SIR THOMAS MORE.
A HISTORICAL ROMANCE.
FROM THE FRENCH OF THE PRINCESSE DE CRAON.
XVI.
Whilst Margaret and Pierre Gilles were thus conversing, above their heads, in a magnificent gallery flashing with gilt, and adorned with portraits of all the archbishops who had occupied this palace, destined for their residence, the court had assembled, and there the jury was called which was to try, or rather to condemn, Sir Thomas More.
At the extremity of this hall, upon an elevated platform all covered with carpet and fringe, were seated the new lord chancellor, Thomas Audley; near him, Sir John Fitz-James, Lord Chief-Justice; and beyond, Cranmer, Archbishop of Canterbury; the Duke of Norfolk, several lords of the Privy Council, among them the Duke of Suffolk, the Abbot of Westminster, and Cromwell, who on this occasion acted as secretary. To the left of the court, and near the jury, was seated Richard Rich, the creature of Cromwell, and his worthy associate, newly appointed, on account of his efficient services, solicitor-general.
“Sir Thomas Palmer, knight?” said the clerk. “Sir Thomas Peint, knight? George Lowell, esquire? Thomas Burbage, esquire? Geoffrey Chamber, gentleman? Edward Stockmore, gentleman? Joseph Leake, gentleman? William Brown, gentleman? Thomas Bellington, gentleman? John Parnell, gentleman? Richard Bellam, gentleman? George Stokes, gentleman?”
All responded to their names.
“Sir Thomas More,” said the lord chancellor, in a slow and hard tone, “do you challenge any one of these gentlemen of the jury?”
“No, my lord,” replied Sir Thomas, who was standing up before the court, leaning upon a cane he held in his hand, and which had been of great assistance to him during the long sessions he had already been obliged to endure in that fatiguing and inconvenient position. Meanwhile, he anxiously watched the door through which the accused entered, and was uneasy at not seeing the Bishop of Rochester; for they met only in court, and it was a moment of relief when he beheld his friend near him, although he every day remarked with sadness that Rochester was failing in a lamentable manner.
“The accused challenges none of the members of the jury,” proclaimed the lord chief-justice. He then arose, and began to recite the formula of the oath to be taken by each member of the jury.
“Now, Sir Thomas,” said the chancellor, “I desire to address you yet a last observation, and I wish with all my heart that you may yield to it; because the king, not having forgotten your long services, is deeply grieved at the perilous position in which your obstinacy, too evidently the result of malice, has placed you. He has
ordered us to unbend again, and for the last time, so far as to implore you, in his own name and for the love of him, to take the oath of obedience which you owe to the statute of Parliament, and of fidelity to his royal person—an oath he has a right to exact of you according to all laws, divine and human.”
“In fidelity, my lord,” replied Sir Thomas, “in respect, in attachment, I have never been wanting to the king. It has been a long time, a very long time, an entire lifetime, since I took the oath. It cannot be changed; therefore it can never be necessary to have it renewed.”
“You persist, then, in your culpable obstinacy?” said the lord chancellor.
“Nay, my lord, I am not obstinate.”
“Then say, at least,” cried Cranmer, wishing to appear animated by an officious zeal, “what offends you in this oath, what word you would reject—what is the reason, in fine, that prevents you from taking it.”
Sir Thomas raised his head, and paused a moment to consider the court. There was the Abbot of Westminster, who, during the days of his prosperity and favor, had overwhelmed him with visits and surfeited him with flattery; by his side the Duke of Norfolk, who without emotion beheld him to-day near death, and yet he had formerly loved him as a friend in whom he felt honored; Cromwell, whom he had always treated with respect, in spite of the antipathy he felt for him; the Duke of Suffolk, who had solicited him unceasingly, and almost gone down on his knees to him to obtain money from the king or a place for one of his creatures; Sir John Fitz-James, finally, to
whom he had rendered an eminent service, and who had in other times sworn eternal gratitude to him, and to remain devoted to him in life and in death. Now death was approaching him, and he counted Sir John Fitz-James among the judges who were going to demand his head. Absorbed in the sad and dolorous conviction that in this world he could rely upon no one, he hesitated for a reply.
“You have heard, prisoner?” said Richard Rich brusquely.
“Pardon me, sir,” answered Sir Thomas gently; “but the lords have already spoken so much about the king’s displeasure that, if I should refuse to take this oath of supremacy, I fear to augment it still more by giving the reasons.”
“Ah! this is too much,” cried all the lords. “You not only refuse to take the oath, but you are not even willing to say why you refuse.”
“I would rather believe,” said Cromwell, “that Sir Thomas has returned to reason, and that he is no longer so sure that the oath may wound his conscience. Sir Thomas, is it not the case that you are now rather in a state of doubt and uncertainty in this regard? You know,” he continued, “that we owe entire obedience to the king; therefore you should take the oath he demands of you, and the scruples you feel would be removed by this imperious necessity.”
“It is true, my lord,” replied Sir Thomas, “that I ought to obey the king in all things as a faithful subject—which I am, and will be until death. But this is a case of conscience, in which I am not bound to obey the prince. Listen to me, my lord of Canterbury,” he said, fixing his eyes upon him with an expression full of benevolence.
“I would blame none of those who have taken the oath; but, at the same time, I must say, if your argument was solid, there would be no more cases of doubtful conscience, because it would be sufficient for the king to pronounce yes or no in order to annihilate them all.”
“Truly,” cried the Abbot of Westminster, hurriedly interrupting him, “you are very obstinate in your own opinions; you ought to see that, from whatever point you view this question, you are necessarily mistaken, since you are entirely in opposition to the chief council of the kingdom, and that without doubt it possesses light enough to remove and destroy the scruples of your conscience.”
“My lord,” replied Sir Thomas, “if it is true that I am alone in my opposition to the entire Parliament, I ought certainly to feel alarmed. Nevertheless, in refusing the oath I listen to and follow the voice of the greatest of all counsellors—one to which every man should listen before any other; a monitor which he carries always within his own bosom. Besides, I will add that the opinion of the English Parliament cannot overbalance that of the Council of all Christendom.”
“Then you blame the Parliament, and refuse to adhere to the act of succession it has established?” angrily exclaimed Norfolk, the uncle of Anne Boleyn.
“My lord,” replied Sir Thomas, “your lordship knows that my intention is not, as I have already explained, to find fault either with the act or with the men who have drawn it up, nor to blame the oath nor those who have taken it. As far as I am personally concerned, I cannot take this oath without exposing myself to eternal damnation; and if you doubt that it is my conscience
which causes me to refuse, I am ready to swear to the sincerity of my declaration. If you do not believe what I say, it is a great deal better not to impose the oath; and if you believe me, I hope you will not demand one in opposition to my conscience.”
Norfolk made a gesture of impatience. Then Audley, lord chancellor, turned toward his colleagues. “You see, you hear,” he said, “that Sir Thomas believes that he knows more than all the priests in London—than the Bishop of Rochester himself!” And he dwelt with a slight tone of irony on the last sentence.
“What! the Bishop of Rochester,” cried Sir Thomas.
“Without doubt, the Bishop of Rochester,” repeated Audley. “Mr. Secretary,” he said, turning towards Cromwell and giving him a preconcerted signal, “communicate to the accused a certain fact in which he is interested.”
Cromwell, descending from the platform, approached Sir Thomas and whispered in his ear: “The Bishop of Rochester has consented to swear; they have conducted him to the king, who has forgotten all his past conduct, and intends to load him with new favors.”
“Fisher has sworn!” cried Sir Thomas; and he was struck with consternation.
“Certainly!” said Cromwell, with an ill-disguised expression of irony and satirical joy; “they concealed it from you, that it might not be said you had pinned your opinion to the sleeve of another.”
“Sir,” answered More in a tone of profound sorrow, but with an expression of dignity greater still, “rest perfectly satisfied they will not say that. While bishops are appointed to do good and teach us
to do it, it does not follow that, if they fall into error, we should imitate them. I am deeply afflicted by what you tell me, but do not change my opinion for all that. My conscience alone has directed me; now she alone remains with me, but I cannot, neither must I, cease to listen to her. I blame nobody—nobody! O my friend! what anguish has been reserved for me. My God! thou hast permitted it. Rochester has fallen!” said More in a low voice. “Lord, if the cedars break, what, then, will become of the reeds?”
Sir Thomas was unable to comprehend how Fisher could have been induced to yield or become so weak, and he was reduced to a state of mortal affliction.
“What!” said Cromwell, “can you not make up your mind?”
“Nay, sir, nay; I cannot make up my mind to this. There remains nothing more for me to do in this world, and I pray the Lord to remove me from it!”
“The accused refuses everything,” replied Cromwell in a loud voice, as he turned away from him.
“What obstinacy!” exclaimed the lords in one voice. “Sir Thomas, swear!—we conjure you in the name of all you hold most dear.”
“Alas!” said Sir Thomas to himself, “this is why he has not appeared. Alas! each day when I have suffered so much seeing him stand so long by my side, pale with fatigue and weakness, I was nevertheless happy. To-day—can it be? No, he has not been able to endure their tortures longer. God forgive them and save this country! Your pardon, my lords,” he said, remembering that they had addressed him. “What were your words to me?”
“He does not even listen,” they remarked. “We conjure you to
swear; we implore you to do so with all our power.”
“I cannot,” replied Sir Thomas firmly, “and I positively refuse.”
On hearing him pronounce these words, which left them no alternative, there was a sudden commotion among the lords; they regarded each other with anxiety.
“A man of such merit, of such virtue,” thought Fitz-James, filled with remorse—“what business have I here?”
“Truly, Sir Thomas,” cried Secretary Cromwell, feigning compassion, “I am sorely grieved to hear you speak thus, and I declare here, before all this respectable assembly, that I would like better to lose an only son than to see you refuse the oath in this manner. For very certainly the king will be deeply wounded by it; he will conceive the most violent suspicions, and will not be able to believe that you have had no part in that affair of the Maid of Kent.”
“I am very much moved by your affection,” replied Sir Thomas; “but whatever penalties I may have to undergo, it is impossible for me to redeem them at the price of my soul.”
“You hear him, my lords,” said the chancellor, looking at his colleagues. “Sir Thomas, deaf to all our prayers, forgetting the favors with which the king has overwhelmed him for twenty years, tramples under foot the authority of Parliament, the laws of the kingdom, and persists traitorously, maliciously, and in your presence, in refusing to take an oath which every subject of this kingdom cannot and ought not to refuse. Consequently, I order the act of accusation to be read to the court, after which it will render judgment and pronounce its sentence.”
The clerk then began reading, in a nasal voice and monotonous tone, an accusation so long, the grievances of which were so multiplied, divided, extended, and diluted by a crowd of words and phrases, inductions, prejudices, and all kinds of suspicions, that it would require too much time to report them; but it was easy to see that it had been fabricated in bad faith and with the absence of all reasonable proofs.
This reading continued for two hours, and, when it was finished, the lord chancellor began: “What have you to reply to all this?” said Audley. “You see, Sir Thomas, and you should acknowledge, that you have gravely offended his majesty; nevertheless, the king is so merciful, and is so much attached to you, that he would pardon your obstinacy, if you changed your opinion, and we would be sure of obtaining your pardon, and even the return of his favor.”
He looked at Sir Thomas to see if he was relenting; for, except Cromwell, who desired More’s death, all the others, while too ambitious, too base, or too cowardly to dare sustain him, would have preferred seeing him yield to their entreaties.
“It would rejoice us greatly!” said Sir John Fitz-James.
“Most surely,” cried the Duke of Norfolk.
“Ay, verily,” slowly repeated Cromwell.
“He will listen to nothing!” said the Abbot of Westminster.
“Noble lords, I am under infinite obligations to your lordships for the lively interest you have manifested in my case; but, by the help of God, I wish to continue to live and die in his grace. As to the accusation I have just heard, it is so long, the hatred which has dictated
it so violent, that I am seized with fear in realizing how little strength and understanding the sufferings of my body have left in my mind.”
“He should be permitted to sit down,” said Sir John Fitz-James in a low voice, the tears gathering in his eyes.
“Nobody objects,” said the Duke of Norfolk. “I demand it, on the contrary,” he added, elevating his voice.
“This will never end, then,” murmured Cromwell.
“Let a chair be brought to the accused,” said Audley, who dared not resist the Duke of Norfolk.
Sir Thomas seated himself for a moment, because he was able to stand no longer; then, summoning all his strength, he again arose to his feet, and spoke: “My accusation can be reduced, it seems to me, to four principal heads, and I will try and take them in order. The first crime with which I am accused is of being in my heart an opponent of the king’s second marriage. I confess that I have said to his majesty what my conscience dictated, and in that I can see no treason. But, on the contrary, if, being required by my prince to give him my opinion on a matter of such great importance, and which so deeply concerns the peace of the kingdom, I had basely flattered him, then indeed I should have been a treacherous and perfidious subject to God and to the king. I have not, then, offended, nor wished to offend, my king in replying, with the integrity of my heart, to the question he has asked me; moreover, admitting that I have been at fault in this, I have been punished for it already by the afflictions I have endured, the loss of my office, and the imprisonment I have undergone. The second charge brought against me, and the
most explicit, is of having violated the act of the last Parliament, in this: that being a prisoner and examined by the council, I have not been willing, through a spirit of malice, of perfidy, of treachery, and obstinacy, to say whether or not the king was supreme head of the church, and that I have not been willing to confess whether that act was just or unjust, for the reason which I gave—that, having no other rank in the church than that of a simple layman, I had no authority to decide those things. Now, I will avow to your lordships that this was my reply: ‘I had neither done nor said anything which could be alleged and produced against me on the subject of this statute’; and I added that I no longer desired to occupy myself with anything here below, in order to be entirely absorbed in meditating on the Passion of my Saviour Jesus Christ in this miserable world, where I have such a short time to remain; that I wished ill to no one—on the contrary, every kind of prosperity; and also, if that was not sufficient to preserve my life, I did not desire to live; I had violated no law, and that I was not willing to surrender myself as guilty of any crime of high treason—for there are no laws in the world by which a man can be punished for his silence; they can do no more than punish him for his words and actions, and it is God alone who judges the heart.”
As Sir Thomas said these words, the advocate-general, Christopher Hales, suddenly interrupted him: “You say you have not uttered a word nor committed an act against this law; but you admit that you have kept silence, which is a conclusive sign of the malice of your heart, no good subject being able to refuse without crime to reply to
this question when it is set before him as the law ordains.”
“My silence,” replied More, “is not a sign of the malice of my heart, since I have answered the king when he has consulted me on divers occasions; and I do not believe a man can be convicted of having attacked a law by keeping silence, since this maxim, ‘Qui tacet consentire videtur,’ is adopted and recognized as true by all the most learned and enlightened men of the law. With regard to what you say about a good subject having no right to refuse a direct reply to this question, I believe, on the contrary, that such is his duty, unless, indeed, he wish to be a bad Christian. Now, it is better to obey God than man, and it is better not to offend one’s conscience than everything else in the world, above all when this conscience cannot be the occasion of revolt against, or injury to, the king and the country. I protest to you, on this subject I have not revealed my opinion to any man living.”
“You know very well, on the contrary,” said the Duke of Norfolk sharply, “that your example will be followed, and a great many will refuse the oath on seeing you reject it.”
“Pardon me, my lord,” replied Sir Thomas; “but I have the right to think thus, since a moment ago my lord the chancellor reproached me with being the only one of my opinion in the kingdom. I can say, then, that my silence is neither injurious to the prince nor dangerous to the state.”
“How can you assert,” cried Christopher Hales, “that your refusal will not be the cause of any sedition or of any injury toward the king? Do you not know, then, that all his enemies have their eyes fixed on you, in order to confirm
themselves by your audacity, and take advantage of the malice of which you have given proof? What, then, would you call an injury, if not a refusal thus contemptuous and unlawful with respect to the submission you owe to the will of your king, the living image of God upon earth?”
“The king has no enemies, sir,” replied Sir Thomas; “he has only some faithful subjects who wish to sigh in silence over the perfidious counsel which has been given him. I will dare almost to say,” he cried, laying his hand on his breast, “some tender and respectful friends, who would have given all for his glory, sacrificed all for his salvation, but who, for that same cause, cannot approve the error into which he has been made to fall.”
“Alas! he is lost,” thought Sir John; and he turned away his head.
“Well,” said Cromwell to himself, “the case becomes clear; they cannot draw back.”
While a low murmur of surprise and admiration arose among the jury, their foreman leaned toward Mr. Rich, and whispered to him excitedly.
“Truly! It is so, sir!” said the latter, looking fixedly at him. “It seems to me, Sir Thomas Palmer, that your remarks have much weight. Have you been called here to interpret the wishes of the king, or have you, by chance, a mind to make a short sojourn in the Tower or some part of its environs?” And he made his fingers crack. “With your short-sighted justice,” he replied, “do you believe that there are not some great reasons, which they do not wish you to know, which have led Sir Thomas to the bar of this tribunal? And if I should say to you—” He paused.
“The dogs!” he murmured, looking at the faces of the jurors. “And if I should say to you,” he continued, “that this is an extortioner, and that he has devoured the revenues of the state—sucked—sucked the hearts’ blood of the poor people!”
“It cannot be possible!” said Palmer, awaiting each word of Rich, which seemed to fall drop by drop from his lips. “What! like the other?”
“Exactly, precisely like the other! Wonderful!” said Rich to himself. “They themselves furnish me with the words, the fools! I hope, indeed, that I may be exalted a grade from this; for this herd of jurors make me sweat blood and water. They called them so well chosen! So it appears; one goes to the right, the other to the left, a third to the middle. To the death—that is too hard; no, confiscation, or rather imprisonment. They wish to enter into the spirit of the law, as if they regarded the law! Condemn him, sirs—that is all they ask of you—and then go to your beds! Every one to his trade; theirs is not to inquire what we do, but what we wish them to do!” And Rich, much excited, shaking his great sleeves, leaned forward in order to listen.
“I come, then, to the third article of my accusation,” said Sir Thomas, “by which I am accused of malicious attempts, efforts, and perfidious practices against the statute, because, since being confined in the Tower, I have sent several packages of letters to Bishop Fisher, and in those letters I have exhorted him to violate this same law, and encouraged him in the resistance he has made to it. I have already demanded that those letters should be instantly produced and
read to the court; they could thus have acquitted me or convicted me of falsehood. But as you say the bishop has burned them, I am only able to prove what I advance here by my own words; therefore I will state what they contained. The greater portion of those letters related to my private affairs, especially to our old friendship; in one of them alone I responded to the demand he had made to know how I would reply in my interrogatory upon the oath of supremacy, and I wrote to him thus: that I had examined this question in conscience, and he must be content with knowing that it was decided in my mind. God is my witness, as I hope to save my soul, that I have made no other reply, and I cannot presume that this could be considered an attack upon the laws.”
“Oh! no, by no means,” said several of the jurors. “Nevertheless, it would be necessary to see these documents.”
“That is the custom,” said a voice loudly enough.
“The jury examines the documents,” said another; “that is always done.”
“My lord judge! my lord advocate! it is necessary, it is customary—indispensable—”
Audley looked angrily at Rich. “Gentlemen, the jurors are perfectly right,” he cried in a shrill voice; “but these letters have been destroyed. They will proceed to examine other documents; then the witnesses of these facts will be heard.”
“Silence! silence!” cried the court usher.
“Gentlemen, do not interrupt the court,” said Cromwell gravely; “we should listen religiously to the least word of the prisoner’s defence.”
And thus he stifled by his awful voice the truth which had been excited in those troubled hearts.
Fatigued and weary, More kept silence; he was thinking, moreover, of his letters to the Bishop of Rochester. “If I had spoken more strongly to my friend,” he sorrowfully reflected, “perhaps he would not have succumbed. My God and my only Saviour! behold the afflictions that overwhelm my soul; for I fear I have only listened to the cowardly prudence of the children of men. And yet what could I do?”
More reproached himself with not having done enough, with having been mistaken. He groaned in spirit and humbled himself to the dust before God; whereas this tribunal by which he was being judged, in the face of which he found himself placed, before which he was traduced, was composed of men whom avarice, fear, and ambition caused to walk rapidly and firmly, without remorse and without shame, in the road, strewn with thorns, of vice, falsehood, and slavery.
“Speak on,” said Cromwell, provoked by his silence; “they will not dare to interrupt you again.”
Sir Thomas raised his eyes to his face, and regarded him fixedly. So much suffering, so many conflicting emotions, were weighing on his mind, that he no longer knew how to resume his discoveries or where he had left the thread of his ideas.
“You had replied to the third article,” said Cromwell, promptly assisting him, for fear of giving the assembly time for reflection. “Now, what else have you to say, and what have you to oppose to the testimony of Master Rich, who has heard you say in the Tower that
the statute was a two-edged sword which killed necessarily either the soul or the body?”
“What I have to reply to that,” said Sir Thomas, “is that Master Rich called on me continually while they were removing the books I had in my prison. Fatigued by his importunate demands, I replied to him conditionally (which makes the case very different) that, if it was true, it was equally dangerous to avow or disavow this act; and that if it was similar to a two-edged sword, it was very hard to make it fall on me, who had never contradicted the statute either by my words or my actions. As to their accusing me of having drawn the Bishop of Rochester into my conspiracy, and induced him to make a reply similar to my own—alas! no, I have not done so. I have nothing more to add.” And he took his seat without a word more.
“You have nothing more to say?” repeated the chancellor.
“No, my lord.”
“That is well,” said Audley.
“He is here no longer,” said More; and he looked around him. “Where have they dragged him? To the king, perhaps. We should have received our sentence together. O Fisher! O my friend! No, it cannot be,” said More; “they are surely deceiving me! Does not falsehood flow naturally from their lips? Oh! how I would joy to see him, for one moment only. However, if he has not taken the oath, he will be here.” And he sank again into his silent sadness.
“We will proceed to examine the witnesses,” said the chancellor.
Master Rich, relieving himself immediately of his great robe, slowly descended from the platform and the chair from which he had surveyed
the jury, and took his seat in the midst of the hall, in front of the tribunal.
He raised his hand and took the oath without hesitation. He then related how, having entered the prison cell of Thomas More with Palmer and Sir Richard Southwell, he had heard Sir Thomas express himself strongly against the statute and declare that no Parliament in the world would be able to submit to the question of the supremacy.
“You hear, Sir Thomas!” cried all the lords. “There is nothing to reply to this.”
Sir Thomas arose immediately, and an expression of deep emotion showed itself on his weary features. “My lords,” he replied, “if I was a man who had no regard for my oath, I would not be here before you as a criminal. And you, Master Rich,” he continued, turning toward him, “if what you have declared be true, and the oath you have taken be not perjury, then may I never look upon the face of God!—and this I would not assert for all the world contains, if what you have testified was the truth. Listen to me, my lords; judge between us, and learn what I have said to Master Rich. When he came to carry away my books from the dreary prison where I was confined, he approached me, took my hands, overwhelmed me with compliments, and, protesting to me that he had no commission touching the supremacy, during the course of a long conversation he recalled all the circumstances of our childhood, and proposed to me this question: ‘If Parliament recognized me as king, would you recognize me? and would it be treason not to do it?’ I answered that I would recognize him, but it was a casus levis. And in my turn I said to him: ‘If an act of Parliament should
declare that God is not God, do you think it would be treason not to submit to that act?’
“Then Master Rich said that this question was too remote, and they could not discuss it. Whereupon he left me, and went away with those whom he had brought with him.
“In good faith, Master Rich,” pursued Sir Thomas, “I am more concerned on account of your perjury than because of the danger into which you have so heartlessly thrown me, and I must tell you that neither I nor any one else has ever regarded you as a man to whom they could confide a thing of so much importance as this. You know that I am acquainted with your life and conversation from your youth up to the present time. We were of the same parish; and you know right well, although I am very sorry to say and speak of it, that you always bore the reputation of having a very flippant and very lying tongue, that you were a great gambler, and you had not a good name in your parish and in the Temple, where you have been reared.
“Your lordships,” continued Sir Thomas, “can you believe that, in an affair of so great moment, I would have had so little discretion as to confide in Master Rich, entertaining the opinion I do of his want of truth and honesty; that I would have disclosed to him the secret of my conscience touching the supremacy of the king—a subject upon which I have been so strongly pressed, and which I have always refused to reveal to any of his grave and noble counsellors, who, your lordships know well, have been so often sent to the Tower to interrogate me? I submit it to your judgment, my lords: does this appear to you credible or possible?
“Moreover,” he immediately continued, “supposing Master Rich speaks the truth, it should still be remarked that this might have been said in a secret and private conversation upon some supposed questions and without any offending circumstances. Therefore they cannot, at least, say there was any malice on this occasion; and that being so, my lords, I cannot believe so many reverend bishops, honorable personages, so great a number of wise and virtuous men of which the Parliament is composed, would wish to punish a man with death when he has had no malice in his heart—taking, most certainly, this word malice in the sense of ill-will and open rebellion. Finally, I would again recall to your lordships’ attention the inexpressible kindness his majesty has manifested toward me during more than twenty years since he called me into his service, constantly appointing me to some new charge, some new office, and finally to the position of lord chancellor—an honor he had never bestowed on any lawyer before, this dignity being the greatest in the kingdom, and coming immediately after that of the crown; lastly, in relieving me of this charge, and permitting me to retire, and allowing me, at my own request, the liberty of passing the remainder of my days in the service of God, in order that I might occupy myself no more with aught but the salvation of my soul. And therefore I say that all the benefits his majesty has for so long a time and so abundantly showered upon me, in elevating me far beyond my merits, are enough, in my opinion, to break down the scandalous accusation so injuriously formulated by this man against me.” Having said these words, Sir Thomas was silent.
The tribunal looked at him. This earnest and truthful attack on the reputation of Master Rich was hard to weaken, although the latter, after having resumed his seat, had already cried out sneeringly three or four times: “Palmer and Southwell will testify if I have told the truth, yes or no.”
“Yes or no,” repeated Cromwell to himself—“the world is summed up in those two words; only it is necessary to manage them well. Go, clerk,” he said, “call Master Southwell.”
And the clamorous voice of the clerk resounded through the vast enclosure where he kept the witnesses.
“Master Palmer! Master Richard Palmer!” he repeated; and Master Palmer presented himself.
“You swear,” said Audley to the witness, “that the testimony you are about to render before this court, and before the jury interposed between your sovereign lord the king and the prisoner here present at the bar, will be the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God!”
As the chancellor said these words, they brought the book of the Holy Evangelists, and opened it, in order that Palmer might lay his hand on it to swear.
“But, my lord,” said Palmer, anxiously looking around him, “I know nothing, nothing at all, about what you are going to ask me.”
“Well, you need only tell what you know,” said Audley brusquely.
“Very well, then,” said Palmer in a low voice; and laying his hand on the book, he was sworn in the usual manner.
“What did you hear while removing the books belonging to Sir Thomas?”
“Nothing, my lord. I threw the
books as fast as possible into a sack. They made some noise in falling one upon the other, and I heard nothing else.”
“That is not possible!” said Audley. “The chamber is very small; you would have been very near Sir Thomas and Master Rich, who were conversing together, and you must have heard their conversation.”
“I have heard that Sir Thomas stooped down to pick up a book I let fall from my hands, and that it seemed to give him pain when they took his books away from him; so that when I saw the dismal little cell, the pallet they had given him for a bed, the broken earthen pitcher which was in one corner, with an old candle standing in the neck of a bottle, and that they had forbidden him for the future to light that candle—for fear, they said, that he might set fire to the prison—the tears came into my eyes, and I felt my heart ache with sorrow as I thought I had seen him lord chancellor such a little while ago. That is all, my lord.”
“But,” said Cromwell, provoked by this recital, “Sir Thomas spoke; you have declared that already.”
“Oh! he spoke, without doubt. I do not deny that he could speak; certainly he spoke. For instance, when he saw the sack of books carried away he said: ‘Now that the tools are removed, there is nothing more to do but close the shop.’ But we saw, in spite of this pleasantry, that it distressed him very much,” added Palmer after a moment’s silence.
“How prolix is this witness!” said the Abbot of Westminster in a contemptuous tone.
“Come, that’s enough,” said Cromwell. “You know nothing more?”
“No, my lord, nothing more—nothing
at all.” And he hastened to withdraw.
As he retired, Richard Southwell appeared.
Audley immediately began to interrogate him.
“Your name?”
“Richard Southwell.”
“Your age?”
“Twenty-four years.”
“Your profession?”
“The king’s clerk.”
“You swear,” said the chancellor to the witness, “that the testimony you are about to render before the court, and before the jury interposed between our sovereign lord the king and the prisoner at the bar, will be the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God.”
“I have no testimony to offer,” said Richard.
“What!” exclaimed Audley. “Here is Master Rich, who cites you as having been present at a conversation he had in the Tower prison with Sir Thomas More.”
“Master Rich says just what it suits him to say. The truth is, I went with Master Palmer to remove the books of Sir Thomas because I was obliged to do it. I found Master Rich there, whereat I was surprised. Everybody knows what Rich is, and what confidence should be placed in anything he asserts. I will swear, then, to nothing, nor take any oath on a matter of business in which he is mixed up, being well assured in advance that it can only be something bad.”
Rich’s face became purple.
“My lord chancellor,” cried the new solicitor-general, “the witness insults the court.”
“Master Rich, yes; but the court, no,” growled Audley. He answered nothing, and had not
the appearance of heeding what Richard Southwell was saying, if even he was not pleased with it; for the vile and corrupt men with whom Henry VIII. each day surrounded himself, in order to serve his frenzies, abhorred him and sought only his destruction, or to elevate themselves one above another by crushing each other. “You refuse to swear, then?” said he to the witness, without deigning to listen to the recriminations of Rich.
“Yes, my lord,” replied Southwell.
“The witness will pay a fine.”
“Very well, my lord! I know that I owe it.”
And Southwell retired. Then a profound silence reigned throughout the assembly, because the decisive moment approached.
Meanwhile, the lord chief-justice, the timid Fitz-James, arose at a sign given him by Audley, and in a trembling voice propounded the following questions to the jury:
“Has Sir Thomas More rendered himself guilty of the crime of high treason towards our lord the king in refusing, through a spirit of malice, treachery, and obstinacy, the oath which he demands of him as supreme head of the church on earth? Is Sir Thomas More guilty of resisting the statute of Parliament which has conferred this dignity on our lord and master, King Henry VIII.?”
The court officers struck a blow with their maces.
The judges all arose, and the court marched out majestically, while the jury retired into another room.
“Now we shall see if Rich is sure of his jury,” said Cromwell to himself, following them with his eyes; and not looking before him, he trod
on the train of the chancellor’s robe, who turned round, impatiently saying that he had offended his dignity. Cromwell began to laugh; for he cared little for the dignity of this chancellor of recent date and mediocre worth—and he continued to look behind him.
“Well! this will soon be ended,” said Sir Thomas; and he asked the yeomen who guarded him permission to approach one of the windows looking out on the courtyard.
More humane than the tigers who had just gone out, these rude men granted his request.
Sir Thomas looked out, but a broad, sculptured cornice extending around the gallery prevented him from seeing if his daughter was still below, and his eyes rested only on the magnificent view to be enjoyed from the apartments of Lambeth Palace. The sun was reflected upon the surface of the river, and he could see even the smallest boat that glided on the water.
“Is she still there?” thought Sir Thomas, as he leaned his head against the window. “Well, it is all over.” He stepped back, and gazed out into the distance. “This whole city,” he said, “comes, goes, stirs, agitates itself. What matters it to them that a man is condemned in a corner? Had they need of my services, they would run—‘Sir Thomas! there is Sir Thomas!’ They would follow; they would call me. Now the crowd forgets us in two days! An immense abyss, an entire chaos, almost a generation, separates the evening from the morrow! My friends are afraid—those, at least, who remain to me. They grieve in secret. The tears will be wiped from their eyes in obscurity; but my daughter, who will dry hers? She will pass away
like myself, alone in this world; she will have need to pass quickly, and without looking around her.”
He wiped his forehead; for it was damp and hot.
“It is impossible for them not to condemn me!” And he leaned against the window-sill, scarcely able to stand on his feet; he experienced a sort of faintness for which he could not account, and which obliged him to change his posture every moment. “Nothing! There is no word from them. My God! they are a long time. And for what purpose, when all was decided in advance? O Rochester! where art thou? It is this that lowers my courage. Well! they do not return. What can this jury be doing? It seems to me that it is already two hours since they went out.” He looked around him, and saw that the two guards had commenced a game of cards.
“How much a game?” said the bigger of the two.
“A penny.”
“A penny!” cried the other. “Of what are you dreaming, Scotchman? The profit of a week! A half-penny now, and more on trust if—You understand me?” And he made a gesture as if drinking.
“Always drinking, always drinking!” replied his adversary.
They were dealing the cards, when the maces of the court officers resounded on the floor, announcing that the deliberations were ended and the court was returning.
“What!” cried the two gamesters, “they have finished already? How they have hurried over this business! Ordinarily they take an hour, at least.”
They hastened to gather up their cards and conceal them under their jackets.
At a signal given by the officers
Sir Thomas came hurriedly out from the deep embrasure of the window where he was leaning. He then observed a man and a young girl, who, alone in the midst of this vast enclosure, were gazing in every direction, astonished at the solitude in which they found themselves, and seeking him whom their hearts loved.
“Margaret!” cried Sir Thomas—“Margaret here at this fatal moment! No grief must, then, be spared me!”
At the voice of More his daughter rushed toward him. She covered his face with kisses and tears. Pierre Gilles was at her side.
“Pierre Gilles here!” cried More.
Meanwhile, the heavy doors rolled on their hinges, and the judges approached.
“O More! O my friend! is the trial ended, that I see you alone and at liberty here?”
“Yes! it is over,” said More; “but not as you think,” he added, lowering his voice. “My friend, in the name of our tender friendship, take Margaret away! I will see you again in a moment. I pray you, one minute, one minute only, go, take her out, if you love me, if you have loved me! Ah! Pierre Gilles, thou here? I confide her to thee!” And Sir Thomas cast on him a glance so imploring, and an expression so deep, that the heart of one father was immediately comprehended by the other.
Pierre Gilles made a rapid movement to lead the young girl out. He was too late; the court had entered, and the judges had taken their places. The chancellor remained standing in the midst of them, and, turning to the foreman of the jury, who advanced, he put the terrible question:
“Is the accused guilty?”
“Yes,” said the foreman, “upon all the counts.” And his voice failed in adding the last words.
“Upon all the counts!” repeated Pierre Gilles.
“What did he say?” cried Margaret, transfixed with expectation and terror. “My father guilty? No, never! Pierre Gilles, what did he say? Guilty? Oh! no, no. My father!”
The young girl pronounced this word so tenderly, with a cry so piercing, an accent of despair so heartrending, that Sir Thomas trembled from head to foot, and it seemed his soul was shaken to its very depths.
“In mercy take her away!” he said in a faint voice.
“Guilty!” repeated Margaret—“guilty! They have dared say it. Guilty! Then all is finished! He is lost, condemned! O cowardice! O horror! Guilty!”
And a change so horrible came over her features that Margaret was unrecognizable.
“Sir Thomas More guilty before God and before man!” she pursued with a smile of frightful bitterness, while her eyes remained dry. “Pierre Gilles, you have heard it; have I not told you? O ignoble creatures! Behold them, these bloody judges—this Cromwell, with his livid face, and envy corroding his heart; this Audley, vender of consciences; this Cranmer, renegade archbishop! No, you do not know them! There they are before your eyes, and they invoke the name of Almighty God! One day, yes, one day, we also will see them before the tribunal of the Sovereign Judge—before that tribunal without appeal and without mercy—to receive the reward of perjury and of murder. May Heaven hear my cry; may my tears mount to the skies, and fall
back upon them to add new strength to the remorse which they have so long sought to tear from their hearts!”
“What woman is this,” said Cromwell, “who dares to disturb the court?”
“Nay, Master Cromwell,” replied More in a stifled voice, “pardon her! She is a child. Alas! you know her well.”
“Bear her away,” said Audley instantly.
“Officer, lead that woman out!” exclaimed Cromwell in a voice of thunder.
“My daughter, my cherished daughter, follow Pierre Gilles! My friend, take her out!” cried Sir Thomas.
“I will not go!” exclaimed Margaret, bracing her feeble feet against the long stone slabs.
“Will you suffer a varlet to lay his hands on you, Margaret?” said Pierre Gilles, whose tears streamed down his cheeks and stifled his voice.
“Yes, anything! If I leave him, they will let me see him no more.”
“Sheriff, do you hear?” cried Cromwell.
“O Master Cromwell!” exclaimed Margaret, falling on her knees and raising her suppliant hands toward him. “But, no,” she said, immediately rising again, “I will not descend so low! Implore him? You may annihilate but never demean me!” And casting a withering glance upon Cromwell, she seized the arm of Pierre Gilles, and, dragging him away, left the place without even looking toward her father.
This scene created some disturbance in the horrible assembly, and a moment of silence and hesitation followed, when Cromwell made a sign to the lord chancellor not to let it be prolonged.
Audley then began to pronounce the formula of the sentence, but Sir Thomas interrupted him.
“My lord chancellor,” he said, “when I had the honor of being at the head of justice, the custom was to demand of the prisoner, before pronouncing sentence, if he had anything to say that might arrest the judgment about to be rendered against him. I ask, then, to say a few words.”
“And what can you have to say?” asked Audley brusquely.
“Much, my lord,” answered Sir Thomas; “for, now that I have been condemned, and it can no more seem like presuming on my own strength in exposing myself to death, I can discharge my conscience, and speak freely and without restriction. I therefore declare, in the presence of your lordships here present, that I regard the statute of Parliament as entirely illegal and contrary to all laws, divine and human, and my accusation, consequently, as being completely null. Parliament has no right, and cannot in any manner have the power, to give the church a temporal head. In conferring the spiritual government of one portion of Christendom on another than the Bishop of Rome, whose universal supremacy has been established in the person of St. Peter, chief of the apostles, by the mouth of our Lord Jesus Christ himself when he was present and visible on earth, Parliament has exceeded the limits of its authority. There are not, therefore, and there cannot be, among Catholic Christians, laws sufficient to oblige a Christian to obey a power which might have been usurped in order to prove this assertion. I will say, moreover, that the Parliament of this kingdom can no more bind all Christendom by such an act
than one small portion of the church can make a law in opposition to the general law of the church universal; or than the city of London, which is only a member in comparison with the body of the state, can make a law against an act of Parliament which would bind the whole kingdom. I will add, furthermore, that this law is contrary to all the statutes and to all the laws in force until this day, and any yet reported, especially to these words written in the great charter: ‘The English Church is free, her rights shall remain untouched, and none of her liberties shall be cut off’; finally, that it is contrary to the oath taken by the king at his consecration, in presence of all the assembled people. And I say that there is far more ingratitude in the English Parliament refusing to acknowledge the authority and spiritual supremacy of the pope than there would be in a child refusing to obey its father; because it is to Pope St. Gregory that we are indebted for the knowledge of the Holy Gospel; it is he who regenerated us—a heritage richer and more desirable than that which any father according to the flesh can bequeath to his children. Yes, noble lords, I confess before you that, since this question has been raised among us, I have spent days and nights in examining it, and I have been unable to find in the centuries passed, or in the works of any doctors, a single example, or even a sentiment, which may authorize a temporal king to usurp the spiritual government of the church. And consider: this divine authority, necessary to the unity and the purity of the Christian faith, would then be committed, in the course of time, in following the order of succession established in this kingdom, to the feeble hands
of a woman or the blind keeping of an infant in its cradle! Truly, my lords, it is a thing which shocks not only the unchangeable rule followed up to our day, but even the most ordinary judgment and common sense.”
“Then,” said Audley, interrupting him with a smile of mockery and disdain, “you esteem yourself wiser than, and believe you possess a knowledge and degree of enlightenment far above that of, the bishops, the reverend doctors, the nobility, and the people of the kingdom generally!”
“I doubt, my lord,” replied Sir Thomas firmly, “of there having been this unanimity between them in which your lordship appears to believe; but, supposing it existed, if we are to judge by the number, it must be very much less even than that of the Christians who are spread throughout the whole world, and of those who, having gone before them in life, are now among the glorious saints in heaven.”
“Sir Thomas,” cried the Duke of Norfolk, reddening, “you show clearly how far your malice and obstinacy extend.”
“Noble duke,” replied More, “you are mistaken: it is neither malice nor obstinacy which makes me speak thus, but rather the desire and the necessity of clearing my conscience; and I call upon God, who sees and hears us, to witness that this is the only sentiment inspiring my heart!”
Cromwell, in the meantime, grew very impatient at this debate, and made signals in vain to Audley that he should impose silence on Sir Thomas; but the former hesitated, stammered, and delayed pronouncing his sentence, resolving in his mind not to take upon himself the responsibility of the proceeding.
All at once he turned toward the lord chief-justice, Fitz-James.
“Why,” said he, “Sir John, do you not assist me with your opinion? Could it be true that our sentence were unlawful? Speak! Are you not the lord chief-justice?”
At this question a frightful apprehension arose in the soul of the weak judge; he was conscious of the adroit snare into which he had been drawn. They questioned him directly; they placed in the hollow of his hand the weights which were to turn the balance and decide the fate of Sir Thomas, his benefactor and friend. He paled visibly and answered nothing.
“Well!” said Cromwell, “the chancellor interrogates you, my lord, and it seems you hesitate in your reply!”
If he had had courage, he might, perhaps, have saved More; it failed him. “I think,” he answered in an evasive way, less odious perhaps, but none the less criminal, “that if the statute of Parliament was illegal, the process of law would be equally so.”
“Assuredly,” said Cromwell with a bitter smile, “this is very judicious. If there was no law, there could be no criminal; and if there was no day, there would be no night—there are some things which reason themselves so naturally that we cannot but concede them.” As he said these words, he passed to the chancellor the sentence of condemnation.
Audley read it in a very loud tone, which he lowered, however, when he came to the details of the execution, which set forth that Sir Thomas, after having been carried back to the Tower by Lieutenant Kingston, should be dragged through the streets of the city on a hurdle; led afterward to Tyburn,
where, after having been hanged by the neck, he should be taken down, when half dead, from the gallows, to be disembowelled and his entrails cast into the fire; after which his body should be cut into four pieces, to be placed above the gates of the city, the head excepted, because the head must be exposed on London Bridge in an iron cage.
While the sentence was being read the face of Sir Thomas More remained impassible. At the end only a slight start seemed to denote some feeling. He lowered his head, and it was seen, by an almost imperceptible movement of his lips, that he prayed.
A profound silence reigned around him, and it seemed that no human voice or respiration dared be raised in the presence of such cool atrocity.
After a moment a slight sigh was heard.
“A death of infamy may not be,” murmured the Duke of Norfolk; “he has been lord chancellor!”
He leaned over toward Cromwell. “You have deceived me,” he said. “Decapitation is the only punishment which can be inflicted on him. He has been lord chancellor! Have you thought of that?”
“But,” replied Cromwell, “the law is positive; such is the penalty that follows the refusal of the oath.”
“The king will dispense with the gibbet,” said Norfolk angrily, “or I am not chief of his council!”
“We will see,” said Cromwell. “That will matter nothing, provided he dies,” he added to himself.
Lord Fitz-James had heard Norfolk’s remark, and, unable to restrain his tears, addressed him. “My lord,” he said in an oppressed voice, “the king might be willing to grant his pardon. Ask Sir Thomas
if he have not yet something to say. Perhaps, alas! perhaps he may be induced to make some act of submission.”
Norfolk made a sign of approval. “Sir Thomas,” he said, “you have heard what are the rigors of the law, and the penalty that your inconceivable obstinacy calls down upon your head. Speak, then; have you nothing to reply that may give us the means of mitigating it?”
Sir Thomas raised his head, and looked at him for a moment with an expression of calmness, of gentleness, benevolence, and dignity which it is impossible for any human pen to describe. “Noble duke,” he answered, “no, I have nothing more to say; I have only to submit to the sentence you have passed on me. There was a time when you honored me with the name of friend; I dare believe that I still remain worthy of it. I regard the words you have addressed to me as a souvenir of that good-will, old and proven, which you have felt for me. I would thank you for it at this last moment; for I hope that we may meet again in a better world, where all these dissensions shall have
passed away. And even as the holy Apostle Paul, who was one of those who stoned St. Stephen, is now united with him in heaven, where they love with an eternal love, so I hope also that your lordships, who have been my judges here on earth, and all those who have participated in any way in my death, may be eternally reunited and happy in possession of the salvation which our divine Saviour Jesus Christ has merited for us on the cross. To this end I will pray from my heart for your lordships, and above all for my lord the king, that God may accord him faithful counsellors, and that the truth may no longer remain hidden from him.”
And saying these words with much sweetness and fulness of heart, Sir Thomas was silent.
As soon as he had ceased speaking the guards, by Cromwell’s order, pressed around him. An axe was raised, the edge of which was turned toward the condemned by a man who walked before him. And so he was led back on foot, through the streets, to the Tower, there to wait until the hour of execution should be appointed by the king, after he had affixed his signature to the death-warrant.
TO BE CONCLUDED NEXT MONTH.
TESTIMONY OF THE CATACOMBS TO PRAYERS FOR THE DEAD AND THE INVOCATION OF SAINTS.[110]
Mr. Withrow claims to have produced the only English book on the Catacombs in which the latest results of exploration are fully given and interpreted from a Protestant point of view. We must decline to acknowledge the justice of his claim. His book is very far indeed from giving the latest results of exploration, and he certainly is not the first who has attempted to interpret them from a Protestant point of view. He is, however, as far as we know, the last; and as he has pretty faithfully repeated all the misstatements and mistakes of his various predecessors in the same subject, only adding a few more of his own, it will be worth while to set before our readers a short refutation of some of them. Indeed, this work of refutation is the more necessary because “the testimony of the Catacombs relative to primitive Christianity” is daily increasing in value, as our knowledge of the Catacombs is becoming more exact and scientific. Some years ago, and to some intelligences even now, a painting or an inscription from the Catacombs was “a monument of ancient Christianity,” and one such monument was as good evidence as another of primitive Christian doctrine. It has been reserved to the labors of De Rossi to introduce light and order into this chaos; and those who profess to publish the fruits
of his discoveries ought not to withhold this most important portion of them; at least, they ought scrupulously to follow the lines of chronology which he has established, or else themselves to establish others on surer foundations. Mr. Withrow’s neglect of these distinctions—indeed, of all chronological order whatever—is quite unpardonable. Whilst in the title of his work he promises to examine “the testimony of the Catacombs relative to primitive Christianity,” we sometimes find that the greater portion of the evidence he adduces on some of the most important questions of Christian doctrine is not even taken from the Catacombs at all. Let us look, by way of example, at a single doctrine—the elementary doctrine of the Resurrection—and see how he deals with it. “This glorious doctrine,” he says, “which is peculiarly the characteristic of our holy religion as distinguished from all the faiths of antiquity, was everywhere recorded throughout the Catacombs. It was symbolized in the ever-recurring representations of the story of Jonas and of the raising of Lazarus, and was strongly asserted in numerous inscriptions” (p. 431). But of the inscriptions which he proceeds to quote, one is spurious (Alexander mortuus non est, etc.); others belong to the years 449, 544, etc., long after the practice of burial in the Catacombs had ceased. And we shall presently have occasion to notice other sins, scarcely less flagrant, against every canon of chronology belonging to the subject
which he professes to handle. But first let us say a few words as to what those canons are, and how they have been established.
It is only in our own day that the study of inscriptions generally, and especially of Christian inscriptions, has received that development which entitles it to a place among real sciences. It has now acquired a light and a solidity which constitute it one of the most trustworthy founts of ancient history. To confine ourselves, however, strictly within the limits of our present argument, we will speak only of the method which has been followed by De Rossi during the thirty years he has devoted so assiduously to this subject, and whereby he has been enabled to discover the laws which regulated the gradual development of Christian epigraphy. If we must summarize his method in a single word, we should say that his secret consists in a minute study of the topography of all inscriptions. In every fresh excavation—i.e., in every reopening of the galleries and chambers of the Catacombs, and clearing away the débris with which they have been so long encumbered—he has carefully marked and registered every stone, and even every fragment of every stone, bearing so much as a single letter or symbol engraved upon it, and taken note of the precise spot where it has been found. When a sufficient space has been cleared to enable him to make a study of its contents, he collects all the stones that have been discovered within this area; carefully eliminates all those which have evidently fallen through the luminaria, or in other ways have been introduced from the upper world; next, makes a separate class of those whose place of origin is doubtful—those
which there is some reason, either from their size, their shape, or for some other cause, to suspect may have come from outside; and then there remain, finally, those only which beyond all question belong to the subterranean cemeteries. Many of these he has, perhaps, discovered in situ, still closing the graves to which they were originally attached—and these, of course, are cardinal points in his system of arrangement; of many others he knows the chamber or gallery whence they came; and of all he minutely examines the language, the symbols, monograms or other ornaments, the form of the letters, the names, and, finally, the style and epigraphic formulæ; and the minute study of the inscriptions of innumerable areæ of various cemeteries according to this strict topographical system has led to wonderfully interesting and important discoveries, both as to their history and chronology. This process of examination, it need hardly be said, is laborious and wearisome in the extreme; even the material difficulties which surround it are not slight. It sometimes happens that within the limits of a single area—e.g., in that of St. Eusebio’s monument in the cemetery of San Callisto—there are upwards of a thousand fragments of epitaphs to be sifted and classified. De Rossi, therefore, occasionally gives utterance to a pathetic lament as to the dry and tedious character of the task he has imposed upon himself. Nevertheless, he has persevered in it with the most conscientious fidelity, even when at times the attempt at arrangement seemed almost desperate, and the results have in the end abundantly rewarded his labors. It is with these results that we are at present concerned; and it
is obvious that in these pages we can only reproduce them: we cannot enter into an examination of the evidence upon which they rest. This is the less necessary, however, since even the most bitter of Protestant controversialists admit that “De Rossi has the rare merit of stating his facts exactly and impartially, precisely as he finds them,” and that “his assiduous researches have been conducted with a sincere zeal for truth.”
Let us proceed, then, to state some of the conclusions to which De Rossi’s researches have led him—first, upon the general subject of the chronology of the inscriptions which have come to us from the Catacombs, and next as to the dogmatic allusions contained in them. And first, as to the inscriptions, it is patent that not one in ten bears its date on the face of it. Are the other nine (speaking generally) older or more recent? De Rossi pronounces quite positively in favor of their greater antiquity. He says that the most ancient Christian epitaphs make no mention either of the day or year of decease; that during the time of the first emperors there are very few exceptions to this rule; that in the third century the mention of the day and month of the decease was not uncommon, though the year was still passed over in silence; finally, that in the fourth century this also was added.[111] But he says that there are other tokens, such as the number and character of the names or of the symbols employed, the style of diction, the form of the letters, etc., which, if carefully examined and compared with one another, enable us not unfrequently to make a very probable statement as
to the age of undated inscriptions (probabili non raro sententiâ definies); if, in addition to this, we know the place where the inscription was found, and have had the opportunity of examining other inscriptions found in the same neighborhood, then it will rarely happen that there is any doubt at all about the age to which it belongs. It is not, of course, meant that it is possible to fix the year, or even the decade or score of years, perhaps, to which it belongs; but De Rossi would certainly fix its chronology within the limits of half a century or less (tum de ætate latè saltem sumptâ vix unquam grave dubium supererit); he certainly would never be in doubt with reference to any particular inscription, still less with reference to a whole class of inscriptions, whether it belongs to the ages of persecution or to the end of the fourth century.
Now, Mr. Withrow is either aware of these canons whereby the chronology of the inscriptions from the Catacombs is fixed, or he is not. If he is not, he is quite incompetent to follow by their means (as he professes to do, p. 415) “the development of Christian thought from century to century, and to trace the successive changes of doctrine and discipline.” If he is aware of them, his reasoning is most disingenuous when he first seeks to settle a disputed question by the testimony of the dated inscriptions of the first three centuries (p. 426)—which are not more than thirty in number altogether—and then proceeds to argue that “if those inscriptions which apparently favor Romish dogmas, of which we know the date, are all of a late period, we may assume that those of a similar character which are undated are of the same relative age, and therefore valueless as evidence of the antiquity of such
dogmas” (p. 446). There is no necessity, and indeed no room, for “assumption” at all. The question can be decided by scientific rules whether such and such inscriptions belong to the third century or the fifth, and he ought honestly to have told his readers as much, and to have stated what that decision is. As he has failed to do so, we must supply the omission.
First, however, let the limits of our task be clearly defined. We are not undertaking to establish any point of Christian doctrine by the unaided evidence of inscriptions or paintings from the cemeteries, though we are far from saying that there are none which might be so established. But at present we are only concerned to refute Mr. Withrow’s Protestant interpretation of these monuments, and to show that they at least favor, if they do not demand, a Catholic interpretation. We know that not even the writings of the Fathers present a complete picture of the whole doctrinal system of the age to which they belong, but must be studied by the light reflected upon them from the more developed and systematic expositions of those who came after them. Still less do we think it reasonable to look in a collection of epitaphs for a clear statement of the articles of faith professed by those who wrote them; the utmost that can be expected is that they should contain what De Rossi calls “dogmatic allusions”—more or less distinct, if you will, but always, or at least generally, merely indirect and casual. And as to drawing any trustworthy conclusions with reference to the antiquity of this or that Christian doctrine from the supposed absence of all allusion to it in the dated tombstones of the first three centuries, the mere enunciation of
such a theory is enough to demonstrate its absurdity.
Yet we are sorry to say that Mr. Withrow has been guilty of even worse absurdity than this, if it ought not rather to be called dishonesty. It is certainly worse than mere literary or dialectic trifling—it looks like a wilful throwing of dust in the reader’s eyes—to assert in the text (p. 517) that the order of acolytes, “discontinued in the Protestant communion,” was “probably the offspring of the increasing pomp and dignity of the bishops to whom they acted as personal attendants, especially in public processions and religious festivals,” and that “the only dated epitaphs of acolytes are of a comparatively late period,” whilst forced to acknowledge in a note that “Cornelius, Bishop of Rome in the third century” (A.D. 250)—i.e., at a time when “the pomp and dignity of bishops” consisted in their being the special objects of imperial persecution, and the only “public processions” in which they can have taken part were those in which they were led forth to public execution—that Cornelius, Bishop of Rome in the middle of the third century, “says there were in that church forty-two acolytes.” What does Mr. Withrow mean by placing these two statements together in the way we have described? Does he really wish to insinuate that the absence of an ancient dated epitaph of a deceased acolyte ought to counterbalance the testimony of the bishop to the existence of forty-two living ones? or does he think that the Protestant public, for whose tastes he so unscrupulously caters, will read his text and overlook his notes? or, finally, that, reading the notes, they will nevertheless give greater weight to the uncharitable suggestion of a Protestant clergyman
in the nineteenth century than to the testimony of an eye-witness, who was also pope, in the third? Had the order of acolytes been retained instead of being rejected by the Protestant communion, doubtless Mr. Withrow would have recognized the conclusiveness of the evidence of Pope Cornelius; he would have seen that the forty-two acolytes who were alive in A.D. 250 must sooner or later have died, and been buried in Christian cemeteries, and consequently that the non-discovery there of any dated epitaphs recording their decease is “valueless as evidence” against the antiquity of their order.
But we will not detain our readers any longer by pointing out the curiosities with which Mr. Withrow’s volume abounds, but proceed at once to redeem our promise of setting before them the real state of “the testimony of the Catacombs relative to primitive Christianity” on one or two of the more prominent doctrines of the Catholic faith. We have said that it is unreasonable to look for a profession of faith in an epitaph. But there is one point on which we should be disposed to make an exception to this remark. We think it is quite natural to expect from a large collection of sepulchral inscriptions considerable information as to the belief of those to whom they belonged with reference to the present condition or future prospects of the dead, and their relations with the survivors; and in this expectation the inscriptions from the Catacombs do not disappoint us. Let us call them into court, and hear what evidence they can give.
Mr. Withrow shall open the pleadings, and it must be allowed that he does so with a very loud blast of his trumpet, and one which “gives
no uncertain sound” (p. 418). “There is not a single inscription,” he says, “nor painting, nor sculpture, before the middle of the fourth century, that lends the least countenance to the erroneous dogmas of the Church of Rome. All previous to this date are remarkable for their evangelical character, and it is only after that period that the distinctive peculiarities of Romanism begin to appear.” Presently he quotes what he calls “the first dated inscription possessing any doctrinal character.” It belongs to the year 217, and states of the deceased that he was “received to God” (receptus ad Deum) on such a day; whereupon our author exclaims: “We have here the earliest indication of doctrinal belief as to the condition of the departed. It is not, however, a dark and gloomy apprehension of purgatorial fires, but, on the contrary, the joyous confidence of immediate reception into the presence of God.” Twenty pages later, however, he is obliged to acknowledge that “there occur in the Catacombs frequent examples of acclamations addressed to the departed, expressive of a desire for their happiness and peace; and these acclamations have been quoted by Romanist writers as indicating a belief in the doctrine of purgatory and in the efficacy of prayers on behalf of the dead”; and he proceeds to give a score of examples, such as these: Vivas in Deo, in Deo Christo—Mayest thou live in God, in God Christ; Vivas inter sanctos—Mayest thou live among the saints; Deus tibi refrigeret, spiritum tuum refrigeret—God refresh thee, or refresh thy spirit; Pax tibi—Peace be to thee, etc. But, he says, “it will be perceived that these are not intercessions for the dead, but mere apostrophes addressed to them; they were no more prayers for the
souls of the departed than is Byron’s verse, ‘Bright be the place of thy rest.’” Mr. Withrow continues, and is presently obliged to make a still further concession—viz., that “the wish does sometimes take the form of a prayer for the beloved one,” and he gives half a dozen examples, one of which he curiously misunderstands, and another we do not recognize as belonging to the Catacombs. However, five at least are genuine, and we could have furnished him with a score or two of others, all containing distinct prayers “to God,” “to the Lord,” “to the Lord Jesus,” “to remember the deceased,” “to remember him for ever,” “to refresh his spirit,” “not to suffer his spirit to be brought into darkness,” etc. How is such evidence as this to be withstood? Mr. Withrow shows himself quite equal to the occasion: “They are intense expressions of affection of the ardent Italian nature, that would fain follow the loved object beyond the barrier of a tomb” (p. 443). “They are the only witnesses that keen Roman Catholics can adduce from the Christian inscriptions of the first six centuries,” but “no accumulation of such evidence affords the slightest warrant for the corrupt practice of the Church of Rome.”
We need hardly say that Mr. Withrow is not the first who has thus “interpreted” these epitaphs “from a Protestant point of view.” Mr. Burgon had long since given the same explanation, and even quoted the same poetical illustration from Byron. But we must confine ourselves to Mr. Withrow, and follow him through his graduated scale of confessions. They may be cast in this form: the earliest inscription bearing on the subject of prayers for the dead discountenances
them; there are frequent examples of acclamations or good wishes for the departed, but these are not prayers; moreover, they are, comparatively speaking, few in number—Bishop Kip puts them as “half a dozen among thousands of an opposite character”—and, being undated, we may “assume” that they are of a late age; finally, there are a few prayers, but these are only the untutored outburst of the ardent Italian nature. Let us set side by side with these the statements of De Rossi on the same subjects. And, first, as to the antiquity of these formulæ. He says: “There are two distinct classes of epitaphs to be found in the Catacombs; the one, brief and simple, written apparently without a thought of handing down anything to the memory of posterity, but designed by the survivors mainly as a means of identifying, amid so many thousands of graves of the same outward form, those in which they were specially interested.[112] These are the more ancient, and most of them contain nothing beyond the name of the deceased and some of those short acclamations or prayers of which we have just given examples. Inscriptions of the second class record the age of the deceased, the day of his death, or more specially of his burial, and, in fact, omit nothing which is wont to be found on sepulchral monuments. They are also often defaced by bombastic exaggerations of praise and flattery; and the pious acclamations or prayers we have spoken of are rarely or never found.” It appears, then, according to the evidence of De Rossi—which on this question is surely of supreme authority—that the presence on a tombstone of acclamations
or prayers for the dead, so far from being evidence of the corruption of a later age, is an actual test or token of primitive antiquity. Some indication of this may be gathered, by a careful observer, even from an inspection of the volume of dated inscriptions already published. “May you live among the saints” is engraved on a tombstone of the year 249, and “Refresh thyself, or Be thou refreshed, with the holy souls,” on another of 291; that is to say, there are two distinct examples out of the 32 dated inscriptions prior to the conversion of Constantine. Among the 1,340 dated inscriptions subsequent to that event you will scarcely find another.
And next, as to the relative numbers of the epitaphs which speak positively (in the indicative mood) of the present happiness of the deceased, and of those which speak only optatively and breathe the language of prayer. We cannot, indeed, give any exact statement of figures until De Rossi’s great work on the inscriptions shall have been completed and the whole number brought together in print. But wherever we have had an opportunity of instituting a comparison, we have always found the optative or deprecatory form in the ascendant. It is so in the epitaphs collected in the Lapidarian Gallery of the Christian Museum at the Lateran in Rome; it is so in the inscriptions of each separate area of the great cemetery of San Callisto, so minutely registered by De Rossi in his Roma Sotterranea; and he himself writes as follows: “Some of these acclamations are affirmative, and these may be considered as salutations to the deceased, full of faith and Christian hope, substituted for the cold, hopeless dreariness
of the pagan vale;[113] but for the most part they are optative, and ask for the deceased life in God, peace, and refreshment. We should inquire whether these have not often a real deprecative value, and were not uttered or written with the intention of praying to God for the peace and refreshment of the departed souls.” A full and satisfactory answer to this question, he says, cannot be given till all the inscriptions of this class have been brought together, so that they may mutually explain and illustrate one another. Nevertheless, he refers to what he had said in another place[114] on the same subject; and there we read: “These auguries or good wishes are not mere apostrophes, giving vent to the feelings of natural affection (sfoghi d’affetto); some of them express confidence that the soul received into the heavenly peace of God and his saints is already in the enjoyment of a life of bliss, and these speak positively—vives; others, again, are equivalent to real prayers to obtain that peace, and are expressed in another mood—vivas.”
Mr. Withrow, however, and his co-religionists, may plead that, though constrained to yield to De Rossi’s statement of facts, they are not bound by his interpretation of them. Waiving, therefore, all dispute as to the number and antiquity of the inscriptions which seem to favor the practice of prayers for the dead, they may still persist that they should be taken, not as the voice of the church, but the errors of individuals; or, as Mr. Withrow himself expresses it, “they are not a formulated and authoritative creed formed by learned theologians, but the untutored utterances of humble
peasantry, many of whom were recent converts from paganism or Judaism, in which religions such expressions were a customary sepulchral formula.” If Mr. Withrow merely means to say that Christian epigraphy was the spontaneous growth of the natural feelings and supernatural faith of the people, rather than the result of any written or traditional law devised and imposed by ecclesiastical authority, we are heartily at one with him. We do not doubt that it was the natural fruit of the religious feeling which pervaded all classes of the new society, that was reflected in their epigraphy as in a mirror. But Mr. Withrow clearly meant something different from this; he intended to insinuate that these inscriptions which are distasteful to himself would have been disapproved of also by all well-instructed members of the church, especially by her pastors and doctors. Yet Tertullian, at least, could hardly have disapproved, who takes for granted in one of his treatises, and uses it as the foundation of an argument, that every Christian widow will be continually praying for the soul of her departed husband, and asking for him refreshment (refrigerium), and offering sacrifice for him on the anniversary of his decease. Neither could such prayers have been deemed either objectionable or useless by St. Cyprian and his predecessors in the see of Carthage, who decreed the loss of them as a fitting punishment for any man who should presume to leave the care of his children or of his property after his decease to a cleric, because “he does not deserve to be named in the prayer of the priest at the altar of God who has done what he could to withdraw a priest from the service
of the altar.”[115] However, it is not worth while, easy as the task would be, to justify the inscriptions in question by a catena of venerable authorities from among the bishops and teachers of the primitive church; we will only mention one fact about them which seems to us conclusive—viz., that they are in exact accordance, not to say in verbal and literal agreement, with the most authoritative formularies that have come down to us from ancient days; we mean the ancient liturgies. The language of the public offices of the church—if not an apostolic tradition, which Mr. Withrow would not easily admit—was surely formulated by somebody and formulated according to the dogmas of the faith, and not in a spirit of weak indulgence to any poetical fancies or excess of passionate feeling, whether of affection or of grief. We turn, then, to the oldest sacramentaries,[116] and the prayers we find there run as follows: “We pray that thou wilt grant to all who rest in Christ a place of refreshment, light, and peace”; “Grant to our dear ones who sleep in Christ refreshment in the land of the living”; “Refresh, O Lord! the spirits of the deceased in peace”; “Cause them to be united with thy saints and chosen ones”—the very words and phrases which we have read on the ancient tombstones, and which we still hear from the lips of all devout Catholics when they pray, either in public or in private, for those who are gone before them.
Not without reason, then, does De Rossi describe these prayers for the dead, which are of such frequent recurrence
in the Catacombs, as a faithful echo of the prayers of the liturgy. Of such an inscription as this, In pace Spiritus Silvani, amen, he says very truly that one seems to hear in it the last words of the solemn burial rite, just as the tomb is being closed and the sorrowing survivors bid farewell to the grave.[117]
But Mr. Withrow would have us look for the original of these prayers, not to the Christian liturgy, but to the monuments of “paganism and Judaism, in which religions such expressions were a customary sepulchral formula.” No doubt there was in many pagan epitaphs an address, or acclamation, or apostrophe—call it what you will—to the deceased. But it was either a brief and sad farewell—an “everlasting farewell,” as they mournfully felt it to be—or it was an idle wish “that his bones might rest well,” or (far more commonly) “that the earth might lie lightly upon him”; or there was a still more unmeaning and unnatural interchange of salutations between the living and the dead. The passer-by was exhorted to salute the deceased with the customary Ave or Salve, and the imaginary response of the dead man stood engraven on the stone, ready for all comers. Surely it is impossible that anybody (εἰ μὴ ζέσιν διαφυλάττων, as old Aristotle has it) can be so blind as to confound this empty trifling of the pagan with the hearty yet simple and touching prayers of the Christian. Between the Christian epitaphs and those of the ancient Jews we might naturally have expected a somewhat closer degree of affinity; and so there is. Yet even here the closest point of resemblance
that we are able to find is this: that the Jews ordinarily spoke of death as sleep, and very commonly wrote on the grave-stones, “His sleep is in peace.” We do not remember ever to have seen one of ancient date in which peace is prayed for, neither does Mr. Withrow produce one, though it has suited his purpose to give a deprecatory form to his translation of Dormitio in bonis. The Christian epitaphs, then, have this in common with Jewish epitaphs: that they speak of the dead as sleeping in peace; it still remains as peculiar to themselves that they supplicate for the deceased life—life in God, life everlasting, life with the saints—light, and refreshment.
But we must pass on to another point of doctrine connected with the dead, on which inscriptions in the Catacombs might reasonably be expected to throw some light, and on which the testimony they give is sometimes disputed. Mr. Withrow shall again be permitted to make his own statement of the case: “Associated with the Romish practice of praying for the dead is that of praying to them. For this there is still less authority in the testimony of the Catacombs than for the former. There are, indeed, indications that this custom was not unknown, but they are very rare and exceptional. In all the dated inscriptions of the first six centuries there is only one invocation of the departed.” It is of the year 380, and by an orphan. “But the yearning cry of an orphaned heart for the prayers of a departed mother is a slight foundation for the Romish practice of the invocation of the saints. Previous to this date we have found not the slightest indication of Romish doctrine.… The few undated inscriptions
of a similar character are probably of as late, or it may be of a much later, date than this.”
We have already had occasion to expose the fallacy of this favorite argument of Mr. Withrow’s founded on the paucity and relative antiquity of dated inscriptions. We have pointed out its direct contradiction to all the canons of chronology so laboriously and conscientiously established by De Rossi. Here, however, we must be allowed again to quote his testimony, given precisely upon this particular subject: “Invocations of the deceased,” he says, “asking them to pray for the survivors, are found only in the subterranean cemeteries, not in those made above ground; always in epitaphs without dates, never in those bearing dates of the fourth and fifth centuries. They belong to the period before peace was given to the church, and the new style inspired by the changed conditions of the times sent them quickly into disuse.” The simple and natural character of earlier Christian epigraphy gave place to colder and more artificial announcements. But whilst the more ancient and more religious style prevailed the following are fair specimens of the epitaphs that were written: Vivas in pace et pete pro nobis. Christus spiritum tuum in pace et pete pro nobis. Bene refrigera et roga pro nos. Spiritus tuus bene requiescat in Deo petas pro sorore tuâ. Vincentia in Christo petas pro Phœbe et pro Virginio ejus. Vivas in Deo et roga. Spiritus tuus in bono, ora pro parentibus tuis. In orationis tuis roges pro nobis quia scimus te in Christo—“Mayest thou live in peace, and pray for us. May Christ refresh thy spirit in peace, and pray for us. Mayest thou be well refreshed, and pray for us. May thy spirit rest well in
God; pray for thy sister. Vincentia in Christ, pray for Phœbe and for her husband. Mayest thou live in God, and pray. Thy spirit is in good; pray for thy parents. In thy prayers make petition for us, because we know thee to be in Christ.”
In all these instances—and many more might easily be given, in Greek as well as in Latin, some edited, others still inedited—it is clear that the survivors had a firm hope that their departed friends had been called by the ministry of angels to the enjoyment of the promised bliss and heavenly peace, and this faith was the foundation of these fervid petitions for their prayers. But, objects our author, “these invocations are almost invariably uttered by some relative of the deceased, as if prompted by natural affection rather than by religious feeling.” No doubt the invocations that have been quoted are the utterances of loving and sorrowing relatives; for to them it usually belongs to bury their dead and to write the epitaphs on their tombstones. But does it therefore follow that they were extravagant, unwarranted, and out of harmony with the teaching of the church? First, their very number and antiquity is primâ facie evidence against so unjust a suspicion; and, next, they in no way go beyond the eloquent invocations of the martyrs, whether in the graffiti on the walls near their tombs or in the more formal inscriptions of the bishops themselves—e.g., of Pope Damasus at the tomb of St. Agnes; but, lastly and above all, these again are in exact agreement with the public liturgy of the church. In a fragment of a very ancient liturgy, only published in our own day, and bearing internal evidence of having been used during the days of persecution, the
priest is instructed to pray “for grace to worship God truly in times of peace, and not to fall away from him in times of trial,” and then, after the accustomed reading of the diptychs—i.e., reading the names of the martyrs, the bishops, and the dead for whom the Holy Sacrifice was being offered—he proceeds as follows: “May the glorious merits of the saints excuse us or plead for us, that we may not come into punishment; may the souls of the faithful departed who are already in the enjoyment of bliss assist us, and may those which need consolation be absolved by the prayers of the church.” The different gradation of ranks and the different sense of the liturgical commemoration of the saints, the faithful who are dead and those who are still living, could hardly be defined with greater distinctness in “a formulated and authoritative creed formed by learned theologians.” We need hardly add that the same doctrine is to be found more or less explicitly in all the old liturgies—e.g., in a prayer that “Christ will, through the intercession of his holy martyrs, grant to our dear ones who sleep in him refreshment in the abode of the living”; “that the prayers of the blessed martyrs will so commend us to Christ that he will grant eternal refreshment to our dear ones who sleep in him,” and several other petitions to the same effect. But we are already exceeding the limits of space assigned to us, and we must be content with a general reference to the old sacramentaries; neither can we find room for the passages which are at hand from St. Cyril, St. Chrysostom, and other patristic authorities containing the same doctrine.
We must not, however, altogether omit another branch of evidence
belonging to the Catacombs themselves—namely, the frescoes and other monuments in which the saints are represented as receiving and welcoming the deceased into heaven, conversing with them, lifting up the veil, and introducing them into the garden of Paradise, etc. Everybody knows the inscription scratched in the mortar round a grave in the cemetery of Pretextatus fifteen centuries ago, and now brought to light again some twenty years since, in which the martyrs Januarius, Agapetus, and Felicissimus are invoked to refresh the soul of some departed one, just buried near their own tombs; and the anxiety of the faithful of old to obtain a place of burial near the graves of the martyrs is too notorious to need confirmation in this place. This practice had, of course, a doctrinal foundation. St. Gregory Nazianzen, Paulinus of Nola, or other Christian poets may use the language of mere poetical fancy when they talk of the blood of the martyrs penetrating the adjacent sepulchres; but the spiritual meaning that underlies their words is plain—viz., that the merit of the martyrs’ pains and sufferings, and the intercession of their prayers thus sought by the living, were believed to profit the souls of the deceased. In a recently-discovered fresco in the cemetery of SS. Nereus and Achilleus, a deceased matron, Veneranda, is manifestly commended to the patronage of St. Petronilla, who is represented standing at her side; and there are not wanting inscriptions in which the survivors distinctly commend the souls of their children or others whom they have buried to the care of that particular martyr in whose cemetery they have been laid. We do not quote them at length, not only from want of space, but also
because this class of monuments belongs, generally speaking, to the fourth century, when no one doubts that invocation of the saints was in common use; and we have already quoted a large class of inscriptions, more ancient and quite as conclusive to all minds of ordinary candor. We mention them, however, because they are links in the chain of evidence we have been inquiring about—evidence given by the Catacombs—and yet more especially because they remind us of the beautiful language of our ritual, which none can forget who have ever heard it sung to the solemn chant of the church: In Paradisum deducant te angeli; in tuo adventu suscipiant te martyres, et perducant te in civitatem sanctam Jerusalem. We cannot help suspecting that these prayers or acclamations are as old as the monuments which they so faithfully interpret. The invocation of the martyrs, and of them only amongst “the spirits of the just made perfect” who have already “come to Mount Sion, and to the city of the living God, the heavenly Jerusalem, and to the company of many thousands of angels,” seems to point to such a conclusion; it has a flavor of quite primitive times about it, certainly of the age of persecution. It may well have been contemporary with the following inscription, at present in a private museum, but originally taken from the Catacombs: “Paulo filio merenti in pacem te suscipiant omnium ispirita sanctorum.”
[110] The Catacombs of Rome, and their Testimony relative to Primitive Christianity. By the Rev. W. H. Withrow, M.A. New York: Nelson & Phillips. 1874.
[111] Inscr. Christ., i. c. ix.
[112] Inscr. Christian., i. c. x.
[113] R. S., ii. 305.
[114] Ib., i. 341.
[115] Epist. i. aliter 66.
[116] Bullett. 1875, pp. 17-32. Muratori, Liturg. Rom., i. 749, 916, 981, 996, 1002; ii. 4, 694, 702, 779, 642, 653, 646.
[117] R. S., ii. 305.