A visit to the Roman catacombs

by J. Spencer Northcote

The reader will have observed that De Rossi insists in these passages upon the superiority of the Christian paintings of the first two centuries over those of the third and fourth; it does not enter into his argument in this place to speak of paintings executed at any later period, when the Catacombs had ceased to be used as burial-places, and were visited only from motives of piety. Neither does it form any part of our own plan to examine these later paintings at any length. We only mention here that, of course, there are such paintings, as it was not to be expected that the Christians would cease to decorate the places in which the relics of the martyrs still lay; but they are few in number as compared with the great mass of paintings throughout the Catacombs, and they are also so totally unlike those of the præ-Constantinian era, that it would be impossible for any intelligent person to mistake the one for the other. For the present, let us proceed to look more closely into the paintings of the earlier period.

Pliny tells us that in the days of Vespasian, i.e., in the first century of the Christian era, the art of painting was falling into decay in Rome—that it no longer executed any great and original works, but was well nigh confined to the decoration of apartments. Now, this is precisely the branch of art for which there was the greatest demand—one might almost say, the only opportunity—in the Catacombs. What kind of chamber-decoration, then, was in fashion in Pagan houses and tombs (for the Pagans also used to decorate their tombs) about this time? There are not wanting numerous specimens, both in Pompeii and in the neighbourhood of Rome itself, from which to form an opinion. But in the absence of any copies of them here, let us read the general description of them given by a competent and impartial critic. Müller (in his work on “Ancient Art and its Remains”), after endorsing Pliny’s judgment, which has just been quoted, goes on to say that “even in its degenerate state the art exhibited inexhaustible invention and productiveness. The spaces on the walls,” he says, “are divided and disposed in a tasteful way; then into these spaces are introduced arabesques of admirable richness of fancy; the roofs are often in the form of arbours hung with garlands, interspersed with fluttering winged forms, and all this in lively colours, clearly and agreeably arranged and executed.” Any one who is familiar with the Catacombs knows that this is exactly what is to be seen there over and over again, and that in those cemeteries to which we are induced for other reasons to assign the highest antiquity, we find all these things in the highest degree of perfection, and with the least admixture of anything distinctively Christian. This is so true, that a Protestant controversialist has even ventured to say that, on entering some of the most ancient chambers of the Catacombs, we hesitate for a moment as to the Pagan or Christian character of what we see. There is the same geometrical division of the roof, the same graceful arabesques, the birds and flowers, just as Müller describes them; and it is only when we recognise a figure of the Good Shepherd, or Daniel in the lions’ den, or some similar subject, occupying the central compartment of the whole, that our doubts are dissipated.

Painting on roof of most ancient part of Cemetery of St. Domitilla.

Look for a moment at the most graceful specimen of decoration on the last page; it is one of the most ancient in the Catacombs, and it comes from that one of which we saw in a former chapter the public entrance close to the high road, and which we said belonged to the noble Flavian family at the end of the first century. The whole roof of the vaulted passage is covered with the vine, trailing with all the freedom of nature, and little winged genii are fluttering among the leaves. Certainly we might suspect this of being Pagan, were it not that Daniel in the lions’ den, Noe in the ark, and other undoubtedly Christian subjects, are close at hand to disabuse us of the suspicion. Or look at the painting of another vault on the opposite page. This is more stiff than the former, because it was executed nearly a century later; still, there is nothing to declare its Christian character until the eye rests on the Good Shepherd, who appears below the principal part of the decoration.

Painting on Vault of an Arcosolium in Cemetery of Prætextatus.

We are not saying that the artists who executed these paintings had no Christian meaning in them; on the contrary, we believe that they had, and that the paintings really suggested that meaning to those who first saw them. For we know, on the authority of Tertullian, that “the whole revolving order of the seasons” (which are represented in the second painting) was considered by Christians to be “a witness of the resurrection of the dead.” This, therefore, was probably the reason why they were painted here; and no Christian needs to be reminded that our Lord spoke of Himself under the image of a vine, which sufficiently explains the first painting. Still the fact remains that the representations themselves are such as might have been used by Christian and by Pagan artists indifferently. If any of our readers feel disappointed that the first essays of the Christian painter should not have had a more distinctly Christian character, they must remember that a new art cannot be created in a moment. If the Christian religion in its infancy was to make use of art at all, it had no choice but to appropriate to its own purposes the forms of ancient art, so far as they were pure and innocent; by degrees it would proceed to eliminate what was unmeaning, and substitute something Christian.

Some writers have supposed that Christians used at first Pagan subjects as well as Pagan forms of ornamentation; and they point to the figure of Orpheus, which appears in three or four places of the Catacombs, and to that of Psyche also, which may be seen about as often. So insignificant a number of exceptions, however, would scarcely suffice to establish the general proposition, even if they were in themselves inexplicable. But, in truth, the figure of Orpheus has no right to be considered an exception at all, for he was taken by some of the early Fathers as a type of our Lord; and it was even believed by some of them, that, like the sybil, he had prophesied about Him. Clement of Alexandria calls our Lord the Divine enchanter of souls, with evident reference to the tale of Orpheus; and the same idea will have occurred to every classical scholar, as often as he has heard those words of the Psalmist which speak of the wicked as “refusing to hear the voice of the charmer, charm he never so wisely.” When, then, we find Orpheus and his lyre, and the beasts enchanted by his song, figured on the walls or roofs of the Catacombs, we have a right to conclude that the artist intended a Christian interpretation to be given to his work; and a similar explanation may be given of any other subjects of heathen mythology which have gained admittance there.

If we were asked to name the subject which seems to have been used most frequently in the early decorations of the Catacombs, we should give the palm to the Good Shepherd; nor is this preference to be wondered at. Any one who has meditated upon the words in which our Blessed Lord took this title to Himself, will easily understand why the first Christians, living in the midst of heathen persecutors, should have delighted to keep so touching an image always before them. They scratched it, therefore, roughly on the tombstone as they laid some dear one in the grave; they carved it on their cups, especially on the sacred chalice; they engraved it on signet rings and wore it on their fingers; they placed it in the centre of the paintings with which they covered the ceiling of their subterranean chapels, or they gave it the chief place immediately over the altar. We meet with it everywhere, and everybody can recognise it.