Chapter Sixteen.
The Journey—The First Introduction of Monasteries into Italy.
Jovinian had settled to proceed by land instead of going by sea to Genoa, as Severus had done. Amulius and several other persons in Rome wished to make him the bearer of letters to various Christian friends residing in different parts on the northern road. As no public means of conveyance existed in those days, it was customary to send epistles either by the hand of special messengers or by those travellers proceeding in the desired direction. Jovinian would thus enjoy the benefits of finding a house to rest at, and a kind greeting at many of his stages. At some places he would, however, have to stop at a roadside inn, or at the hut of a peasant. His attendant, Largus, rode alongside him, leading a mule which carried their baggage, among which were books for his own use and others to be presented to Severus.
Neither Jovinian nor Largus carried arms. Any attempt to defend themselves against robbers would be useless, for should such make an attack on them, they would do so in overwhelming numbers; while bears and wolves were not likely to be met with in the regions through which they were to pass.
The road for the first part of the way was tolerably level, so that good progress was made. Etruria, with its ancient temples and shrines of the gods, to the worship of whom the people still tenaciously clung, was traversed. Then, after crossing the Amis—near the town of Pise, where a day was spent with Christian friends—a more mountainous region was entered near Luca. Now the road led along the sides of the lofty Apennines, towards Liguria. Jovinian had relieved his mind by delivering most of his letters, and as from a height he had ascended he beheld the Cottian Alps, their lofty peaks capped with snow, he anticipated a happy termination to his journey. But he had still many rugged mountain passes to traverse. The day was drawing to a close, and neither he nor Largus were certain where they would find shelter for the night. Rugged and precipitous rocks rose up on the right hand, while on the left yawned deep chasms, unfathomable to the eye. The stones, as they slipped beneath the horses’ feet, went bounding down until the sound died away in the depths below. To proceed faster than they were going was impossible without the risk of falling over the precipices, but the path was descending; and at last a gorge was reached, the sides so lofty that it appeared as if the sun could never penetrate to the bottom.
“Surely no human beings can fix their habitations in such a spot as this, and we shall have to pass the night under the blue vault of heaven,” observed Jovinian.
“We must push on, and find our way out of it before darkness sets in,” answered Largus.
Just as he spoke some figures were seen descending from the heights above, leaping from rock to rock. They made their way towards the travellers.
“Who can they be?” asked Jovinian.
“I do not like their looks; if they are honest I shall be very much surprised,” said Largus.
The two travellers did not attempt to alter their pace, seeing that they could not escape by flight. No shafts were aimed at them, and in a short time they found themselves surrounded by a party of armed men, with unkempt hair, long beards, and soil-stained garments, which showed the wild life they were accustomed to lead.
“Who are you, and where are you going?” asked the leader of the robbers—for such it was very evident they were. He drew a dagger as he spoke, and held it ready to strike Jovinian.
“We are simple travellers, carrying but few articles which you would deem of value—our necessary garments and some books,” answered Jovinian.
“And what about your money?” asked the robber, laughing; “that is of more consequence to us than the articles you mention; however, we will not stop here. You must spend a night with us. You cannot reach any human abode before dark, and we will take the opportunity of looking into these matters.”
Jovinian and Largus could only comply, and, attended by the robbers, they proceeded in the direction in which they were before going. They were soon out of the gorge, and entered a region even more wild and barren than the one they had left.
Black rocks lay scattered about, amid which a rapid stream hissed and roared along through a narrow bed. Further off, on the other side of a broad valley, rose precipitous cliffs, rent by the convulsions of Nature, which had formed dark gorges between them. In some places the mouths of gloomy caverns could be distinguished in the sides of the cliffs—fit abodes for wild beasts, or lawless men such as those into whose power the travellers had fallen. Towards one of these caves the robbers were conducting their captives, when suddenly from behind a rock a person started forth, whom Jovinian, from his strange appearance, took to be a madman or some being possessed of an evil spirit, driven from the haunts of men. If is dress, of coarse texture, stained with dirt, hung in rags and tatters about him, exposing a hair garment, worn next his skin. His person was emaciated in the extreme, his hair cut close, his head and neck sprinkled with ashes. He waved about him a staff, which he carried in his hand.
“What are ye about, ye men of violence?” he exclaimed, pointing his staff at the robbers. “Begone! fly! or be prepared for the vengeance of one who knows how to protect the innocent!”
The robbers drew back, trembling with fear; and as the recluse—for such he was—continued waving his staff, they took fairly to flight, and left Jovinian and Largus to pursue their way with their mules and baggage.
Jovinian, as he now observed the strange being to whom he was so much indebted, was reminded of those heathen eremites of whom he had read as long existing in the far East, who, by self-imposed tortures, abstinence from the society of their kind, and long prayers, hoped to merit a blissful immortality among the shadows of the blessed. Wishing to thank the recluse for the services just rendered, he rode towards him.
“You are, I judge by your appearance and bearing, Christians, and as such are welcome to rest during the coming night in my abode, for you can reach no other shelter before nightfall,” said the recluse, without listening to Jovinian’s thanks. “Or, should you be moved by the holy life led by me and my companions, you shall be at liberty to take up your residence with us.”
Jovinian thought it wise to make no reply to the last part of his invitation, but gladly accepted the shelter offered him.
“Follow me, then,” said the recluse; and, making use of his staff to support his steps, he strode on over the rough ground before the travellers towards one of the gorges which opened out at some distance before them, mounting the steep sides of the hill at a pace with which the horses could hardly keep up. He stopped before a wooden porch built of logs, at the entrance of a cavern.
“Your steeds will find grass at the bottom of the gorge, and water at a rill which trickles out of the mountain-side; here no one will molest them—even those bold outlaws dare not approach my abode,” said the recluse, as he signed to Jovinian and Largus to dismount. Fortunately the travellers had brought provisions, or they would have fared but ill on the lentils and water which constituted the food of the recluse. Bringing water from a neighbouring rill in a large bowl, their host insisted on washing the travellers’ feet—although not until they saw it would cause offence longer to refuse did they permit him to perform this act of humiliation.
As the shades of evening drew on, a voice was suddenly heard chanting a hymn from the opposite side of the gulf. It was echoed by another further up, until nearly a dozen voices had joined in the solemn strains.
“They are my brethren who have come here to dwell, and devote themselves to calm contemplation, fasting, prayers, and penance,” said the recluse. “You shall be made known to them to-morrow, and hear the words of heavenly wisdom taught from their lips.”
Jovinian and Largus made their beds by the aid of their saddles and horse-cloths in the outer porch, and were glad that they were not invited to enter the interior of the cavern. It appeared dirty in the extreme.
Mephitic odours pervaded the air. At the further end was a rough cross formed of wood, in front of which two palms were burning. They saw their host prostrate himself before it, and lie at full length with his arms stretched out for a long period; but he did not invite them to join in his devotions. He then rose and closed the intermediate door, so as to shut himself out from their view. Occasionally, during the night, they heard the sound of a lash, while groans and cries issued from the cell. Suddenly, as they were just dropping off to sleep, they were aroused by a voice from within: “Begone, Mercury—I know thee well, and thy ever-changing form; licentious messenger of uncleanness, thou canst not deceive me; and thou, mighty Jove, ended is thy reign, thy thunderbolts fall harmlessly, thy lightnings cannot strike me.” Thus, one after the other, the heathen gods were addressed as if they were present endeavouring to win back the anchorite to their worship.
At daybreak next morning their host roused up his guests, and invited them to join him in prayer. So extravagant were the expressions he uttered that Jovinian could with difficulty retain a due composure.
While they were breaking their fast, the recluse, who refused to eat, recounted to them numbers of miracles which he affirmed that he had performed, but which Jovinian was convinced—were he not purposely imposing upon them—were the hallucinations of a disordered brain. Jovinian could not fail to observe in his unhappy host a vain-glorious exaltation of self, and a spirit of pride combined with a false humility, which the system of asceticism was so calculated to foster. He saw, too, that this vain attempt to merit the favour of God arose from utter ignorance of God’s loving and merciful character, that it set at nought Christ’s finished work—His blood which cleanseth from all sin,—and was directly opposed to all the teaching of the Gospel.
His host afterwards entreated Jovinian to remain a few days, that he might learn more of the mode of life; and practices of himself and his associates.
“Before I can join you I must consult the holy volume which is my rule of faith, and ascertain whether your practices are in accordance with its precepts,” answered Jovinian. “I have not so learnt Christ, and I cannot believe that He who spent His ministry on earth in going about doing good among human beings would have His followers spend their lives where they can be of no use to any one.”
The pale brow of the anchorite flushed as he heard the young man speak. “Come, you may think better of my proposal; but I will now take you to visit my associates.”
The tour which Jovinian made among the other huts rather strengthened than altered his first impression. The inmates, he observed, were profoundly ignorant of Christian truth; a self-righteous ignoring of the righteousness of Christ prevailed universally among them. Some had probably been mad when they resorted to their present mode of life, and others had produced madness by their self-inflicted tortures or abstinence from proper nourishment. When he spoke to them he found that they were far from living in brotherly love: jealousy and ill-will prevailed, while several, asserting their superior sanctity, accused the others of being guilty of all sorts of horrible crimes.
Such was the commencement in Italy of the anchorite or monkish system, which had long existed in the East, and which soon spread over the western part of Christendom.
Jovinian returned to the hut; and, desiring Largus to saddle the horses without delay, bade farewell to their host.
“You will come back and join us?” said the anchorite, not at all aware of the impression made on Jovinian’s mind.
“Not until I find that the system you are pursuing is according to God’s way, and that I can thereby promote His honour and glory,” was the answer.
“Alas, alas!” exclaimed the anchorite, as Jovinian and his attendant rode off; “you will never gain heaven if you thus refuse our way of seeking it.”
Jovinian made no reply; arguments were useless with one who appeared little better than a madman.