“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.