The Storyteller

New Zealand Tablet, 30 May 1918, Page 3

The Storyteller

(By Cardinal Wiseman.) -

i FAB 10 LA; OR, ' THE CHURCH OF THE CATACOMBS

CHAPTER IV.—WHAT DIOGENES DID TELL ABOUT THE CATACOMBS. All that we have told our readers of the first period of the history of subterranean Rome, as ecclesiastical antiquarians love to call the catacombs, has no doubt been better related by Diogenes to his youthful hearers, as, taper in hand, they have been slowly walking through a long straight gallery, crossed, indeed, by many others, but adhered to faithfully ; with sundry pauses, and, of course, lectures, embodying what we have put together in our prosaic second chapter. At length Diogenes turned to the right, and Torquatus looked around him anxiously. “I wonder,” he said, “how many turns we have passed by, before leaving this main gallery?” “A great many,” answered Severus drily. How many do you think, ten or twenty?” hull that, I fancy; lor I never have counted them.” Torquatus had, however but wished to make sure. He continued, still pausing— How do you distinguish the right turn, then? Oh, what is^this?” and he pretended to examine a small niche in the corner. Hut Severus kept too sharp a look-out, and saw that ho was making a mark in the sand. Come, come along,” lie said, “or we shall lose sight of the rest, and not see which way they turn. That little niche is to hold a lamp : you will find one at each angle. As to ourselves, we know every alley and turn here below, as you do those of the city above.” lor at us was somewhat reassured by this account of the lamps—those little earthen ones, evidently made on purpose for the catacombs, of which so many are there found. But not content, he kept as good count as he could of the turns, as they went ; and now with one excuse, and now with another, he constantly stopped, and scrutinised particular spots and corners. But Severus had a lynx’s eye upon him, and allowed nothing to escape his attention. At last they entered a doorway, and found themselves in a square chamber, richly adorned with paintings. “What do you call this?” asked Tiburtius. “It is one of the many crypts, or cuhicnla, which abound in our cemeteries,” answered Diogenes; “sometimes they are merely family sepultures, but generally they contain the tomb of some martyr, on whose anniversary we meet here. See that tomb opposite us, which, though flush with the wall, is arched over. That becomes, on such an occasion, the altar whereon the Divine mysteries are celebrated. You are, of course, aware of the custom of so performing them.” “Perhaps my two friends,” interposed Pancratius, “so recently baptised, may not have heard it; but I know it well. It is surely one of the glorious privileges of martyrdom to have the Lord’s sacred Body and precious Blood offered upon one’s ashes, and to repose thus under the very feet of God.' But let us see well the paintings all over this crypt.’ It is on account of them that I brought you into this chamber, in preference to so many others in the cemetery. It is one of the most ancient, and contains a most complete series of pictures, from the remotest times down to some of iqy son’s doin (T .” Well, then, Diogenes, explain them systematically to my friends, said Pancratius. “I think I know most of them, but not all; and I'shall be glad to hear you describe them.”

“I am no scholar,” replied the old man modestly, “but when one has lived sixty years, man and boy, among things, one gets to know them better than others, because one loves them more. All here have been fully initiated, I suppose he added with a pause.

“All,” answered Tiburtius, ‘‘though not so fully instructed as converts ordinarily are. Torquatus and myself have received the sacred gift.” “Enough,” resumed the excavator. “The ceiling is the oldest part of the painting, as is natural; for that was done when the crypt was excavated, whereas the walls were decorated as tombs were hollowed out. You see the ceiling has a sort of trellis-work painted over it, with grapes, to represent perhaps our true Vine, of which we are the branches. There you see Orpheus sitting down and playing sweet music, not only to his own flock, but to the wild beasts of the desert, which stand charmed around him.”

“Why, that is a heathen picture altogether,” interrupted Torquatus, with pettishness, and some sarcasm; “what has it to do with Christianity?”

“It is an allegory, Torquatus,” replied Pancratius gently, “and a favorite one. The use of Gentile images, when in themselves harmless, has been permitted. You see masks, for instance, and other pagan ornaments in this ceiling, and they belong generally to a very ancient period. And so our Lord was represented under the symbol of Orpheus, to conceal His sacred representation from Gentile blasphemy and sacrilege. Look, now, in that arch : you have a more recent representation of the same subject.” ‘I see,” said Torquatus, “a shepherd with a sheep over his shoulders— Good Shepherd : that I can understand ; I remember the parable.” “But why is this subject such a favorite one?” asked Tiburtius; “I have observed it in other cemeteries.”

If you will look over the arcosolium,” answered Severus, “you will see a fuller representation of the scene. But I think we had better first continue what we have begun, and finish the ceiling. You see that figure on the right?” “Yes,” replied Tiburtius; “it is that of a man apparently in a chest, with a dove flying towards him. Is that meant to represent the Deluge?” It is,” said Severus, “as the emblem of regeneration by water and the Holy Spirit ; and of the salvation of the world. Such is our beginning; and here is our end: Jonas thrown out of the boat, and swallowed by the whale; and then sitting in enjoyment under his gourd. The resurrection with our Lord, and eternal rest as its fruit.” How natural is this representation in such a place! observed Pancratius, pointing to the other side; and here we have another type of the same consoling doctrine.”

“Where?” asked Torquatus languidly; “I see nothing but a figure bandaged all round, and standing up, like a huge infant, in a small temple; and another person opposite to it.” “Exactly,” said Severus; “that is the way we always represent the resurrection of Lazarus. Here, look, is a touching expression of the hopes of our fathers in persecution : The three Babylonian children in the fiery furnace.” Well, now, I think, ’ said Torquatus, “we may come to the arcosolium, and finish this room. What are these pictures round it?” If you look at the left side, you see the multiplication of the loaves and fishes. The fish is you know, the symbol of Christ.” ’ “ “Why so?” asked Torquatus, rather impatiently. Severus turned to Pancratius, as the better scholar, to answer. “There are two opinions about its origin,” said the youth readily; “one finds the meaning in the word itself; its letters forming the beginning of words, so as to mean ‘ Jesus Christ, Son of God, Saviour.” Another puts it in the symbol itself ; that as fish are born and live in the water, so is the Christian born of water,

and buried with Christ in it, by baptism. Hence, as we came along we saw the figure of a fish carved on. tombs, or its name engraven on them. Now go on, Severus.” ; •

‘‘Then the union of the bread and the fish in one multiplication shows us how, in the Eucharist, Christ becomes the food of all. Opposite, is Moses striking the rock, from which all drank, and which is Christ, our drink as well as our food.”

“Now at last,” said Torquatus, “we are come to the Good Shepherd.” “Yes,” continued Severus, “you see Him in the centre of the arcosolium in His simple tunic and leggings, with a sheep upon His shoulders, the recovered wanderer from the flock. Two more are standing at His sides, the truant ram on His right, the gentle ewe upon His left, the penitent in the post of honor. On each side, too, you see a person evidently sent by Him to preach. Both are leaning forward, and addressing sheep not of the fold. One on either side is apparently giving no heed to their words, but browsing quietly on, while one is turning up its eyes and head, looking and listening with eager attention. Rain is falling copiously on them; that is the grace of God. It is not difficult to interpret this picture.” “But what makes this emblem such a particular favorite?” again pressed Tiburtius. “We consider this, and similar paintings, to belong chiefly to the time when the Novatian heresy so much plagued the Church,” answered Severus. “And pray what heresy is that?” asked Torquatus carelessly; for he thought he was losing time. “It was, and indeed is, the heresy,” answered Pancratius, “that teaches that there are sins which the Church has not power to forgive, which are too great for God to pardon.” Pancratius was not aware of the effect of his words; but Severus, who never took off his eye from Torquatus, saw the blood come and go violently in his countenance.

“Is that a heresy?” asked the traitor, confused. “Surely a dreadful one,” replied Pancratius, “to limit the mercy and forgiveness of Him who came to call not the just, but sinners to repentance. The Catholic Church has always held that a sinner, however dark the dye, however huge the mass of his crimes, on truly repenting, may receive forgiveness, through the penitential- remedy left in her hands. And, therefore, she has always so much loved this type of the Good Shepherd, ready to run into the wilderness to bring back a lost sheep.” “But suppose,” said Torquatus, evidently moved, “that one who had become a Christian, and received the sacred Gift, were to fall away, and plunge into vice, and—and—” (his voice faltered) —“almost betray his brethren, would not the Church reject such a on© from hope?”

“No, no,” answered the youth; “these are the very crimes which the Novatians insult the Catholics for admitting to pardon. The Church is a mother, with her -arms ever open to re-embrace her erring children.”

There was a tear trembling in Torquatus’s eye; his lips quivered with the confession of his guilt, which ascended to them for a moment; but as if a black poisonous drop rose up his throat with it and choked him, he changed in a moment to a hard obstinate look, bit his lip, and said, with an effort at coolness, “It is certainly a consoling doctrine for those that need it.” Severus alone observed that a moment of grace had been forfeited, and that some despairing thought had quenched a flash of hope in that man’s heart. Diogenes and Majus, who had been absent, looking at a new place for opening a gallery near, now returned. Torquatus addressed the old master-digger—-“We have now seen the galleries arid the chambers ; I am anxious to visit the church in which we shall have to assemble.”

“The unconscious excavator was going to lead the way when the inexorable artist interposed. “I think, father, it is too late for to-day; you

know we have got our work to do. These young friends will excuse us, especially as they will see the church in good time, and in better order also, as the holy Pontiff intends to officiate in it.” They assented ; and when they arrived at the point where they had turned off from the first straight gallery to visit the ornamental chamber, Diogenes stopped the party, turned a few steps along an opposite passage, and said : “If you pursue this corridor, and turn to the right, you come to the church. I have merely brought you here to show you an arcosolj.um, with a beautiful painting. Ton here see the Virgin Mother holding her Divine Infant in her arms, while the wise Easterns, here represented as four, though generally we only reckon three, are adoring Him.” All admired the painting ; but poor Severus was much chagrined at seeing how his good father had unwittingly supplied the information desired by Torquatus, and had furnished him with a sure clue to the desired turn, by calling his attention to the tomb close round it, distinguishable by so remarkable a picture. When their company was departed, he told all that he had observed to his brother, remarking, ‘‘That man will give us trouble yet: I strongly suspect him.” In a short time they had removed every mark which Torquatus had made at the turnings. Put this was no security against his reckonings : and they determined to prepare for changing the road, by blocking up the present one, and turning off at another point, lor this purpose, they had the sand of new excavations brought to the ends of a gallery which crossed the main avenue, where this was low, and left it heaped up there, till the faithful could be instructed of the intended change. CHAPTER V.—ABOVE GROUND. lo recover our reader from his long subterranean excursion, we must take him with us on another visit to the ‘‘happy Campania,” or, “Campany the blest,” as an old writer might have called it. There we left Fabiola perplexed by some sentences which she had found. They came to her like a letter from another world ; she hardly knew of what character. She wished to learn more about them, but she hardly durst inquire. Many visitors called the next day, and for several days after, and she often thought of putting before some or other of them the mysterious sentences, but she could not bring herself to do it. A lady, whose life was like her own, philosophically correct, and coldly virtuous, came, and they talked together over the fashionable opinions of the day. She took out her vellum page to puzzle her : but she shrank from submitting it to her: it felt profane to do so. A learned man, well read in all branches of science and literature, paid her a long visit, and spoke very charmingly on the sublimer views of the older schools. She 'was tempted to consult him about her discovery ; but it seemed to contain something higher than he could comprehend. It was strange that, after all, when wisdom or consolation was to be sought, the noble and haughty Roman lady should turn instinctively to her Christian slave. And so it was now. The first moment they were alone, after several days of company and visits, Fabiola produced her parchment, and placed it before Syra. There passed over her countenance an emotion not observable to her mistress; but she was perfectly calm, as she looked up from reading. “That writing,” said her mistress, ‘‘l got at Chroma this’s villa, on the back of a note, probably by mistake. I cannot drive it out of my mind, which is quite perplexed by it.” “Why should it be so, my noble lady?” Its sense seems plain enough.” “Yes; and that very plainness gives me trouble. My natural feelings revolt against this sentiment; I fancy I ought to despise a man, who does not resent an injury, and return hatred fop hatred. To forgive at most would be much ; but to do good ip return for

evil, seems to me an unnatural exaction from human nature. Now, while "T feel all this, I am ‘conscious that I have been brought to esteem you, for conduct exactly the reverse of what I am naturally impelled to expect.” Oh, do not talk of me, my dear mistress; but look at the simple principle; you honor it in others, too. Do you despise, or do you respect, Aristides, for obliging a boorish enemy, by writing, when asked, his own name on the shell that voted his banishment? Do you, as a Roman lady,, contemn, or honor, the name of Coriolanus lor his generous forbearance to your city?” “I venerate both, most truly, Syra; but then you know those were heroes, and not every-day men.” And why should we not all be heroes?” asked Syra, laughing. Bless me, child! what a world we should live in if- we were. It is very pleasant reading about the feats of such .wonderful people ; but one would be very sorry (o see them performed by common men every day.” “Why so ’ pressed the servant. Why so? who would tike to find a baby she was nursing, playing with, or strangling, serpents in the cradle? I should be very sorry to have a gentleman, whom I invited to dinner, telling me coolly he had that morning killed a minotaur, or strangled a hydra ; or to have a friend offering to send the Tiber through my stables to cleanse them. Preserve us from a generation of heroes, say I.” And Fabiola laughed heartily at the conceit. In the same good humor Syra continued : J But supose we had the misfortune to live in a country where such monsters existed, centaurs and minotaurs, hydras and dragons. Would it not be better that common men should be heroes enough to conquer them, than that Ave should have to send off to the other side of the world for a Theseus or a Hercules to destroy them? In fact, in that case, a man would be no more a hero if he fought them than a lion-slayer is in my country.” Quite true, Syra; but 1 do not see the application of your idea.” “It is this: anger, hatred, revenge, ambition, avarice, are Jo my mind as complete monsters, as serpents or dragons ; and they attack common men much as great ones. Why should not I try to be as able to conquer them as Aristides, or Coriolanus, or Cincinnatus ? Why leave it to heroes only, to do what Ave can do as well?” And do you really hold this as a common moral principle? If so, I fear you will soar too high.” No, dear lady. You were startled when I ventured to maintain that inward and unseen virtue was as necessary as the outward and visible : I fear I must surprise you still more.” “Go on, and do not fear to tell me all.” “Well, then, the principle of that system which I profess is this : that Ave must treat, and practice, as every-day and common virtue, nay, as simple duty, whatever any other code, the purest and sublimes! that may be, considers "heroic, and proof of transcendent virtue.” “That is indeed a sublime standard to form of moral elevation; but mark the difference between the two cases. The hero is supported by the praises of the world : his act is recorded and transmitted to posterity, when he checks his passions, and performs a sublime action. But who sees, cares for, or shall requite, the poor obscure wretch, who in humble secrecy imitates his conduct?” by I’a, with solemn, reverential look and gesture, raised her eyes and her right hand to heaven, and slowly said, “His Father, who is in heaven, who maketh His sun to rise on the good and the bad, and raineth on the just and the unjust.” Fabiola paused for a time, overawed: then said affectionately and respectfully; “Again, Syra, you have conquered my philosophy. Your'wisdom is consistent as it is sublime, A virtue keyoio, even when unseen,

you propose as the ordinary daily virtue, of every one. Men must indeed become more than what gods have been thought to be to attempt it; but the very idea is worth a whole philosophy. Can you lead me higher than this?”

‘‘Oh, far! — far higher still.” “And where at length would you leave me?” “Where your heart should tell you, that it had found peace.” (To be continued.)