundance distinguished all his domestic arrangements ; and, in the corrupted and degraded circle of pagan Rome, the obscurity of his history, and the suddenness of his apparition, were soon forgotten in the evidence of his riches, and the charm of his loose conversation. A shrewd observer of char- acter, however, would soon notice a wandering restlessness of eye, and an eagerness of listening attention for all sights and sounds around him, which betrayed an insatiable curiosity; and in moments of forge tfulness, a dark scowl under his knit brows, from his flashing eyes, and a curling of the upper lip, which inspired a feeling of mistrust, and gave an idea that his exterior softness only clothed a character of feline malignity.
The guests were soon at table ; and as ladies sat, while men reclined on couches during the repast, Fabiola and Agnes were together on one side, the t^wo younger guests last
Banqnet Table, from a Pompeian painting.
described were opposite, and the master, with his two elder friends, in the middle — if these terms can be used to describe their position about three joarts of a round table ; one side being left unencumbered by the sigma* or semi-circular couch, for the convenience of serving. And we may observe, in passing, that a table-cloth, a luxury unknown in the times of Horace, was now in ordinary use.
* So called from its resemblance to the letter C, the old form of S.
is U U
When the first claims of hunger, or the palate, had been satisfied, conversation grew more general.
" What news to-day at the baths ? " asked Calpm-nius; "I have no leisure myself to look after such trifles."
"Very interesting news indeed," answered Proculus. "It seems quite certain that orders have been received from the divine Dioclesian, to finish his Thermae in three years."
"Impossible!" exclaimed Fabius. "I looked in at the works the other day, on my way to Sallust's gardens, and found them very little advanced in the last year. There is an immense deal of heavy work to be done, such as carving marbles and shaping columns."
"True," interposed Fulvius; "but I know that orders have been sent to all parts, to forward hither all prisoners, and all persons condemned to the mines in Spain, Sardinia, and even Chersonesus, who can possibly be spared, to come and labor at the Thermae. A few thousand Christians, thus set to the work, will soon finish it."
" And why Christians better than other criminals? " asked, with some curiosity, Fabiola.
"Why, really," said Fulvius, with his most winning smile, "I can hardly give a reason for it ; but the fact is so. Among fifty workmen so condemned, I would engage to pick out a single Christian."
" Indeed ! " exclaimed several at once ; " pray how ? "
"Ordinary convicts," answered he, "naturally do not love their work, and they require the lash at every step to compel them to perform it ; and when the overseer's eye is off them, no work is done. And, moreover, they are, of course, rude, sottish, quarrelsome, and querulous. But the Christians, when condemned to these public works, seem, on the contrary, to be glad, and are always cheerful and obedient. I have seen young patricians so occupied in Asia, whose hands had never before handled a pickaxe, and whose weak shoulders had never
p n n
borne a weight, yet working hard, and as happy, to all appear- ance, as when at home. Of course, for all that, the overseers apply the lash and the stick very freely to them ; and most justly ; because it is the will of the divine emperors that their lot should be made as hard as possible ; but still they never complain."
"I cannot say that I admire this sort of justice," replied Fabiola; " but what a strange race they must be ! 1 am most curious to know what can be the motive or cause of this stupidity, or unnatural insensibility, in these Christians? "
Proculus replied, with a facetious look : " Calpurnius here no doubt can tell us; for he is a philosopher, and I hear could declaim for an hour on any topic, from the Alps to an ant-hill."
Calpurnius, thus challenged, and thinking himself highly complimented, solemnly gave mouth: "The Christians," said he, " are a foreign sect, the founder of which flourished many ages ago in Chaldea. His doctrines were brought to Rome at the time of Vespasian by two brothers named Peter and Paul. Some maintain that these were the same twin brothers as the Jews call Moses and Aaron, the second of wdiom sold his birthright to his brother for a kid, the skin of which he wanted to make cliirothecw* of. But this identity I do not aduiit ; as it is recorded in the mystical books of the Jews, that the second of these brothers, seeing the other's victims give better omens of birds than his own, slew him, as our Komulus did Remus, but Avith the jaw-bone of an ass; for which he was hung by King Mardochteus of Macedon, upon a gibbet fifty cubits high, at the suit of their sister Judith. However, Peter and Paul coming, as I said, to Rome, the former was discovered to be a fugitive slave of Pontius Pilate, and was crucified by his master's orders on the Janiculum. Their followers, of whom they had many, made the cross their
* Gloves.
"M
■^T®
sjaiibol, and adore it; and they think it the greatest honor to suffer strij^es, and even ignominious death, as the best means of being like their teachers, and, as they fancy, of going to them in a place somewhere among the clouds." *
Tliis lucid explanation of the origin of Christianity was listened to with admiration by all except two. The young officer gave a piteous look towards Agnes, which seemed to say, "Shall I answer the goose, or shall I laugh outright?" But she put her finger on her lips, and smiled imploringly for silence.
"Well, then, the upshot of it is," observed Proculus, "that the Thermte will be finished soon, and we shall have glorious sport. Is it not said. Fulvius, that the divine Dioclesian will himself come to the dedication? "
"It is quite certain ; and so will there be splendid festivals and glorious games. But we shall not have to wait so long; already, for other purposes, have orders been sent to Numidia for an unlimited supply of lions and leopards to be ready before winter." Then turning round sharp to his neighbor, he said, bending a keen eye upon his countenance : "A brave soldier like you, Sebastian, must be delighted with the noble specta- cles of the amphitheatre, especially when directed against the enemies of the august emperors, and of the republic."
The officer raised himself upon his couch, looked on his interrogator with an unmoved, majestic countenance, and answered calmly:
" Fulvius, I should not deserve the title which you give me, could I contemplate with jDleasure, in cold blood, the struggle, if it deserve the name, between a brute beast and a helpless child or woman, for such are the spectacles which you call noble. No, I will draw my sword willingly against any enemy of the princes or the state ; but I would as readily draw it against the lion or the leopard that should rush, even by
* Lucian : De Morte Peregrini.
^
imperial order, against the innocent and defenceless." Fiil- vius Avas starting up ; but Sebastian placed his strong hand upon his arm, and continued : "Hear me out. I am not the first Eoman, nor the noblest, who has thought thus before me. Eemember the words of Cicero : ' Magnificent are these games, no doubt ; but what delight can it be to a refined mind to see either a feeble man torn by a most powerful beast, or a noble animal pierced through by a javelin? '* I am not ashamed of agreeing with the greatest of Roman orators."
"Then shall we never see you in the amphitheatre, Sebas- tian?" asked Fulvius, with a bland but taunting tone.
"If you do," the soldier replied, "depend upon it, it will be on the side of the defenceless, not on that of the brutes that would destroy them."
"Sebastian is right," exclaimed Fabiola, clapping her hands, "and I close the discussion by my applause. I have never heard Sebastian speak, except on the side of generous and high-minded sentiments."
Fulvius bit his lip in silence, and all rose to depart.
* " Magnificee nemo negat ; seel quse potest esse homini polito delectatio, qiium aut homo imbecillus a valentissima bestia laniatur, aut prseclara bestia vena- bulo transverberatur?"— ^iJ. ad Fam. lib. vii. ep. 1.
David with his Sling, from the Catacomb of St. Petronilla.
CHAPTER VII
POOR AND RICH.
URING the latter part of the conver- sation just recorded, Fabius had been quite abstracted, speculating upon his conversation with Agnes. How quietly she had kept her secret to herself ! But who could this favored person be, who had already won her heart ? He thought over many, but could find no answer. The gift of rich jewels particularly _ perplexed him. He knew no young Roman nobleman likely to possess them ; and sauntering, as he did, every day into the great shops, he was sure to have heard if any such costly order had been given. Suddenly the bright idea flashed through his mind, that Fulvius, who daily exhibited new and splendid gems, brought from abroad, could be the only person able to make her such presents. He moreover noticed such occasional looks darted towards his cousin by the handsome foreigner, as left him no doubt that he was deeply enamored of her ; and if Agnes did not seem conscious of the admira- tion, this of course was part of her plan. Once convinced of this important conclusion, he determined to favor the wishes of the two, and astonish his daughter one day by the sagacity he had displayed.
But we must leave our nobler guests for more humble
scenes, and follow Syra from the time that she left her young mistress's apartment. When she presented herself to Eu- phrosyne, the good-natured nurse was shocked at the cruel wound, and uttered an exclamation of pity. But immediately recognizing in it the work of Fabiola, she was divided be- tween two contending feelings. " Poor thing ! " she said, as she went on first washing, then closing and dressing, the gash ; " it is a dreadful cut! What did you do to deserve it? How it must have hurt you, my poor girl ! But how wicked you must have been to bring it upon yourself! It is a savage wound, yet inflicted by the gentlest of creatures ! (You must be faint from loss of blood ; take this cordial to support you) : and no doubt she found herself obliged to strike."
"No doubt," said Syra, amused, "it was all my fault; I had no business to argue with my mistress."
'' Argue with her! — argue! — 0 ye gods! who ever heard before of a slave arguing with a noble mistress, and such a learned one! Why, Calpurnius himself would be afraid of disputing with her. No wonder, indeed, she was so — so agi- tated as not to know that she was hurting you. But this must be concealed ; it must not be known that you have been so wrong. Have you no scarf or nice veil that we could throw round the arm, as if for ornament ? All the others I know have plenty, given or bought ; but you never seem to care for these pretty things. Let us look."
She went into the maid-slave's dormitory, which was within her room, opened Syra's capsa or box, and after turn- ing over in vain its scanty contents, she drew forth from the bottom a square kerchief of richest stuff, magnificently em- broidered, and even adorned with pearls. Syra blushed deeply, and entreated not to be obliged to wear this most dis- proportioned piece of dress, especially as it was a token of better days, long and painfully preserved. But Euphrosyne, anxious to hide her mistress's fault, was inexorable; and
the ricli scarf was gracefully fastened round the wounded arm.
This operation performed, Syra proceeded to the little par- lor opposite the porter's room, where the higher slaves could see their friends. She held in her hand a basket covered with a napkin. The moment she entered the door a light step came bounding across the room to meet her. It was that of a girl of about sixteen or seventeen, dressed in the poorest attire, but clean and neat, who threw her arms round Syra's neck with such a bright countenance and such hearty glee, that a bystander would hardly have supposed that her sightless eyes had never communed with the outer world.
" Sit down, dear Caacilia," said Syra, with a most affec- tionate tone, and leading her to a seat; "to-day I have brought you a famous feast; you will fare sumptuously."
" How so? I think I do every day."
"No, but to-day my mistress has kindly sent me out a dainty dish from her table, and I have brought it here for you."
"How kind of her; yet how much kinder of you, my sister! But why have you not partaken of it yourself? It was meant for you and not for me."
" Why, to tell the truth, it is a greater treat to me, to see you enjoy any thing, than to enjoy it myself."
" No, dear Syra, no; it must not be. God has wished me to be poor, and I must try to do His will. I could no more think of eating the food, than I could of wearing the dress, of the rich, so long as I can obtain that of the poor. I love to share with you jonr pulmentum* which I know is given me in charity by one poor like myself. I procure for you the merit of alms-deeds ; you give me the consolation of feeling that I am, before God, still only a poor blind thing. I think He will love me better thus, than if feeding on luxurious fare. I
* Porridge.
would rather be with Lazarus at the gate, than with Dives at the table."
" How much better and wiser you are than I, my good child ! It shall be as you wish. I will give the dish to my companions, and, in the meantime, here I set before you your usual humble fare."
" Thanks, thanks, dear sister ; I will await your return." Syra went to the maids' apartment, and put before her jealous but greedy companions the silver dish. As their mis- tress occasionally showed them this little kindness, it did not much surprise them. But the poor servant was weak enough to feel ashamed of appearing before her comrades with the rich scarf round her arm. She took it off before she entered ; then, not wishing to displease Euphrosyne, replaced it as well as she could with one hand, on coming out. She was in the court below, returning to her blind friend, when she saw one of the noble guests of her mistress's table alone, and, with a mortified look, crossing towards the door, and she stepped behind a column to avoid any possible, and not un- common, rudeness. It was Fulvius ; and no sooner did she, unseen, catch a glimpse of him, than she stood for a moment as one nailed to the spot. Her heart beat against her bosom, then quivered as if about to cease its action; her knees struck against one another, a shiver ran through her frame, while perspiration started on her brow. Her eyes, wide open, were fascinated, like the bird's before the snake. She raised her hand to her breast, made upon it the sign of life, and the spell was broken. She fled in an instant, still un- noticed, and had hardly stepped noiselessly behind a curtain that closed the stairs, when Fulvius, with downcast eyes, reached the spot on which she had stood. He started back a step, as if scared by something lying before him. He trembled violently; but recovering himself by a sudden effort, he looked around him and saw that he was alone.
--M
There was no eye upon him — except One which he did not heed, but which read his evil heart in that hour. He gazed again upon the object, and stooped to pick it up, but drew back his hand, and that more than once. At last he heard footsteps approaching, he recognized the martial tread of Sebastian, and hastily he snatched up from the ground the rich scarf which had dropped from Syra's arm. He shook as he folded it up ; and when, to his horror, he found upon it spots of fresh blood, which had oozed through the bandages, he reeled like a drunken man to the door, and rushed to his lodgings.
Pale, sick, and staggering, he went into his chamber, repulsing roughly the of&cious advances of his slaves ; and only beckoned to his faithful domestic to follow him, and then signed to him to bar the door. A lamp was burning brightly by the table, on which Fulvius threw the embroid- ered scarf in silence, and pointed to the stains of blood. That dark man said nothing ; but his swarthy countenance was blanched, while his master's was ashy and livid.
" It is the same, no doubt," at length spoke the attendant in their foreign tongue ; " but she is certainly dead."
"Art thou quite sure, Eurotas?" asked the master, with the keenest of his hawk's looks.
" As sure as man can be of what he has not seen himself. Where didst thou find this ? And whence this blood ? "
" I will tell thee all to-morrow ; I am too sick to-night. As to those stains, which were liquid when I found it, I know not whence they came, unless they are warnings of venge- ance— nay, a vengeance themselves, deep as the Furies could meditate, fierce as they could launch. That blood has not been shed now.''^
"Tut, tut! this is no time for dreams or fancies. Did any one see thee pick the — the thing up? "
" No one, I am sure."
"Then we are safe; better in our hands than in others'. A good night's rest will give us better counsel."
"True, Eurotus; but do thou sleep this night in my chamber."
Both threw themselves on their couches; Fulvius on a rich bed, Eurotus on a lowly pallet, from which, raised upon his elbow, with dark but earnest eye, he long watched, by the lamp's light, the troubled slumbers of the youth — at once his devoted guardian and his evil genius. Fulvius tossed about and moaned in his sleep, for his dreams were gloomy and heav}' . First he sees before him a beautiful city in a distant land, with a river of crystal brightness flowing through it. Upon it is a galley weighing anchor, with a figure on deck, waving towards him, in farewell, an embroidered scarf. The scene changes ; the ship is in the midst of the sea, battling with a furious storm, while on the summit of the mast the same scarf streams out, like a pennant, unruffled and uncrum- pled by the breeze. The vessel is now dashed upon a rock, and all with a dreadful shriek are buried in the deep. But the topmast stands above the billows, with its calm and brill- iant flag; till, amidst the sea-birds that shriek around, a form with a torch in her hand, and black flapping wings, flies by, snatches it from the staff, and with a look of stern anger displays it, as in her flight she pauses before him. He reads upon it, written in fiery letters, JSTemesis.*
But it is time to return to our other acquaintances in the house of Fabius.
After Syra had heard the door close on Fulvius she paused to compose herself, offered up a secret prayer, and returned to her blind friend. She had finished her frugal meal, and was waiting patiently the slave's return. Syra then commenced her daily duties of kindness and hospitality; she brought water, washed her hands and feet in obedience to Christian
d4f®
practice, and combed and dressed her hair, as if the poor creature had been her own child. Indeed, though not much older, her look was so tender, as she hung over her poor friend, her tones were so soft, her whole action so motherly, that one would have thought it was a parent ministering to her daughter, rather than a slave serving a beggar. And this beggar, too, looked so happy, spoke so cheerily, and said such beautiful things, that Syra lingered over her work to listen to her, and gaze on her.
It was at this moment that Agnes came for her appointed interview, and Fabiola insisted on accompanying her to the door. But when Agnes softly raised the curtain, and caught a sight of the scene before her, she beckoned to Fabiola to look in, enjoining silence by her gesture. The blind girl was opposite, and her voluntary servant on one side, unconscious of witnesses. The heart of Fabiola was touched; she had never imagined that there was such a thing as disinterested love on earth between strangers ; as to charity, it was a word unknown to Greece or Kome. She retreated quietly, with a tear in her eye, and said to Agnes, as she took leave :
" I must retire ; that girl, as you know, proved to me this afternoon that a slave may have a head ; she has now shown me that she may have a heart. I was amazed, when, a few hours ago, you asked me if I did not love a slave. I think, now, I could almost love Syra. I half regret that I have agreed to part with her."
As she went back into the court, Agnes entered the room, and laughing, said :
" So, Csecilia, I have found out your secret at last. This is the friend whose food you have always said was so much better than mine, that you would never eat at my house. Well, if the dinner is not better, at any rate I agree that you have fallen in with a better hostess."
"Oh, don't say so, sweet Lady Agnes," answered the
blind girl: "it is the dinner indeed that is better. You have plenty of opportunities for exercising charity; but a poor slave can only do so by finding some one still poorer, and helpless, like me. That thought makes her food by far the sweetest."
"Well, you are right," said Agnes, "and I am not sorry to have you present, to hear the good news I bring to Syra. It will make you happy too. Fabiola has allowed me to be- come your mistress, Syra, and to take you with me. To- morrow you shall be free, and a dear sister to me."
Ciecilia clapped her hands with joy, and throwing her arms round Syra's neck, exclaimed : " Oh, how good ! How happy you will now be, dear Syra ! "
But Syra was deeply troubled, and replied with faltering voice, " 0 good and gentle lady, you have been kind indeed, to think so much about one like me. But pardon me if I entreat you to remain as I am; I assure you, dear Csecilia, I am quite happy here."
" But why wish to stay? " asked Agnes.
"Because," rejoined Syra, "it is most perfect to abide with God, in the state wherein we have been called.* I own this is not the one in which I was born ; I have been brought to it by others." A burst of tears interrupted her for a moment, and then she went on. "But so much the more clear is it to me, that God has willed me to serve Him in this condition. How can I wish to leave it? "
"Well then," said Agnes, still more eagerly, "we can easily manage it. I will not free you, and you shall be my bondwoman. That will be just the same."
"No, no," said Syra, smiling, "that will never do. Our great Apostle's instructions to us are : ' Servants be subject to your masters with all fear, not only to the good and gentle, but also to the froward.' f I am far from saying that my mistress
* 1 Cor. Tii. 24. f 1 Pet. ii. 14.
is one of these ; but you, noble Lady Agnes, are too good and gentle for me. Where would be my cross, if I lived with you ? Tou do not know how proud and headstrong I am by nature ; and I should fear for myself, if I had not some pain and humiliation."
Agnes was almost overcome ; but she was more eager than ever to possess such a treasure of virtue, and said, " I see, Syra, that no motive addressed to your own interest can move you, I must therefore use a more selfish plea. I want to have you with me, that I may improve by your advice and example. Come, you will not refuse such a request."
" Selfish," replied the slave, " you can never be. And therefore I will appeal to yourself from your request. You know Fabiola, and you love her. What a noble soul, and what a splendid intellect she possesses ! What great quali- ties and high accomplishments, if they only reflected the light of truth ! And how jealously does she guard in herself that pearl of virtues, which only we know how to prize ! What a truly great Christian she would make ! "
" Go on, for G-od's sake, dear Syra," broke out Agnes, all eagerness. " And do you hope for it ? "
"It is my prayer day and night ; it is my chief thought and aim ; it is the occupation of my life. I will try to win her by patience, by assiduity, even by such unusual discussions as we have held to-day. And when all is exhausted, I have one resource more."
" What is that? " both asked.
" To give my life for her conversion. I know that a poor slave like me has few chances of martyrdom. Still, a fiercer persecution is said to be approaching, and perhaps it will not disdain such humble victims. But be that as God pleases, my life for her soul is placed in His hands. And oh, dearest, best of ladies," she exclaimed, falling on her knees and
bedewing Agnes' s hand with tears, "do not come in thus between me and my prize."
" You have conquered, sister Syra (oh ! never again call me lady)," said Agnes. "Kemain at your post; such single- hearted, generous virtue must triumph. It is too sublime for so homely a sphere as my household."
"And I, for my part," subjoined Cuecilia, with a look of arch gravity, " say that she has said one very wicked thing, and told a great story, this evening."
"What is that, my pet? " asked Syra, laughing.
"Why, you said that I was wiser and better than you, because I declined eating some trumpery delicacy, which would have gratified my palate for a few minutes, at the expense of an act of greediness ; while you have given up lib- erty, happiness, the free exercise of your religion, and have offered to give up life itself, for the salvation of one who is your tyrant and tormentor. Oh, fie ! how could you tell me such a thing ! "
The servant now announced that Agnes' s litter was wait- ing at the door ; and any one who could have seen the affec- tionate farewell of the three, — the noble lady, the slave, and the beggar, would have justly exclaimed, as people had often done before, " See how these Christians love one another! "
A Dove, as a Symbol of the Soul, found in the Catacombs.
CHAPTER VIII,
THE FIRST DAY'S CONCLUSION.
^^F we linger a little time about the door, and see Agnes fairly off, and listen to the merry conversation between her and Ct^cilia, in which Agnes asks her to allow herself to be accom- panied home by one of her attendants, as it has grown dark, and the girl is amused at the lady's forgetfulness that day and night are the same '^'J '-" to her, and that on this very account she is the appointed guide to thread the mazes of the catacombs, familiar to her as the streets of Rome, which she walks in safety at all hours; if thus we pass a little time before re-entering, to inquire how the mistress within fares after the day's adven- tures, we shall find the house turned topsy-turvy. Slaves, with lamps and torches, are running about in every direction, looking for something or other that is lost, in every possible and impossible place. Eu])hrosyne insists it must be found ; till at last the search is given up in despair. The reader will probably have anticipated the solution of the mystery. Syra had presented herself to have her wound re-dressed, according to orders, and the scarf which had bound it was no longer there. She could give no account of it, further than that she had taken it off, and put it on, certainly not so well as Euphrosyne had done it, and she gave the reason, for she scorned to tell a lie. Indeed she had never missed it till now. The kind-hearted old nurse was umch grieved at the loss.
which she considered must be heavy to a poor slave-girl, as she probably reserved that object for the purchase of her liberty. And Syra too was sorry, but for reasons which she could not have made the good housekeeper comprehend.
Euphrosyne had all the servants interrogated, and many even searched, to Syra's great pain and confusion ; and then ordered a grand general battue through every part of the house w^here Syra had been. Who for a moment could have dreamt of suspecting a noble guest at the master's table of purloining any article, valuable or not ? The old lady there- fore came to the conclusion, that the scarf had been spirited away by some magical process; and greatly suspected that the black slave Afra, who she knew could not bear Syra, had been using some spell to annoy the poor girl. For she believed the Moor to be a very Canidia,* being often obliged to let her go out alone at night, under pretence of gathering herbs at full moon for her cosmetics, as if plucked at any other time, they would not possess the same virtues ; to procure deadly poisons Euphrosyne suspected, but in reality to join in the hideous orgies of Fetichism t with others of her race, or to hold interviews with such as consulted her imaginary art. It was not till all was given up, and Syra found herself alone, that on more coolly recollecting the incidents of the day, she remembered the pause in Fulvius's walk across the court, at the very spot where she had stood, and his hurried steps, after this, to the door. The conviction then Hashed on her mind, that she must have there dropped her kerchief, and that he must have picked it wp. That he should have passed it with indifference she believed impossible. She was confident, therefore, that it was now in his possession. After attempt- ing to speculate on the possible consequences of this mis- adventure, and coming to no satisfactory conclusion, she
* A famous sorceress in Augustus's age. f The worship of interior Afi'ica.
83
determined to commit the matter entirely to God, and sought that repose which a good conscience was sure to render bahny and sweet.
Fabiola, on parting with Agnes, retired to her apartment ; and after the usual services had been rendered to her by her other two servants and Euphrosyne, she dismissed them with a gentler manner than ever she had shown before. As soon as they had retired, she went to recline upon the couch where first we found her ; wdien, to her disgust, she discovered lying on it the style with which she had wounded Syra. She opened a chest, and threw it in with horror; nor did she ever again use any such weapon.
Yolmnina., from a painting of Pompeii. Scrinium, from a picture in tbe Cemetery of St. Callistns.
She took up the volume which she had last laid down, and wdiich had greatly amused her ; but it W' as quite insipid, and seemed most frivolous to her. She laid it down again, and gave free course to her thoughts on all that had hap- pened. It struck her first what a wonderful child her cousin Agnes was, — ^liow unselfish, how pure, how simple; how sensible, too, and even wise! She determined to be her protector, her elder sister in all things. She had observed, too, as well as her father, the frequent looks which Fulvius had fixed upon her; not, indeed, those libertine looks which she herself had often borne with scorn, but designing, cunning glances, such as she thought betrayed some scheme or art, of Avhich Agnes might become the victim. She resolved to frustrate it, wdiatever it might be, and arrived at exactly the oi^posite conclusion to her father's
about him. She made up her mind to prevent Fulvius having any access to Agnes, at least at her house; and even blamed herself for having brought one so young into the strange company which often met at her father's table, especially as she now found that her motives for doing so had been decidedly selfish. It was nearly at the same moment that Fulvius, tossing on his couch, had come to the determination never again, if jiossible, to go inside Fabius's door, and to resist or elude every invitation from him.
Fabiola had measured his character; had caught, with her penetrating eye, the affectation of his manner, and the cunning of his looks ; and could not help contrasting him with the frank and generous Sebastian. " What a noble fellow that Sebastian is ! " she said to herself. " How different from all the other youths that come here. ^N'ever a foolish word escapes his lips, never an unkind look darts from his bright and cheerful eye. How abstemious, as becomes a soldier, at the table; how modest, as befits a hero, about his own strength and bold actions in war, which others speak so much about. Oh, if he only felt towards me as others pretend to do — " She did not finish the sentence, but a deep melan- choly seemed to steal over her whole soul.
Then Syra's conversation, and all that had resulted from it, passed again through her mind ; it was painful to her, yet she could not help dwelling on it ; and she felt as if that day were a crisis in her life. Her pride had been humbled by a slave, and her mind softened, she knew not how. Had her eyes been opened in that hour; and had she been able to look up above this world, she would have seen a soft cloud like incense, but tinged with a rich carnation, rising from the bed-side of a kneeling slave (prayer and willing sacrifice of life breathed upwards together), which, when it struck the crystal footstool of a mercy-seat in heaven.
w.
fell down again as a dew of gentlest grace uj)on her arid heart.
She could not indeed see this ; yet it w^as no less true ; and wearied, at length she sought repose. But she too had a distressing dream. She saw a bright spot as in a delicious garden, richly illuminated by a light like noonday, but inexpressibly soft; while all around was dark. Beautiful flowers formed the sward, plants covered with richest bloom grew festooned from tree to tree, on each of which glowed golden fruit. In the midst of this space she saw the poor blind girl, with her look of happiness on her cheerful countenance, seated on the gi-ound ; Avhile on one side, Agnes, with her sweetest simple looks, and on the other, Syra, with her quiet patient smile, hung over her and caressed her. Fabiola felt an irresistible desire to be with them ; it seemed to her that they were enjoying some felicity which she had never known or witnessed; and she thought they even beckoned her to join them. She ran forward to do so, when to her horror she found a wide, and black, and deep ravine, at the bottom of which roared a torrent between herself and them. By degrees its waters rose, till they reached the upper margin of the dyke, and there flowed, though so deep, yet sparkling and brilliant, and most refreshing. Oh, for courage to plunge into this stream, through which alone the gorge could be crossed, and land in safety on the other side ! And still they beckoned, urging her on to try it. But as she was stand- ing on the brink, clasping her hands in despair, Calpurnius seemed to emerge from the dark air around, with a thick heavy curtain stretched out, on which Avere worked all sorts of monstrous and hideous chimeras, most curiously running into, and interwoven with, each other; and this dark veil grew and grew, till it shut out the beautiful vision from her sight. She felt disconsolate, till she seemed
to see a bright genius (as she called him), in whose features she fancied she traced a spiritualized resemblance to Sebastian, and whom she had noticed standing sorrowful at a distance, now approach her, and, smiling on her, fan her fevered face with his gold and purple wing; when she lost her vision in a calm and refreshing sleep.
Oar Saviour, from a representation found in the Catacombs.
nn^_
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CHAPTER IX. MEETINGS.
all the Roman hills, the most distinctly traceable on every side is undoubtedly the Palatine. Augustus having chosen it for his residence, successive emperors followed his example ; but gradually transformed his modest residence into a palace, which cov- ered the entire hill. ISTero, not satisfied with its dimensions, destroyed the neighborhood by tire, and then extended the imperial residence to the neighboring Esquiline; taking in the whole space now occupied between the two hills by the Coliseum. Vespasian threw down that "golden house," of which the magnificent vaults remain, covered with beautiful paintings ; and built the amphitheatre just mentioned, and other edifices, with its materials. The entrance to the palace was made, soon after this period, from the Via Sacra, or Saci'ed Way, close to the arch of Titus. After passing through a vestibule, the visitor found himself in a magnificent court, the plan of which can be distinctly traced. Turning from this, on the left side, he entered into an immense square space, arranged and consecrated to Adonis by Domitian, and planted with trees, shrubs, and flowers.
Still keeping to the left, you would enter into sets of chambers, constructed by Alexander Severus in honor of his
|,|]!l{j||]||i|||jj||||||lll|)|^^
illl'i'liliiilliiiliili!!!
mother Mammsea, whose name they bore. They looked out
opposite to the Coelian hill, just at the angle of it, which
abuts upon the later triumphal arch of Constantine, and the
fountain called the Meta Sudans* Here was
the apartment occupied by Sebastian as a
tribune, or superior officer, of the imperial
guard. It consisted of a few rooms, most
modestly furnished, as became a soldier and
a Christian. His household was limited to a
couple of freedmen, and a venerable matron, Meta sMans, after a
,. _- 11. bronze of Vespasian.
who had been his nurse, and loved him as a child. They were Christians, as were all the men in his cohort ; i^artly by conversion, but chiefly by care in recruiting new soldiers.
It was a few evenings after the scenes described in the last chapter, that Sebastian, a couple of hours after dark, ascended the steps of the vestibule just described, in company with another youth, of whom we have already spoken. Pan- cratius admired and loved Sebastian with the sort of affection that an ardent young officer may be supposed to bear towards an older and gallant soldier, who receives him into his friend- ship. But it was not as to a soldier of Caesar, but as to a champion of Christ, that the civilian boy looked up to the young tribune, whose generosity, noble-mindedness, and valor, were enshrouded in such a gentle, simple bearing, and were accompanied by such prudence and considerateness, as gave confidence and encouragement to all that dealt with him. And Sebastian loved Pancratius no less, on account of his single-hearted ardor, and the innocence and candor of his mind. But he well saw the dangers to which his youthful warmth and impetuosity might lead him ; and he encouraged
* "The sweating goal." It was an obelisk of brick (which yet remains), cased with marble, from the top of which issued water, and flowed down like a sheet of glass, all round it, into a basin on the ground.
him to keep close to himself, that he might guide, and per- haps sometimes restrain him.
As they were entering the palace, that part of which Sebastian's cohort guarded, he said to his companion: "Every time that I enter here, it strikes me how kind an act of Divine Providence it was, to plant almost at the very gate of Caesar's palace, the arch which commemorates at once the downfall of the first great system that was antagonistic to
M^^'^-
I/^^.^
The ArchofTitns.
Christianity, and the completion of the greatest prophecy of the Gospel, — the destruction of Jerusalem by the Eoman power.* I cannot but believe that another arch will one day
* The trinmplial arch of Titus, on -which are represented the spoils of the Temple.
^
arise to commemorate no less a victory, over the second enemy of our religion, the heathen Roman empire itself."
"What! do you contemplate the overthrow of this vast empire, as the means of establishing Christianity? "
" God forbid ! I would shed the last drop of my blood, as I shed my first, to maintain it. And depend upon it, when the empire is converted, it will not be by such gradual growth as we now witness, but by some means, so unhuman, so divine, as we shall never, in our most sanguine longings, fore- cast; but all will exclaim, 'This is the change of the right hand of the Most High ! '"
" No doubt ; but your idea of a Christian triumphal arch supposes an earthly instrument ; where do you imagine this to lie ? "
" Why, Pancratius, my thoughts, I own, turn towards the family of one of the Augusti, as showing a slight germ of better thoughts : I mean, Constantius Chlorus."
"But, Sebastian, how many of even our learned and good men will say, nay, do say, if you speak thus to them, that similar hopes were entertained in the reigns of Alex- ander, Gordian, or Aurelian; yet ended in disappointment. Why, they ask, should we not expect the same results now?"
" I know it too well, my dear Pancratius, and bitterly have I often deplored those dark views which damp our energies ; that lurking thought that vengeance is perpetual, and mercy temporary, that martyr's blood, and virgin's prayer have no power even to shorten times of visitation, and hasten hours of grace."
By this time they had reached Sebastian's apartment, the principal room of which was lighted, and evidently prepared for some assembly. But opposite the door was a window open to the ground, and leading to a terrace that ran along that side of the building. The night looked so bright through
^
it, that they both instinctively walked across the room, and stood upon the terrace. A lovely and splendid view presented itself to them. The moon was high in the heavens, swim- ming in them, as an Italian moon does ; a round, full globe, not a flat surface, bathed all round in its own refulgent atmos- phere. It dimmed, indeed, the stars near itself; but they seemed to have retired, in thicker and more brilliant clusters, into the distant corners of the azure sky. It was just such an evening as, years after, Monica and A.ugustine enjoyed from a window at Ostia, as they discoursed of heavenly things.
It is true that, below and around, all was beautiful and grand. The Coliseum, or Flavian amphitheatre, rose at one side, in all its completeness ; and the gentle murmur of the fountain, while its waters glistened in a silvery column, like the refluent sea-wave gliding down a slanting rock, came soothingly on the ear. On the other side, the lofty building called the Septizonium of Severus, in front, towering above the Coelian, the sumptuous baths of Caracalla, reflected from their marble walls and stately pillars the radiance of the autumn moon. But all these massive monuments of earthly glory rose unheeded before the two Christian youths, as they stood silent ; the elder with his right arm round his youthful companion's neck, and resting on his shoulder. After a long pause, he took up the thread of his last discourse, and said, in a softer tone : " I was going to show you, when we stepped out here, the very spot just below our feet, where I have often fancied the triumphal arch, to which I have alluded, would stand.* But who can think of such paltry things below, with the splendid vault above us, lighted up so brilliantly, as if on purpose to draw upwards our eyes and hearts?"
" True, Sebastian ; and I have sometimes thought, that, if
* The arch of Constantine stands exactly under the spot where this scene is described.
94
'Hark!" said Paneratius, "these are the trumpet-notes that sunanion us."
the under-side of that firmament up to which the eye of man, however wretched and sinful, may look, be so beautiful and bright, what must that upper-side be, down upon whicli the eye of boundless Glory deigns to glance ! I imagine it to be like a richly-embroidered veil, through the texture of which a few points of golden thread may be allowed to pass ; and these only reach us. How transcendently royal must be that upper surface, on which tread the lightsome feet of angels, and of the just made perfect ! "
"A graceful thought, Pancratius, and no less true. It makes the veil, between us laboring here and the triumphal church above, thin and easily to be passed."
" And pardon me, Sebastian," said the youth, with the same look up to his friend, as a few evenings before had met his mother's inspired gaze, " pardon me if, while you wisely speculate upon a future arch to record the triumph of Chris- tianity, I see already before me, built and open, the arch through which we, feeble as we are, may lead the Church speedily to the triumph of glory, and ourselves to that of bliss."
" Where, my dear boy, where do you mean ? "
Pancratius pointed steadily with his hand towards the left, and said : " There, my noble Sebastian ; any of those open arches of the Flavian amphitheatre, which lead to its arena ; over which, not denser than the outstretched canvas which shades our spectators, is that veil of which you spoke just now. But hark ! "
" That was a lion's roar from beneath the Coelian ! " exclaimed Sebastian, surprised. "Wild beasts must have arrived at the vivarium* of the amphitheatre; for I know there were none there yesterday."
"Yes, hark!" continued Pancratius, not noticing the interruption. "These are the trumpet-notes that summon * The place where live beasts were kept for the shows.
97
Tip
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us; that is the music that must accompany us to our triumph ! "
Both paused for a time, when Pancratius again broke the silence, saying : " This puts me in mind of a matter on which I want to take your advice, my faithful counsellor; will your company be soon arriving?"
" ISTot immediately ; and they will drop in one by one ; till they assemble, come into my chamber, where none will interrupt us."
They walked along the terrace, and entered the last room of the suite. It was at the corner of the hill, exactly opposite the fountain ; and was lighted only by the rays of the moon, streaming through the open window on that side. The soldier stood near this, and Pancratius sat upon his small military couch.
"What is this great affair, Pancratius," said the officer, smiling, "upon which you wish to have my sage opinion? "
" Quite a trifle, I dare say," replied the youth, bashfully, "for a bold and generous man like you ; but an important one to an unskilful and weak boy like me."
" A good and virtuous one, I doubt not ; do let me hear it ; and I promise you every assistance."
"Well, then, Sebastian — now don't think me foolish," proceeded Pancratius, hesitating and blushing at every word. " You are aware I have a quantity of useless plate at home — mere lumber, you know, in our plain way of living ; and my dear mother, for any thing I can say, won't wear the lots of old-fashioned trinkets, which are lying locked up, and of no use to any body. I have no one to whom all this should descend. I am, and shall be, the last of my race. Tou have often told me, who in that case are a Christian's natural heirs, — the widow and the fatherless, the helpless and the indigent. Why should these wait my death, to have what by reversion is theirs? And if a persecution is coming, why run the risk
w
of confiscation seizing them, or of plundering lictors stealing them, whenever our lives are wanted, to the utter loss of our rightful heirs? "
"Pancratius," said Sebastian, "I have listened without offering a remark to your noble suggestion. I wished you to have all the merit of uttering it yourself. Now, just tell me, what makes you doubt or hesitate about what I know you wish to do?"
"Why, to tell the truth, I feared it might be highly presumptuous and impertinent in one of my age to offer to do what people would be sure to imagine was something grand or generous ; while I assure you, dear Sebastian, it is no such thing. For I shall not miss these things a bit ; they are of no value to me whatever. But they will be to the poor, especially in the hard times coming." " Of course Lucina consents?"
" Oh, no fear about that ! I would not touch a grain of gold-dust without her even wishing it. But why I require your assistance is principally this. I should never be able to stand its being known that I presumed to do any thing con- sidered out of the way, especially in a boy. You understand me ? So I want you, and beg of you, to get the distribution made at some other house ; and as from a— say from one who needs much the prayers of the faithful, especially the poor, and desires to remain unknown."
" I will serve you with delight, my good and truly noble boy ! Hush ! did you not hear the Lady Fabiola's name just mentioned ? There again, and with an epithet expressive of no good will."
Pancratius approached the window ; two voices were con- versing together so close under them that the cornice between prevented their seeing the speakers, evidently a woman and a man. After a few minutes they walked out into the moon- light, almost as bright as day.
■n
" I know that Moorish woman," said Sebastian ; " it is Fabiola's black slave, Afra."
"And the man," added Pancratius, "is my late school- fellow, Corvinus."
They considered it their duty to catch, if possible, the thread of what seemed a plot; but, as the speakers walked up and down, they could only make out a sentence here and there. We will not, however, confine ourselves to these parts, but give the entire dialogue. Only, a word first about the interlocutors.
Of the slave we know enough for the present. Corvinus was son, as we have said, to Tertullus, originally prefect of the Prgetorium. This office, unknown in the republic, and of imperial creation, had, from the reign of Tiberius, gradually absorbed almost all civil as well as military power ; and he who held it often discharged the duties of chief criminal judge in Rome. It required no little strength of nerve to occupy this post to the satisfaction of despotic and unsparing masters. To sit all day in a tribunal, surrounded with hideous imple- ments of torture, unuioved by the moans or the shrieks of old men, youths, or women, on whom they were tried ; to direct a cool interrogatory to one stretched upon the rack, and quiver- ing in agony on one side, wdiile the last sentence of beating to death with bullet-laden scourges was being executed on the other ; to sleep calmly after such scenes, and rise with appe- tite for their repetition, was not an occupation to which every member of the bar could be supposed to aspire. Tertullus had been brought from Sicily to fill the office, not because he was a cruel, but because he was a cold-hearted, man, not susceptible of pity or partiality. His tribunal, however, was Corvinus' s early school; he could sit, while quite a boy, for hours at his father's feet, thoroughly enjoying the cruel spec- tacles before him, and angry when any one got off. He grew up sottish, coarse, and brutal ; and not yet arrived at man's
^
estate, his bloated and freckled countenance and blear eyes, one of whicli was half closed, announced him to be already a dissolute and dissipated character. Without taste for any thing refined, or ability for any learning, he united in himself a certain amount of animal courage and strength, and a con- siderable measure of low cunning. He had never experienced in himself a generous feeling, and he had never curbed an evil passion. No one had ever offended him, whom he did not hate, and pursue with vengeance. Two, above all, he had sworn never to forgive — the school-master who had often chas- tised him for his sulky idleness, and the school-fellow who had blessed him for his brutal contumely. Justice and mercy, good and evil done to him, were equally odious to him.
Tertullus had no fortune to give him, and he seemed to have little genius to make one. To become possessed of one, however, was all-important to his mind; for wealth, as the means of gratifying his desires, was synonymous with him to supreme felicity. A rich heiress, or rather her dower, seemed the simplest object at which to aim. Too awkward, shy, and stupid to make himself a way in society, he sought other means, more kindred to his mind, for the attainment of- his ambitious or avaricious desires. What these means were, his conversation with the black slave will best explain.
"I have come to meet you at the Meta Sudans again, for the fourth time, at this inconvenient hour. What news have you for me? "
"None, except that after to-morrow my mistress starts for her villa at Cajeta,* and of course I go with her. I shall want more money to carry on my operations in your favor."
" More still ? You have had all I have received from my father for months."
" Why, do you know what Fabiola is ? "
* Gaeta.
c;
s
w
"Yes, to be sure, the richest match in Rome."
"The haughty and cold-hearted Fabiola is not so easily to be won.''
"But yet you promised me that your charms and potions would secure me her acceptance, or at any rate her fortune. What expense can these things cause?"
"Yery great indeed. The most precious ingredients are requisite, and must be paid for. And do you think I will go
The Appiau Way, as it was.
out at such an hour as this amidst the tombs of the Appian way, to gather my simples, without being properly rewarded ? But how do you mean to second my efforts ? I have told you this would hasten their success."
" And how can I ? You know I am not cut out by nature, or fitted by accomplishments, to make much impression on any one's affections. I would rather trust to the power of your black art."
"Then let me give you one piece of advice; if you have no grace or gift by which you can gain Fabiola's heart "
"Fortune, you mean."
"They cannot be separated; — depend upon it, there is one thing wMch you may bring with you that is irresistible."
"What is that?''
"Gold."
" And where am I to get it? it is that I seek."
The black slave smiled maliciously, and said :
"Why cannot you get it as Fulvius does?"
" How does he get it? "
"By blood!"
" How do you know it ? "
" I have made acquaintance with an old attendant that he has, who, if not as dark as I am in skin, fully makes up for it in his heart. His language and mine are sufficiently allied for us to be able to converse. He has asked me many questions about poisons, and pretended he would purchase my liberty, and take me back home as his wife ; but I have some- thing better than that in prospect, I trust. However, I got all that I wanted out from him."
" And what was that? "
"Why, that Fulvius had discovered a great conspiracy against Dioclesian ; and from the wink of the old man's awful eye, I understood he had hatched it first ; and he has been sent with strong recommendations to Rome to be employed in the same line."
" But I have no ability either to make or to discover con- spiracies, though I may have to punish them."
" One way, however, is easy."
"What is that?"
" In my country there are large birds, which you may attempt in vain to run down with the fleetest horses; but which, if you look about for them quietly, are the first to betray themselves, for they only hide their heads."
" What do you wish to represent by this ? "
-^:i
" The Clii'istians. Is there not going to be a persecution of them soon ? "
"Yes, and a most fierce one ; such as has never been before."
" Then follow my advice. Do not tire yourself with hunt- ing them down, and catching, after all, but mean prey ; keep your eyes open and look about for one or two good fat ones, half trying to conceal themselves ; pounce upon them, get a good share of their confiscation, and come with one good handful to get two in return."
"Thank you, thank you; I understand you. Tou are not fond of these Christians, then ? "
"Fond of them? I hate the entire race. The spirits which I worship are the deadly enemies of their very name." And she grinned horrible a ghastly smile as she proceeded : " I suspect one of my fellow-servants is one. Oh, how I detest her! "
" What makes you think it ? " •
" In the first place, she would not tell a lie for anything, and gets us all into dreadful scrapes by her absurd truth- fulness."
" Good ! what next ? "
" Then she cares not for money or gifts ; and so prevents our having them offered."
" Better ! "
" And moreover she is — " the last word died in the ear of Corvinus, who replied :
"Well, indeed, I have to-day been out of the gate to meet a caravan of your countryfolk coming in ; but you beat them all!"
" Indeed! " exclaimed Afra with delight, "who were they ? "
" Simply Africans,"* replied Corvinus, with a laugh : "lions, panthers, leopards."
* The generic name for the wild beasts of that continent, as opposed to bears and others from the north.
%
" Wretch ! do you insult me thus ? "
" Come, come, be pacified. They are brought expressly to rid you of your hateful Christians. Let us part friends. Here is your money. But let it be the last ; and let me know when the philtres begin to work. I will not forget your hint about Christian money. It is quite to my taste."
As he departed by the Sacred Way, she pretended to go along the Caringe, the street between the Palatine and the Coelian mounts; then turned back, and looking after him, exclaimed: "Fool! to think that I am going to try experi- ments for you on a person of Fabiola's character! "
She followed him at a distance ; but as Sebastian, to his amazement, thought, turned into the vestibule of the palace. He determined at once to put Fabiola on her guard against this new plot ; but this could not be done till her return from the country.
Emblematic representation of Paradise, found in the Catacombs.
CHAPTER X. OTHER MEETINGS.
► HEN the two youths returned to the room by which they had entered the apart- ment, they found the expected company assembled. A frugal repast was laid upon the table, principally as a blind to any intruder who might happen unexpect- edly to enter. The assembly was large and varied, containing clergy and laity, men and women. The puri30se of the meeting was to con- cert proper measures, in consequence of something which had lately occurred in the palace. This we must briefly exj)lain.
Sebastian, enjoying the unbounded confidence of the em- peror, employed all his influence in propagating the Christian faith within the palace. Numerous conversions had gradually been made ; but shortly before this period there had been a wholesale one effected, the particulars of which are recorded in the genuine Acts of this glorious soldier. In virtue of for- mer laws, many Christians were seized and brought to trial, which often ended in death. Two brothers, Marcus and Mar- cellianus, had been so accused, and were expecting execution ; when their friends, admitted to see them, implored them with tears to save their lives by apostasy. They seemed to waver ; they promised to deliberate. Sebastian heard of this, and rushed to save them. He was too well known to be refused
admittance, and lie entered into their gloomy prison like an angel of light. It consisted of a strong room in the house of the magistrate to whose care they had been intrusted. The place of confinement was generally left to that officer; and here Tranquillinus, the father of the two youths, had obtained a respite for them of thirty days to try to shake their con- stancy; and, to second his efforts, Nicostratus, the magistrate, had placed them in custody in his own house. Sebastian's was a bold and perilous office. Besides the two Christian captives, there were gath- ered in the place sixteen heathen prisoners; there were the parents of the unfortunate youths weeping over them, and caressing them, to allure them from their threatened doom ; there was the gaoler, Clau- dius, and there was the magistrate,
NiCOStratUS, with his wife, Zoe, Samt SebasUan, from the "Roma Sotteranea"
drawn thither by the compassion- ate wish of seeing the youths snatched from their fate. Could Sebastian hope, that of this crowd not one would be found, whom a sense of official duty, or a hope of pardon, or hatred of Christianity, might impel to betray him, if he avowed him- self a Christian ? And did he not know that such a betrayal involved his death ?
He knew it well ; but Avhat cared he ? If three victims would thus be offered to God instead of two, so much the better; all that he dreaded was, that there should be none. The room was a banqueting-hall but seldom opened in the day, and consequently requiring very little light ; what it had, entered only, as in the Pantheon, by an opening in the roof; and Sebastian, anxious to be seen by all, stood in the ray which
^
now darted through it, strong and brilliant where it beat, but leaving the rest of the aj)artment almost dark. It broke against the gold and jewels of his rich tribune's armor, and, as he moved, scattered itself in sparks of brilliant hues into the darkest recesses of that gloom; while it beamed with serene steadiness upon his uncovered head, and displayed his noble features, softened by an emotion of tender grief, as he looked upon the two vacillating confessors. It was some
moments before he could give vent in words to the violence of his grief, till at length it broke forth in impassioned tones.
" Holy and venerable brothers," he exclaimed, "who have borne witness to Christ; who are impris- oned for Him; whose limbs are marked by chains worn for His sake; who have tasted torments with Him, — I ought to fall at your feet and do you homage, and ask your prayers ; instead of standing before you as your exhorter, still less as your reprover. Can this be true which I have heard, that while angels were jDutting the last flower to your crowns, you have bid them pause, and even thought of telling them to unweave them, and scatter their blossoms to the Avinds ? Can I believe that you who have already your feet on the threshold of Paradise, are thinking of drawing them back, to tread once more the valley of exile and of tears ? "
The two youths hung down their heads and wept in humble confession of their weakness. Sebastian proceeded :
Military Tribunes, after a bas-relief od Trajan's Column.
strn
" You cannot meet the eye of a poor soldier like me, the least of Christ's servants : how then will you stand the angry glance of the Lord whom you are about to deny before men (but cannot in your hearts deny), on that terrible day, when He, in return, will deny you before His angels? When, instead of standing manfully before Him, like good and faith- ful servants, as to-morrow ye might have done, you shall have to come into His presence after having crawled through a few more years of infamy, disowned by the Church, despised by its enemies, and, what is worse, gnawed by an undying worm, and victims of a sleepless remorse? "
" Cease ; oh, in pity cease, young man, whoever thou art," exclaimed Tranquillinus, the father of the youths. " Speak not thus severely to my sons ; it was, I assure thee, to their mother's tears and to my entreaties that they had begun to yield, and not to the tortures which they have endured with such fortitude. Why should they leave their wretched parents to misery and sorrow? does thy religion command this, and dost thou call it holy ? "
"Wait in patience, my good old man," said Sebastian, with the kindest look and accent, " and let me speak first with thy sons. They know what I mean, which thou canst not yet; but with God's grace thou too shalt soon. Your father, indeed, is right in saying, that for his sake and your mother's jon have been deliberating whether you should not prefer them to Him who told you, ' He that loveth father or mother more than Me, is not worthy of Me.' You cannot hope to purchase for these your aged parents, eternal life by your own loss of it. Will you make them Christians by abandoning Christianity? will you make them soldiers of the Cross by deserting its standard ? will you teach them that its doctrines are more precious than life, by preferring life to them ? Do you want to gain for them, not the mortal life of the perishable body, but the eternal life of the soul? then
c=£
hasten yourselves to its acquisition ; throw down at the feet of your Saviour the crowns you will receive, and entreat for your parents' salvation."
" Enough, enough, Sebastian, we are resolved," cried out together both the brothers.
"Claudius," said one, "put on me again the chains you have taken off."
" Nicostratus," added the other, " give orders for the sen- tence to be carried out."
Yet neither Claudius nor Nicostratus moved.
"Farewell, dear father; adieu, dearest mother," they in turn said, embracing their parents.
" JN'o," replied the father, "we part no more. Nicostratus, go tell Chromatins that I am from this moment a Christian with my sons ; I will die with them for a religion which can make heroes thus of boys." "And I," continued the mother, " will not be sej^arated from my husband and children."
The scene which followed baffles description. All were moved; all wept; the prisoners joined in the tumult of these new affections; and Sebastian saw himself surrounded by a group of men and women smitten by grace, softened by its influences, and subdued by its i^ower ; yet all was lost if one remained behind. He saw the danger, not to himself, but to the Church, if a sudden discovery were made, and to those souls fluttering upon the confines of life. Some hung upon his arms ; some clasped his knees ; some kissed his feet, as though he had been a spirit of peace, such as visited Peter in his dungeon at Jerusalem.
Two alone had expressed no thought. Nicostratus was indeed moved, but by no means conquered. His feelings were agitated, but his convictions unshaken. His wife, Zoe, knelt before Sebastian with a beseeching look and outstretched arms, but she spoke not a word.
" Come, Sebastian," said the keeper of the records, for
such was Nicostratus's office; "it is time for thee to depart. I cannot but admire the sincerity of belief, and the gener- osity of heart, which can make thee act as thou hast done, and which impel these young men to death ; but my duty is imperative, and must overweigh my private feelings."
" And dost not thou believe with the rest ?"
" No, Sebastian, I yield not so easily; I must have stronger evidences than even thy virtue."
"Oh, speak to him then, thou!" said Sebastian to Zoe; "speak, faithful wife; speak to thy husband's heart; for I am mistaken indeed, if those looks of thine tell me not that tliou at least believest."
Zoe covered her face with her hands, and burst into a i:)as- sion of tears.
" Thou hast touched her to the quick, Sebastian," said her husband ; " knowest thou not that she is dumb ? "
" I knew it not, noble Nicostratus ; for when last I saw her in Asia she could speak."
"For six years," replied the other, with a faltering voice, " her once eloquent tongue has been paralyzed, and she has not uttered a single word."
Sebastian was silent for a moment; then suddenly he threw out his arms, and stretched them forth, as the Chris- tians always did in prayer, and raised his eyes to heaven ; then burst forth in these words :
"0 God! Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the beginning of this work is Thine ; let its accomphshment be Thine alone. Put forth Thy power, for it is needed ; intrust it for once to the weakest and poorest of instruments. Let me, though most unworthy, so wield the sword of Thy victorious Cross, as that the spirits of darkness may fly before it, and Thy salva- tion may embrace us all ! Zoe, look up once more to me."
All were hushed in silence, when Sebastian, after a
moment's silent prayer, with his right hand made over her mouth the sign of the cross, saying: "Zoe, speak; dost thou believe? "
"I believe in the Lord Jesus Christ," she replied, in a clear and firm voice, and fell upon Sebastian's feet.
It was almost a shriek that Nicostratus uttered, as he threw himself on his knees, and bathed Sebastian's right hand with tears.
The victory was complete. Every one was gained; and immediate steps were taken to prevent discovery. The per- son responsible for the prisoners could take them where he wished ; and Nicostratus transferred them all, with Tranquil- linus and his wife, to the full liberty of his house. Sebastian lost no time in j)utting them under the care of the holy priest Polycaip, of the title of St. Pastor. It was a case so peculiar, and requiring such concealment, and the times were so threat- ening, and all new irritations had so nmch to be avoided, that the instruction was hurried, and continued night and day : so that baptism was quickly administered.
The new Christian flock was encouraged and consoled by a fresh wonder. Tranquillinus, who was suffering severely from the gout, was restored to instant and complete health by baptism. Chromatins was the prefect of the city, to whom Nicostratus was liable for his prisoners ; and this officer could not long conceal from him what had haiDpened. It w^as indeed a matter of life or death to them all ; but, strength- ened now by faith, they were prepared for either. Chroma- tins was a man of upright character, and not fond of persecu- tion ; and listened with interest to the account of what had occurred. But when he heard of Tranquillinus' s cure, he was greatly struck. He was himself a victim to the same disease, and suffered agonies of pain. " If," he said, " what you relate be true, and if I can have personal experience of this healing power, I certainly will not resist its evidence."
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m
Sebastian was sent for. To have administered baptism without faith preceding, as an experiment of its healing vir- tue, would have been a superstition. Sebastian took another course, which will be later described, and Chromatins com- pletely recovered. He received baptism soon after, with his son Tibertius.
It was clearly impossible for him to continue in his office, and he had accordingly resigned it to the emperor. Tertullus, the father of the hopeful Corvinus, and prefect of the Preeto- rium, had been named his successor; so the reader will per- ceive that the events just related from the Acts of St. Sebas- tian, had occurred a little before our narrative begins ; for in an early chapter we spoke of Corvinus's father as already prefect of the city.
Let us now come down again to the evening in which Sebastian and Pancratius met most of the persons above enu- merated in the officer's chamber. Many of them resided in, or about, the palace ; and besides them were present Castulus, who held a high situation at court,* and his wife Irene. Sev- eral previous meetings had been held, to decide upon some plan for securing the completer instruction of the converts, and for withdrawing from observation so many persons, whose change of life and retirement from office would excite wonder and inquiry. Sebastian had obtained permission from the emperor for Chromatins to retire to a country-house in Cam- pania; and it had been aiTanged that a considerable number of the neophytes should join him there, and, forming one household, should go on with religious instruction, and unite in common offices of piety. The season was come when every body retired to the country, and the emperor himself was going to the coast of Naples, and thence would take a journey to southern Italy. It was therefore a favorable moment for carrying out the preconcerted plan. Indeed the Pope, we are
* It is not mentioned what it precisely was.
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told, on the Sunday following this conversion, celebrated the divine mysteries in the house of Nieostratus, and proposed this withdrawal fi'om the city.
At this meeting all details were arranged ; different par- ties were to start, in the course of the following days, by vari- ous roads — some direct by the Appian, some along the Latin, others round by Tibur and a mountain road, through Arpi- num ; but all were to meet at the villa, not far from Capua.
The Roman Forum.
Through the whole discussion of these somewhat tedious arrangements, Torquatus, one of the former prisoners, con- verted by Sebastian's visit, showed himself forward, impa- tient, and impetuous. He found fault with every plan, seemed discontented with the directions given him, spoke almost con- temptuously of this flight from danger, as he called it ; and boasted that, for his part, he was ready to go into the Forum on the morrow, and overthrow any altar, or confront any judge, as a Christian. Every thing was said and done to soothe, and even to cool him ; and it was felt to be most
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important that he should be taken with the rest into the country. He insisted, however, upon going his own way.
Only one more point remained to be decided : it was, who should head the little colony, and direct its operations. Here was renewed a contest of love between the holy priest Poly- carp and Sebastian; each wishing to remain in Eome, and have the first chance . of martyrdom. But now the differ- ence was cut short by a letter brought in, from the Pope, addressed to his "Beloved son Poly carp, priest of th.e title of St. Pastor," in which he commanded him to accompany the converts, and leave Sebastian to the arduous duty of encouraging confessors, and protecting Christians in Rome. To hear was to obey ; and the meeting broke up with a prayer of thanksgiving.
Sebastian, after bidding affectionate farewell to his friends, insisted upon accompanying Pancratius home. As they were leaving the room, the latter remarked, " Sebastian, I do not like that Torquatus. I fear he will give us trouble."
" To tell the truth," answered the soldier, " I would rather he were different ; but we must remember that he is a neo- phyte, and will improve in time, and by grace."
As they passed into the entrance-court of the palace, they heard a Babel of uncouth sounds, with coarse laughter and occasional yells, proceeding from the adjoining yard, in which were the quarters of the Mauritanian archers. A fire seemed to be blazing in the midst of it, for the smoke and sparks rose above the surrounding porticoes.
Sebastian accosted the sentinel in the court where they were, and asked : " Friend, what is going on there among our neighbors? "
" The black slave," he replied, " who is their priestess, and who is betrothed to their captain, if she can purchase her freedom, has come in for some midnight rites, and this horrid turmoil takes place every time she comes."
" Indeed ! " said Pancratius, " and can you tell me what is the religion these Africans follow ? "
"I do not know, sir," replied the legionary, " unless they be what are called Christians."
"What makes you think so? "
" Why, I have heard that the Christians meet by night, and sing detestable songs, and commit all sorts of crimes; and cook and eat the flesh of a child murdered for the pur- pose*— just what might seem to be going on here."
"Good night, comrade," said Sebastian; and then exclaimed, as they were issuing from the vestibule, " Is it not strange, Pancratius, that, in spite of all our efforts, we who are conscious that we worship only the One living God in spirit and truth, who know what care we take to keep our- selves undefiled by sin, and who would die rather than speak an unclean word, should yet, after 300 years, be confounded by the people with the followers of the most degraded super- stitions, and have our worship ranked with the very idolatry, which above all things we abhor ? ' How long, 0 Lord ! how long? ' "
" So long," said Pancratius, pausing on the steps outside the vestibule, and looking at the now declining moon, " so long as we shall continue to walk in this pale light, and until the Sun of Justice shall rise upon our country in His beauty, and enrich it with His splendor. Sebastian, tell me, whence do you best like to see the sun rise? "
"The most lovely sunrise I have ever seen," replied the soldier, as if humoring his companion's fanciful question, "was from the top of the Latial mountain, t by the temple of Jupiter. The sun rose behind the mountain, and projected its huge shadow like a pyramid over the plain, and far upon the sea ; then, as it rose higher, this lessened and withdrew ;
* These were the popular ideas of Christian worship, f Now Monte Oavo, above Albano.
c--^
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and every moment some new object caught the hght, first the galleys and skiffs upon the water, then the shore with its dancing waves ; and by degrees one white edifice after the other sparkled in the fresh beams, till at last majestic Eome itself, with its toAvering pinnacles, basked in the effulgence of day. It was a glorious sight, indeed ; such as could not have been witnessed or imagined by those below."
" Just what I should have expected, Sebastian," observed Pancratius; "and so it will be when that more brilliant sun rises fully upon this benighted country. How beautiful will it then be to behold the shades retiring, and each moment one and another of the charms, as yet concealed, of our holy faith and worship starting into light, till the imperial city itself shines forth a holy type of the city of God. Will they who live in those times see these beauties, and worthily value them ? Or, will they look only at the narrow space around them, and hold their hands before their eyes, to shade them from the sudden glare? I know not, dear Sebastian, but I hope that you and I will look down upon that grand spec- tacle, from where alone it can be duly appreciated, from a mountain higher than Jupiter's, be he Alban or be he Olym- pian,— dwelling on that holy mount, whereon stands the Lamb, from whose feet flow the streams of life." *
They continued their walk in silence through the brill- iantly-lighted streets ; t and when they had reached Lucina's house, and had affectionately bid one another good-night, Pancratius seemed to hesitate a moment, and then said :
" Sebastian, you said something this evening, which I should much like to have explained."
* " Vidi supra montem Agnum stantem, de sub cujus pede fons vivus ema- Bat." — Office of St. Clemejit.
f Ammianus Marcellinus tells us that, at the decline of the empire, the streets at night were lighted so as to rival day. " Et ha?c confidenter agebat (Gal- lus) ubi pernoctantium luminum claritudo dierum solet iinitari fulgorem." Lib. xiv. 0. 1.
"What was it?''
" When you were contending with Polycarp, about going into Campania, or remaining in Rome, you promised that if you stayed you would be most cautious, and not expose your- self to unnecessary risks ; then you added, that there was one purpose in your mind which would effectually restrain you ; but that when that was accomplished, you would find it diffi- cult to check your longing ardor to give your life for Christ."
"And why, Pancratius, do you desire so much to know this foolish thought of mine ? "
" Because I own I am really curious to learn what can be the object high enough to check in you the aspiration, after Avhat I know you consider to be the very highest of a Chris- tian's aim."
" I am sorry, my dear boy, that it is not in my power to tell you now. But you shall know it sometime."
" Do you promise me ? "
" Yes, most solemnly. God bless you ! "
A Lamb with a Milk-can, found in the Catacomb of SS. Peter and Marcellin.
CHAPTER XI.
A TALK WITH THE READER.
^E will take advantage of the holiday ^Yhich Eome is enjoying, sending out its inhabitants to the neighboring hills, or to the whole line of sea-coast from Genoa to Pajstinn, for amusement on land and w^ater : and, in a merely didac- tic way, endeavor to communicate to our reader some information, which may throw light on what w^e have already w^ritten, and prepare him for what will follow.
From the very compressed form in which the early history of the Church is generally studied, and from the unchronologi- cal arrangement of the saints' biographies, as we usually read them, we may easily be led to an erroneous idea of the state of our first Christian ancestors. This may happen in two different ways.
We may come to imagine, that during the first three cen- turies the Church was suffering unrespited, under active persecution; that the faithful worshipped in fear and trembling, and almost lived in the catacombs; that bare existence, with scarcely an opportunity for outward develop- ment or inward organization, none for splendor, was all that religion could enjoy ; that, in fine, it was a period of conflict and of tribulation, without an interval of peace or consolation. On the other hand, w^e may suppose, that those three centuries
2
were divided into epochs by ten distinct persecutions, some of longer and some of shorter duration, but definitely separated from one another by breathing times of complete rest.
Either of these views is erroneous ; and we desire to state more accurately the real condition of the Christian Church, under the various circumstances of that most pregnant portion of her history.
When once persecution had broken loose upon the Church, it may be said never entirely to have relaxed its hold, till her final pacification under Constantino. An edict of persecution once issued by an emperor was seldom recalled ; and though the rigor of its enforcement might gradually relax or cease, through the accession of a milder ruler, still it never became completely a dead letter, but was a dangerous weapon in the hands of a cruel or bigoted governor of a city or province. Hence, in the intervals between the greater general persecu- tions, ordered by a new decree, we find many martyrs, who owed their crowns either to popular fury, or to the hatred of Christianity in local rulers. Hence also we read of a bitter persecution being carried on in one part of the empire, while other portions enjoyed complete peace.
Perhaps a few examples of the various phases of persecu- tion will illustrate the real relations of the primitive Church with the State, better than mere description ; and the more learned reader can pass over this digression, or must have the patience to hear repeated, what he is so familiar with, that it will seem commonplace.
Trajan was by no means one of the cruel emperors; on the contrary, he was habitually just and merciful. Yet, though he published no new edicts against the Christians, many noble martyrs — amongst them St. Ignatius, bishop of Antioch, at Rome, and St. Simeon at Jerusalem- — glorified their Lord in his reign. Indeed, when Pliny the younger consulted him on the manner in which he should deal with
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Christians, who might be brought before him as governor of Bithynia, the emperor gave him a rule which exhibits the lowest standard of justice: that they were not to be sought out ; but if accused, they were to be punished, Adrian, who
St. Ignatius, bishop of Antioch.
issued no decree of persecution, gave a similar reply to a similar question from Serenius Granianus, pro-consul of Asia. And under him, too, and even by his own orders, cruel martyr- dom was suffered by the intrepid Symphorosa and her seven sons at Tibur, or Tivoli. A beautiful inscription found in the catacombs mentions Marius, a young officer, who shed his
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blood for Christ under this emperor.* Indeed, St. Justin Martyr, the great apologist of Christianity, informs us that he owed his conversion to the constancy of the martyrs under this emperor.
In like manner, before the Emperor Septimus Severus had published his persecuting edicts, many Christians had suffered torments and death. Such were the celebrated mar- tyrs of Scillita in Africa, and SS. Perpetua and Felicitas, with their companions; the Acts of whose martyrdom, containing the diary of the first noble lady, twenty years of age, brought down by herself to the eve of her death, form one of the most touching, and exquisitely beautiful, documents preserved to us from the ancient Church.
From these historical facts it will be evident, that while there was from time to time a more active, severe, and general persecution of the Christian name all through the empire, there were partial and local cessations, and sometimes even a general suspension, of its rigor. An occurrence of this sort has secured for us most interesting information, connected with our subject. When the persecution of Severus had relaxed in other parts, it happened that Scapula, pro-consul of Africa, prolonged it in his province with unrelenting cruelty. He had condemned, among others, Mavilus of Adrumetum to be devoured by beasts, when he was seized with a severe illness. Tertullian, the oldest Christian Latin writer, addressed a letter to him, in which he bids him take warning from this visitation, and repent of his crimes ; reminding hini of many judgments which had befallen cruel judges of the Christians, in various parts of the world. Yet such was the charity of those holy men, that he tells him they were offering up earnest prayers for their enemy's recovery!
He then goes on to inform him, that he may very well fulfil his duties without practising cruelty, by acting as other
* Eoma Subterr. 1. iii. c. 23.
magistrates had done. For instance, Cincius Severus sug- gested to the accused the answers they should make, to be acquitted. Vespronius Candidus dismissed a Christian, on the ground that his condemnation would encourage tumults. Asper, seeing one ready to yield upon the application of slight torments, would not press him further; and expressed regret that such a case should have been brought before him. Pudens, on reading an act of accusation, declared the title informal, because calumnious, and tore it up.
We thus see how much might depend upon the temper, and perhaps the tendencies, of governors and judges, in the enforcing even of imperial edicts of persecution. And St. Ambrose tells us that some governors boasted that they had brought back from their provinces their swords unstained with blood [incruenfos enses).
We can also easily understand how, at any particular time, a savage persecution might rage in Gaul, or Africa, or Asia, while the main part of the Church was enjoying peace. But Eome was undoubtedly the place most subject to fre- quent outbreaks of the hostile spirit; so that it might be considered as the privilege of its pontiffs, during the first three centuries, to bear the witness of blood to the faith which they taught. To be elected Pope was equivalent to being promoted to martyrdom.
At the period of our narrative, the Church was in one of those longer intervals of comparative peace, w^hich gave opportunity for great development. From the death of Vale- rian, in 268, there had been no new formal persecution, though the interval is glorified by many noble martyrdoms. During such periods, the Christians were able to cany out their religious system with completeness, and even with splendor. The city was divided into districts or parishes, each having its title, or church, served by priests, deacons, and inferior ministers. The poor were supported, the sick
IT®
visited, catechumens instructed ; the Sacraments were admin- istered, daily worship was practised, and the jDenitential canons were enforced by the clergy of each title ; and collec- tions were made for these purposes, and others connected with religious charity, and its consequence, hospitality. It is recorded, that in 250, during the pontificate of Cornelius, there were in Eome forty-six priests, a hundred and fifty-four inferior ministers, who were supported by the alms of the faithful, together with fifteen hundred poor.* This number of the priests pretty nearly corresponds to that of the titles, which St. Optatus tells us there were in Eome.
Although the tombs of the martyrs in the catacombs con- tinued to be objects of devotion during these more peaceful intervals, and these asylums of the persecuted were kept in order and repair, they did not then serve for the ordinary places of worship. The churches to which we have already alluded were often public, large, and even splendid; and heathens used to be present at the sermons delivered in them, and such portions of the liturgy as were open to catechumens. But generally they were in private houses, probably made out of the large halls, or triclinia, which the nobler mansions con- tained. Thus we know that many of the titles in Rome were originally of that character. Tertullian mentions Christian cemeteries under a name, and with circumstances, which show that they were above ground, for he compares them to " threshing-floors," which were necessarily exposed to the air.
A custom of ancient Eoman life will remove an objection which may arise, as to how considerable multitudes could assemble in these places without attracting attention, and consequently persecution. It was usual for what may be called a lev^e to be held every morning by the rich, attended by dependents, or clients, and messengers from their friends, either slaves or freedmen, some of whom were admitted into
* Euseb. E. H. 1. vi. c. 43.
the inner court, to the master's presence, while others only presented themselves, and were dismissed. Hundreds might thus go in and out of a great house, in addition to the crowd of domestic slaves, tradespeople and others who had access to it, through the principal or the back entrance, and little or no notice would be taken of the circumstance.
There is another important phenomenon in the social life of the early Christians, which one would hardly know how to believe, were not evidence of it brought before us in the most authentic Acts of the martyrs, and in ecclesiastical history. It is, the concealment which they contrived to j)ractise. No doubt can be entertained, that persons were moving in the highest society, were occupying conspicuous public situations, were near the persons of the emperors, who were Christians; and yet were not suspected to be such by their most intimate heathen friends. Nay, cases occurred where the nearest rela- tions were kept in total ignorance on this subject. No lie, no dissembling, no action especially, inconsistent with Christian morality or Christian truth, was ever permitted to ensure such secrecy. But every precaution compatible with com- plete uprightness was taken to conceal Christianity from the public eye.*
However necessary this prudential course might be, to prevent any wanton persecution, its consequences fell often heavily upon those who held it. The heathen world, the world of power, of influence, and of state, the world which made laws as best suited it, and executed them, the world that loved earthly prosperity and hated faith, felt itself sur-
* No domestic concealment surely could be more difiScult than that of a wife's religion from her husband. Yet Tertullian supposes this to have been not uncommon. For, speaking of a married woman communicating herself at home, according to practice in those ages of persecution, he says, " Let not your husband know what you taste secretly, before every other food ; and if he shall know of the bread, may he not know it to be what it is called." Ad Uxor. lib. ii. c. 5. Whereas, in another place, he writes of a Catholic husband and wife giving com- munion to one another. De Monogamia, c. 11.
rounded, filled, compenetrated by a mysterious system, which spread, no one could see how, and exercised an influence derived no one knew whence. Families were startled at find- ing a son or daughter to have embraced this new law, with which they were not aware that they had been in contact, and which, in their heated fancies and popular views, they considered stupid, grovelling, and anti-social. Hence the hatred of Christianity was political as well as religious ; the system was considered as un-Roman, as having an interest opposed to the extension and prosperity of the empire, and as obeying an unseen and spiritual power. The Christians were pronounced irreligiosi in Ccesares, " disloyal to the emperors," and that was enough. Hence their security and peace depended much upon the state of popular feeling ; when any demagogue or fanatic could succeed in rousing this, neither their denial of the charges brought against them, nor their peaceful demeanor, nor the claims of civilized life, could suffice to screen them from such measure of persecution as could be safely urged against them.
After these digressive remarks, we will resume, and unite again the broken thread of our narrative.
A Mouogram of ClirisU
niHr
CHAPTER XII
THE WOLF AND THE FOX.
[HE hints of the African slave had not been thrown away upon the sordid mind of Cor- vinus. Her own hatred of Christianity arose from the circumstance, that a former mistress of hers had become a Christian and had manu- mitted all her other slaves; but, feeling it wrong to turn so dangerous a character as Afra, or rather Jubala (her proper name), upon the world, had transferred her to another proprietor.
Corvinus had often seen Fulvius at the baths and other places of public resort, had admired and envied him, for his appearance, his dress, his conversation. But with his untoward shyness, or moroseness, he could never have found courage to address him, had he not now discovered, that though a more refined, he was not a less profound, villain than himself. Fulvius's wit and cleverness might supply the want of these qualities in his own sottish composition, while his own brute force, and unfeeling recklessness, might be valuable auxiliaries to those higher gifts. He had the young stranger in his power, by the discovery which he had made of his real character. He determined, therefore, to make an effort, and enter into alliance with one who otherwise might prove a dangerous rival.
It was about ten days after the meeting last described, that Corvinus went to stroll in Pompey's gardens. These
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covered the space round his theatre, in the neighborhood of the present Piazza Farnese. A conflagration in the reign of Carinus had lately destroyed the scene, as it was called, of the edifice, and Dioclesian had repaired it with great magnificence. The gardens were distinguished from others by rows of plane- trees, which formed a delicious shade. Statues of wild beasts, fountains, and artificial brooks, profusely adorned them.
Roman Gardens, li-oin an old painting.
While sauntering about, Corvinus caught a sight of Fulvius, and made up to him.
"What do you want with me?" asked the foreigner, with a look of surprise and scorn at the slovenly dress of Corvinus.
" To have a talk with you, which may turn out to your advantage — and mine."
"What can you propose to me, with the first of these recommendations ? No doubt at all as to the second."
"Fulvius, I am a plain-spoken man, and have no preten- sions to your cleverness and elegance ; but we are both of one trade, and both consequently of one mind."
Fulvius started, and deeply colored ; then said, with a con- temptuous air, "What do you mean, sirrah?"
" If you double your fist," rejoined Corvinus, "to show me the fine rings on your delicate fingers, it is very well. But if you mean to threaten by it, you may as well put your hand again into the folds of your toga. It is more graceful."
"Cut this matter short, sir. Again I ask, what do you mean ? "
"This, Fulvius," and he whispered into his ear, "that you are a sj^y and an informer."
Fulvius was staggered; then rallying, said, "What right have you to make such an odious charge against me ? "
"You discoverecV' (with a strong emphasis) "a conspiracy in the East, and Dioclesian — "
Fulvius stopped him, and asked, " What is your name, and who are you ? "
" I am Corvinus, the son of Tertullus, prefect of the city."
This seemed to account for all; and Fulvius said, in subdued tones, "No more here; I see friends coming. Meet me disguised at daybreak to-morrow in the Patrician Street,* under the portico of the Baths of Novatus. We will talk more at leisure."
Corvinus returned home, not ill-satisfied with his first attempt at diplomacy ; he procured a garment shabbier than his own from one of his father's slaves, and was at the appointed spot by the first dawn of day. He had to wait a long time, and had almost lost patience, when he saw his new friend approach.
Fulvius was well wrapped up in a large overcoat, and wore its hood over his face. He thus saluted Corvinus :
"Good morning, comrade; I fear I have kept you waiting in the cold morning air, especially as you are thinly clad."
" I own," replied Corvinus, "that I should have been tired, had I not been immensely amused and yet puzzled, by what I have been observing."
"What is that?"
"Why, from an early hour, long, I suspect, before my coming, there have been arriving here from every side, and entering into that house, by the back door in the narrow
The Vicus Patricias.
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street, the rarest collection of miserable objects that you ever saw; the blind, the lame, the maimed, the decrepit, the deformed of every possible shape ; while by the front door several persons have entered, evidently of a different class."
" Whose dwelling is it, do you know ? It looks a large old house, but rather out of condition."
" It belongs to a very rich, and, it is said, very miserly old patrician. But look! there come some more."
At that moment a very feeble man, bent down by age, was approaching, supported by a young and cheerful girl, who chatted most kindly to him as she supported him.
"We are just there," she said to him; "a few more steps, and you shall sit down and rest."
"Thank you, my child," replied the poor old man, "how kind of you to come for me so early ! "
"I knew," she said, "you would want help; and as I am the most useless person about, I thought I would go and fetch you."
" I have always heard that blind people are selfish, and it seems but natural ; but you, Cajcilia, are certainly an exception."
" JSTot at all ; this is only nii/ way of showing selfishness."
" How do you mean ? "
"Why, first, I get the advantage of your eyes, and then I get the satisfaction of supporting you. ' I was an eye to the blind,' that is you; and 'a foot to the lame,' that is myself." *
They reached the door as she spoke these words.
" That girl is blind," said Fulvius to Corvinus. " Do you not see how straight she walks, without looking right or left ? "
" So she is," answered the other. " Surely this is not the place so often spoken of, where beggars meet, and the blind
* Job xxix. 15.
see, and the lame walk, and all feast together? But yet I observed these people were so different from the mendicants on the Arician bridge.* They appeared respectable and even cheerful; and not one asked me for alms as he passed."
"It is very strange ; and I should like to discover the mystery. A good job might, perhaps, be got out of it. The old patrician, you say, is very rich ? "
" Immensely ! "
"Humph ! How could one manage to get in ? "
"I have it! I will take off my shoes, screw up one leg like a cripple, and join the next group of queer ones that come, and go boldly in, doing as they do."
" That will hardly succeed ; depend upon it every one of these people is known at the house."
" I am sure not, for several of them asked me if this was the house of the Lady Agnes."
" Of whom ? " asked Fulvius, with a start.
"Why do you look so?" said Corvinus. "It is the house of her parents : but she is better known than they, as being a young heiress, nearly as rich as her cousin Fabiola."
Fulvius paused for a moment; a strong suspicion, too subtle and important to be communicated to his rude com- panion, flashed through his mind. He said, therefore, to Corvinus :
"If you are sure that these people are not familiar at the house, try your plan. I have met the lady before, and will venture by the front door. Thus we shall have a double chance."
" Do you know what I am thinking, Fulvius ? "
" Something very bright, no doubt."
"That when you and I join in any enterprise, we shall alivays have two chances."
* The place most noted in the neighborhood of Eome for whining and importunate beggars.
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"What are they?"
"The fox's and the wolf's, when they conspire to rob a fold."
Fulvius cast on him a look of disdain, which Corvinus returned by a hideous leer; and they separated for their respective posts.
A Lamp, with the Monogram of Christ.
= S we do not choose to enter the house of Agnes, either with the wolf or with the fox, we will take a more spiritual mode of doing so, and find ourselves at once inside.
The parents of Agnes represented noble lines of ancestry, and her family was not one of recent conversion, but had for several generations professed the faith. As in heathen families was cherished the memory of ancestors who had won a triumph, or held high offices in the state, so in this, and other Christian houses, was preserved with pious reverence and affectionate pride, the remembrance of those relations who had, in the last hundred and fifty years or more, borne the palm of martyrdom, or occupied the sublimer dignities of the Church. But, though ennobled thus, and with a constant stream of blood poured forth for Christ, accompanying the waving branches of the family-tree, the stem had never been hewn down, but had survived repeated storms. This may appear surprising ; but when we reflect how many a soldier goes through a whole campaign of frequent actions and does not receive a wound; or how many a family remains untainted through a plague, we cannot be surprised if Provi- dence watched over the well-being of the Church, by preserv- ing in it, through old family successions, long unbroken
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chains of tradition, and so enabling the faithful to say : " Unless the Lord of Hosts had left us seed, we had been as Sodom, and we should have been like to Gomorrha." *
All the honors and the hopes of this family centred now in one, whose name is already known to our readers, Agnes, the only child of that ancient house. Given to her parents as they had reached the very verge of hope that their line could be continued, she had been from infancy blest with such a sweetness of disposition, such a docility and intelli- gence of mind, and such simplicity and innocence of charac- ter, that she had grown up the common object of love, and almost of reverence, to the entire house, from her parents down to the lowest servant. Yet nothing seemed to spoil, or warp, the compact virtuousness of her nature ; but her good qualities expanded, with a well-balanced adjustment, which at the early age in which we find her, had ripened into com- bined grace and wisdom. She shared all her parents' virtu- ous thoughts, and cared as little for- the world as they. She lived with them in a small portion of the mansion, which was fitted up with elegance, though not with luxury; and their establishment was adequate to all their wants. Here they received the few friends with whom they preserved familiar relations ; though, as they did not entertain, nor go out, these were few. Fabiola was an occasional visitor, though Agnes preferred going to see her at her house ; and she often expressed to her young friend her longing for the day, when, meeting with a suitable match, she would re-embellish and open all the splendid dwelling. For, notwithstanding the Yoconian law "on the inheritance of women," t now quite obsolete, Agnes had received, from collateral sources, large personal additions to the family property.
* Is. i. 9.
f " Ne quis hseredem virginem iieqne mulierem faeeret," that no one should leave a virgin or a woman his heiress. — Cicero in Verrem, i.
w
In general, of course, the heathen world, who visited, attributed appearances to avarice, and calculated what immense accumulations of wealth the miserly parents must be putting by; and concluded that all beyond the solid screen which shut up the second court, was left to fall into decay and ruin.
It was not so, however. The inner part of the house, con- sisting of a large court, and the garden, with a detached dining-hall, or triclinium, turned into a church, and the upper portion of the house, accessible from those parts, were devoted to the administration of that copious charity, which the Church car- ried on as a business of its life. It was under the care and direction of the deacon Repara- tus, and his exorcist Secundus, officially appointed by the supreme Pontiff to take care of the sick, poor, and strangers, in one of the seven regions into which Pope Cajus, about five years before, had divided the city for this purpose ; committing each region to one of the seven deacons of the Roman Church,
Rooms were set apart for lodging strangers who came from a distance, recommended by other churches; and a frugal table was pro- vided for them. Upstairs were apartments ^ d*"":™- fr°"> d^ RoBsrs
■"^ J. t( Roma Sotteranea."
for an hospital for the bed-ridden, the decrepit, and the sick, under the care of the deaconesses, and such of the faithful as loved to assist in this work of charity. It was here that the blind girl had her cell, though she refused to take her food, as we have seen, in the house. The tablinum, or muniment-room, which generally stood detached in the middle of the passage between the inner courts, served as the office and archives for transacting the business of this chari- table establishment, and preserving all local documents, such
as the acts of martyrs, procured or compiled by the one of the seven notaries kept for that purpose, by institution of St. Clement L, who was attached to that region.
A door of communication allowed the household to assist in these works of charity ; and Agnes had been accustomed from childhood to run in and out, many times a day, and to pass hours there; always beaming, like an angel of light, consolation and joy on the suffering and distressed. This house, then, might be called the almonry of the region, or dis- trict, of charity and hospitality in which it was situated, and it was accessible for these purposes through the -posticum or back door, situated in a narrow lane little frequented. IS'o wonder that with such an establishment, the fortune of the inmates should find an easy application.
We heard Pancratius request Sebastian, to arrange for the distribution of his plate and jewels among the poor, without its being known to whom they belonged. He had not lost sight of the commission, and had fixed on the house of Agnes as the fittest for this purpose. On the morning which we have described the distribution had to take i^lace; other regions had sent their poor, accompanied by their deacons ; while Sebastian, Pancratius, and other persons of higher rank had come in through the front door, to assist in the division. Some of these had been seen to enter by Corvinus.
A Fish carrying ]> !■ imi \\ iin-, fr >rii the Cemetery of St. Lucina.
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CHAPTER XIV
EXTREMES MEET.
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GEOUP of poor coming opportunely towards the door, enabled Corvinus to tack himself to them, — an admirable counterfeit, in all but the modesty of their deportment. He kept sufficiently close to them to hear that each of them, as he entered in, pronounced the words, "Deo gratias''' "Thanks be to God." This was not merely a Christian, but a Catholic pass-word ; for St. Augustine tells us that heretics ridi- • culed Catholics for using it, on the ground that it was a salutation but rather a reply; but that Catholics employed it, because consecrated by pious usage. It is yet heard in Italy on similar occasions.
Corvinus pronounced the mystic words, and was allowed to pass. Following the others closely, and copying their manners and gestures, he found himself in the inner coui-t of the house, which was already filled with the poor and intirm. The men were ranged on one side, the women on the other. Under the portico at the end were tables piled with costly plate, and near them was another covered with brilliant jew- elry. Two silver and goldsmiths were weighing and valuing most conscientiously this property ; and beside them was the money which they would give, to be distributed amongst the poor, in just proportion.
Corvinus eyed all this with a gluttonous heart. He would
have given anything to get it all, and almost thought of mak- ing a dash at something, and running out. But he saw at once the folly or madness of such a course, and resolved to wait for a share, and in the meantime take note for Fulvius of all he saw. He soon, however, became aware of the awk- wardness of his present position. While the poor were