the rest. There was the first miracle performed, of her preservation from the boiling water; there also the second, of the prolongation of her life after the three deadly yet ineffectual strokes of the unskilful executioner’s sword. One can fancy the young matron, so childlike in years, so experienced in holiness, lying in meek and chaste expectation of the embraces of her heavenly Bridegroom, and of the purified reunion with her earthly and virgin spouse—while, all the time the wondrous, angel-sustained life lasted, the Christians, her brethren in the faith, her children through charity, would be coming and going, silently as to an altar, rejoicingly as to a saint, and learning, from lips on whom the kiss of peace of the glorified Jesus was already laid, lessons of fortitude and love most precious to their faithful souls. We are told, also, that Urban, the pope, visited her on her glorious death-bed, and, no doubt, he learnt from her entranced soul more than he could teach it in its passing hour; learnt, perhaps, things whose sweetness became strength to him in the hour of his own not far distant martyrdom.
Cecilia, in her short and heavenly life, seems a fitting model for all women, and especially for young maidens and wives. She was of those who know well how to put religion before men in its most beautiful garb and most enthralling form; purity with her was no ice-cold stream and repellent rocky fastness: it was beauty, it was reward, it was glory. Crowns of lilies and roses, heavenly perfume, and angelic companionship
were to be its lovely guerdon; and not otherwise should it ever be preached, nor otherwise surrounded, when its precepts are presented to man. Had we more Cecilias among our Christian women of to-day, there would be more Valeriani and Tiburtii among our men, and virtue would be more readily deemed an honor than a yoke; home would be more of a temple, rather than a mere resting-place; home-life more of a prayer, rather than a simple idyl. For blamelessness is not Christian purity; righteousness is not Christian faith. We want the visible blessings of the church on our daily lives, even as Cecilia brought into the circle of home the visible, angelic gifts of flowers; and we know that to those who seek them where Valerian and his brother sought the heavenly apparition—that is, through faith and prayer—these blessings, these gifts, these blossoms, these safeguards, are never denied.
And to pass from these aspirations after a more Christian ideal of home to the impressions made on an eye-witness by the feast of St. Cecilia in Rome, we will merely say that this feast had been eagerly looked forward to, and had always held a special charm over the mind of the writer of these pages.
On this day, the 22d of November, Mass is said from dawn till noon in the catacomb chapel, where the martyr was first buried. This chapel is one of the largest and most interesting in the Catacomb of St. Callixtus. The distance from the Eternal City to this shrine is not long, but the old Appian Way that leads from the one to the other is crowded with memories and monuments, each a history in itself.
The most noticeable of these is very near the catacomb, and is none other than the mausoleum of Cecilia
Metella, the mysterious and oft-sung pile that Byron has made strangely familiar to us. One cannot help being struck by the familiarity of the two names, and the proximity of the two shrines, of the Cecilias of Rome. The proud mausoleum, stately as a palace, strong as a fortress, built by some ostentatious patrician, or by some sorrowing husband, for the merely worldly end of perpetuating the memory of an illustrious house, or of the domestic virtues of a spouse a little above the common run of licentious Roman matrons, stands now deserted and unvisited, its real history lost and forgotten, and a fictitious one attached to it through the imaginative efforts of a foreign poet. The lonely sepulchre in an earthen wall, the hidden recess in an underground chapel—dug out by silent, persecuted men for the proscribed body of a so-called criminal—remains to this day the pilgrimage of thousands, the well-remembered and well-loved spot where devout followers of the faith Cecilia followed come to beg her intercession as they kneel before the same sacrament, and assist at the same sacrifice, whose blessings were Cecilia’s only strength. Cecilia Metella, the rich Roman lady, is unknown save to antiquaries; Cecilia, the virgin-martyr, is honored all over the world, by all races and all nations. The wealth of the first has rusted away and is heard of no more, because its last emblem was a palatial tomb; the riches of the second have increased a hundred-fold, and have been sown broadcast over the earth, because their abiding symbol lies in a church built over her former dwelling; and the harvest her prayers have reaped is gathered year after year in the riches untold, of virgins crowned with miraculous flowers, of wives laden with the conversions of those dear to them, of women
of all ages, all ranks, all nations, bearing in their hands the charity born of Cecilia’s death-bed generosity, and in their hearts the faith of her death-bed professions.
And so, past the stately tomb worthy of Egypt’s solemn magnificence, the road leads to a small door in a wall, which opens on to a field. A path fringed with red and purple flowers, the last-born children of a southern autumn, winds through the field, to the head of a steep but wide flight of stairs, at the foot of which is the entrance to St. Callixtus’ Catacomb. The pure air, just mist-veiled in the morning coolness, shows the landscape around to its utmost advantage; the omnipresent dome of St. Peter’s basilica clears the line of the blue horizon; the wide purple plain is crossed here and there by dust-whitened roads and arched aqueducts, as by the gigantic bones of a decayed and now powerless monster; the distant hills, darkened at their base by chestnut woods, and dotted with white villas, as with the loosened beads of a string of pearls, throw bluer shadows on the dusky, olive-spotted expanse: and we pause, and wonder whether, after all, things looked so very unlike this on the dawning day when the Christians bore the happy Cecilia to her first resting-place. Their hearts surely must have felt as ours do now, full of joy and thanksgiving, and, above all, full of peace. There would have been a silent throng, a quiet gradual gathering of the future martyrs around the narrow grave of their blessed-forerunner; for in those days no one knew how soon he or she might be called from the altar to the stake, and summoned to carry the unconsumed sacrament within his bosom to the tribunal of an unjust and ignorant judge.
The avenues of the perplexing labyrinth