CRISTO RAUL. READING HALL THE DOORS OF WISDOM

THE HISTORY OF THE POPES

THE LIFE AND TIMES OF POPE GREGORY I THE GREAT. A.D. 540 – 604

BOOK I. CHAPTER V.

GREGORY AS PREFECT AND MONK

ABOUT the year 573, when Lombard Cleph was making havoc of the old Roman noblesse, killing some with the sword and banishing others from the soil of Italy, and when Farwald and Zotto were carving their great southern duchies out of the undefended territories of the Empire, the mists of history lift, and we are permitted to get a view of the hero of our biography. Amid wars and rumours of wars, famines, invasions, pestilences, Narses-cabals, and Rosamund-murders and adulteries, the little boy whom we last saw studying Latin literature, and watching Pelagius the First purge himself in the ambo of St. Peter's, had grown to manhood. How he lived during the two decades, and how he occupied himself in the ruined city where great patricians lived like beggars in their dilapidated palaces, and the Head of the Church was reduced to imploring a Gallic bishop to send him clothes for his impoverished flock, we have no means of knowing. The biographers are silent as to the doings of these years, and the history of the city of Rome itself is, for the period, almost a blank.

In the greater world beyond the walls, however, some notable events had taken place. In the first place, the veteran Belisarius had quitted forever the warfare of the world, after saving Constantinople in remarkable fashion from the Kotrigur Huns. Then, a few months after—in November, 565—Justinian himself had passed away from his gilded palace on the Bosphorus. As the last of the old line of Roman Emperors, as the last Emperor who could honestly claim to rule the world from the Danube to the African deserts, and from the Straits of Gibraltar to the Euphrates, Justinian closed an epoch. His successors at Constantinople were but "slightly Romanized Greeks," and under their feeble government the Empire split into fragments, and the old Roman tradition was lost. Justinian's end, like that of Louis XIV, with whom he has been compared, was pathetically inglorious. A theology-demented dotard, fumbling all night over crabbed patristic parchments, a persecutor of dead divines and luckless living Popes, a spinner of theological subtleties which brought upon himself at last the imputation of heresy,—such was the Justinian known to the world in his later days. And men, forgetful of all the great things he had done, breathed a sigh of relief when they heard that he had gone, and welcomed with acclamation the Curopalates Justin, an Emperor with the germs of madness latent in him, and destined to develop it strangely before long.

In Italy the Patrician Narses completed the restoration of the Salarian Bridge of the Anio, not without pompous inscriptions commemorative of his "most glorious" self. Then for the remainder of his term of office he devoted his energies to accumulating immense treasure. There is a story that he buried his horde in a cistern which he caused to be dug in one of his palaces in a certain town of Italy. All who were engaged upon this work were slain upon its completion, and the secret was entrusted only to one old man, who, after Narses' death, revealed it to the Emperor Tiberius. The treasure was then exhumed, but so vast was it that many days were spent in removing it from its hiding-place.

Immediately after Narses' deposition came the invasion of the Lombards; and in 571 the much-dreaded host drew alarmingly close to Rome. We do not know, however, what measures were taken to avert the danger. All that is recorded of these years in Rome is that Pope John the Third "restored and enlarged the cemeteries of the holy martyrs," and completed the Church of the Holy Apostles, which Pelagius had begun to build on the Via Lata, but had not lived to finish. It was a spacious building decorated with paintings and mosaics, and six of its ancient columns survive in the present day. It is a curious circumstance, and significant of the times, that amid all their poverty and wretchedness, the Romans should have found the means of erecting a new church, and further, that of all the occurrences in Rome during this thrilling period, that of the completion of the basilica is about the only one recorded. For the sake of its associations with this dim and troubled time, the building of Clement the Eleventh, on the site of John's basilica, is worth a passing visit.

In the meantime Gregory had been attracting some attention. Perhaps already he had begun to develop certain of those valuable qualities which were afterwards to win for him the seldom-granted title of "Magnus"—foresight, prudence, capacity for action and administration, tenacity of purpose, ability to rise superior to difficulties apparently overwhelming. A man of such parts was not to be despised in times of peril and perplexity, particularly when the Lombards were about. Added to this, he was a man of rank, when few of honourable name remained in Rome; a man of wealth, when most of the citizens were subsisting on charity doles; a man of a certain learning in an age of barbaric ignorance; and a man of notorious piety, well thought of by the ecclesiastical authorities. It is scarcely surprising that such a man in such environment should have rapidly come to the front. He was probably tried at first in some lesser office; he assisted, perhaps, in the collection and distribution of corn, occupied some subordinate place in the bureau of the Prefect. Then, as he proved himself a good man and true, higher advancement followed, until at last, about the year 573, we find him, at some thirty years of age, discharging the high functions of Prefect of the City of Rome.

Gregory had thus become a very "illustrious" personage indeed. The Prefecture was the highest dignity in Rome, and although by this time its splendour had become a little tarnished, yet even in the last half of the sixth century it was an honour highly esteemed.

Respecting this office, as it was in former days, we have sufficient information. The Urban Prefect was the head of the Senate, of which august body he was likewise the peculiar champion and protector. He punished those who insulted it, saw that no unworthy persons were elected into it, and presided at the trial of any of its members. He also convened the assemblies, in which he had the right of speaking first. Clad in a mantle of Imperial purple, the Urban Prefect was privileged to ride in state through the streets of Rome, in a splendid car drawn by four horses gorgeously caparisoned. He had supreme civil and criminal jurisdiction not only within the city, but within a radius of a hundred miles from the Capitol; and appeals could be made to him from the suburbicarian provinces. His responsibilities were heavy. The management of all the important affairs in the city was under his control. The care of the grain supplies, the distribution of the free doles, the repair of the aqueducts, baths, sewers, banks and bed of the Tiber, the supervision of Portus,—all these devolved ultimately upon him. The officers employed in taking the census, the collectors of taxes, the superintendents of the markets and granaries, the curators of public works, the heads of the city police, a whole army of officials, depended on him and rendered to him their accounts. Within a circumscribed area his authority was almost regal. He maintained, for the transaction of his multifarious business, a large staff of deputies, secretaries, notaries, clerks, and ushers, and such as pleased him he could promote at will to posts much coveted by place-hunters. In short, even as late as the days of Cassiodorus, the Most Illustrious Prefect of the City of Rome was a real power, as conspicuous and consequental a personage as any in Italy.

Of course, in 573 this brilliant office was shorn of much of its magnificence, and its responsibilities were considerably diminished. The Senate, over the debates of which the Prefect once presided, was a mere shadow of its ancient self, charged only with the duty of inspecting weights and measures. The numerous officials who had once controlled the business of their various departments under the Prefect's supervision, had mostly disappeared. There was, for example, no longer work for Curators of Baths, or Theatres, or Statues, when the baths were waterless and the theatres deserted and the statues fallen or broken; nor was there need of a Minister of Public Spectacles, when the only surviving spectacles were the ceremonies of the Church. Thus the functions of the Prefect were curtailed by the closing of many of the departments of the old civil service. Circumstances, moreover, and in particular the Lombard invasion, had tended to develop the authority of two other officials at the expense of the Urban Prefect. The first of these was the Pope, who was destined within the next few years to become by far the most important personage in Rome. The second was the Magister Militum, who, though not yet resident in the city, was always stationed somewhere in the neighbourhood, and who, in addition to the conduct of military affairs, claimed jurisdiction in all things pertaining to the public safety. Thus overshadowed as he was by these two powers, the ecclesiastical and the military, the Urban Prefect gradually dwindled into insignificance, until in the seventh century, for a season, he altogether disappeared.

Nevertheless, at the time when Gregory held office, the Urban Prefect was still of some consideration. Within the walls of Rome the civil administration rested in his hands, his jurisdiction over the citizens being almost unimpaired. In financial matters he was yet the great authority. The government officials, of whom he had the superintendence, were more in number, perhaps, than is usually supposed; since at a later date we find such officers as a Curator of the Aqueducts and a Palace Architect still in existence. Further, the Prefect acted with the Pope in buying and distributing grain, and he co-operated even with the Magister Militum in taking all necessary measures for the defence of the city. Certainly, though in some departments his authority was superseded, the office of Urban Prefect was still a dignified and influential one, a legitimate ground for pride in those who were sufficiently able to obtain it.

If Gregory was Prefect during 573, his anxieties must have been great. Swarms of Lombards beset the city, and all communications with Constantinople were cut off. In the midst of the panic, on the 13th of July, Pope John died, and was buried in the Basilica of St. Peter. For some months the Church remained without a bishop—a circumstance which added to the prevailing confusion. Probably also in the same year Narses made an end of his sulky, unhappy life; and his body was placed in a leaden chest, and subsequently shipped to Constantinople' Paul gives a good character to the old intriguer; calls him a very religious man, of the Catholic faith, a munificent almsgiver, a restorer of churches, a Christian so fervent in watching and prayer, that he gained his victories more by his abundant prayers to God than by all the munitions of war. But the Roman people were not fond of him, and soon, as we have seen, began to circulate stories that were little to his credit. His death, nevertheless, was unfortunate at this juncture, as it removed from Rome a man most capable of giving counsel that might be trusted. The young Prefect of the City was left to act alone, and what with the Lombards clamouring outside the gates, and pauperism, disease, and misery rife within, his life can scarcely have been an enviable one. Perhaps it was the strain to which he was subjected at this time that gave Gregory a thorough distaste for office, and convinced him that a political career was not for him. Such a conviction gained, at any rate, an increasing hold upon his mind, until at last, after long consideration, he determined to abandon everything and become a monk.

Gregory's decision was not hurriedly taken. It was the fruit, not of any sudden emotion or mental shock, like that which caused Martin Luther to enter a convent, but of long meditation and inward struggle. Endowed by nature with a thoughtful disposition, which had been deepened by the circumstances of his education and environment, Gregory had for some time experienced—so he said himself in after-years- that strong religious impulse to a stricter life, which was called, in the language of the period, the "grace of conversion." He felt that he had received from the Spirit of God that desire for the knowledge of eternity which, as men then believed, could only be realized in the contemplative life by souls enlightened through abstinence and prayer. Nevertheless, he hesitated long, and put off taking the final step. Custom and habit bound him to secular life, and he tried to persuade himself that it would be better to remain a layman. He hoped that, while outwardly engaged in the service of the world, he might yet at the same time be inwardly the servant of God. But after a while he found that in this hope he was but deceiving himself, that the influence of the world in which he lived was growing upon him, that his thoughts were being more and more absorbed in temporal concerns, that he, was steadily becoming of the world worldly. He felt that he had reached the cross­roads, and that the great choice could be deferred no longer.

Although he was not an ambitious or self-seeking man, it is very possible that Gregory was influenced, in coming to his determination, by another and less spiritual consideration. He found himself in the prime of life, rich, popular, holding the highest office in Rome. What was to follow now? Gregory was a man liberally endowed with common sense, and he must have known that Rome no longer provided scope for the energies of a politician. There was no career in the ruined city for a secular statesman. Already he had reached the highest honours to which a Roman layman could aspire, and in this direction there was no possibility of further advancement. Certainly he might, if he wished, migrate to Constantinople, and pursue a political career amid the cabals and intrigues of the Imperial court. But such a life was little to his taste.

The great Byzantine ministers, as he well knew, were only a degree removed from slaves, utterly dependent, amid all their grandeur, on the whims and caprices of an irresponsible despot, who could make them or unmake them as the fancy took him. Such gilded servitude had no charms for Gregory, who, moreover, was pre-eminently a patriot, loving Italy and loving Rome, and regarding the dazzling life in Constantinople as a miserable exile. Thus Gregory found himself compelled to abandon, almost at the outset, all hope of winning distinction in a political career. At the same time, he could not but see that a splendid outlet for the energies and capacities of an ambitious man was provided by the Church. In Italy the Church was a power. The ecclesiastical hierarchy had an influence and a dignity which was daily on the increase. The Church held out prospects to a really able man, such as were to be found nowhere else. And although I would not by any means suggest that, in abandoning a political for a religious life, Gregory was influenced only or even mainly by ambition, yet I cannot doubt that he realized fully that the Church offered the likeliest field for the exercise of his talents, and that this consideration had some weight in bringing about his final decision.

Gregory's resolution was taken at last. His father, Gordianus, was already dead; and his mother, Silvia, had retired into a life of seclusion in the neighbourhood of the Basilica of St. Paul. The Caelian Palace, together with the bulk of the Regionary’s wealth, had fallen to Gregory, who had thus become one of the richest men in Rome. Now, however, he renounced it all. The greater part of his paternal inheritance he devoted to the foundation and endowment of monasteries. Of these, six were situated in Sicily, and may probably be identified with the Monasteries of St. Hermas, of SS. Maximus and Agatha, of St. Theodore, of St. Hadrian, the Praetorian Monastery, and the Nunnery of St. Martin. The seventh and most famous of all—the celebrated Monastery of St. Andrew—was founded in Gordianus’s palace in Rome, close to the Church of St. John and St. Paul. On these religious houses Gregory settled sufficient revenues for the support of their inhabitants—his intention clearly being that the monks should not be distracted from their spiritual exercises by the necessity of labouring to procure the means of subsistence. The rest of his property he distributed among the poor. Then, having laid aside every sign of his former rank and wealth, the man whose silken robes and glittering jewels had dazzled all eyes when he drove in state processions through the city, donned the coarse dress of a monk, and began to learn the lessons of humility as a simple brother in the monastery he had founded. The event we may date about the year 574.

There were already, of course, a great number of monasteries in Rome. Jerome, in his usual exaggerated way, had long ago declared that Rome was transformed into Jerusalem, the convents of the virgins being many, and the multitude of the monks innumerable. Leo the First had built a monastery close to St. Peter's; and the success of St Benedict at Monte Cassino had given an impetus to the movement, so that many a Roman ecclesiastic and pious layman had endeavoured, as the phrase was, “to increase his merits” by the foundation of houses dedicated to the service of God. About the year 589, when Monte Cassino was burnt by Duke Zotto, the Benedictine monks, carrying their precious Rule, fled to Rome, and were established in a building near the Lateran, which was thenceforth dedicated to St. John, and became for more than a century the principal home of the Benedictine Order. It is not certain, however, that this was the first monastery in the Eternal City in which the Rule of Benedict was observed. On the contrary, it has been claimed that this Rule was already used by Gregory in his establishment on the Caelian. The supporters of this theory have argued that before becoming a monk Gregory was, in all probability, well acquainted with the life and work of Benedict; that certainly in after-years he was familiar with the substance and the language of the famous Rule; that Augustine seems to have carried the Rule to Britain; that, at a later time at least, the Gregorian monasteries in Sicily apparently observed the Rule; that there is independent evidence that the Rule had before this been very generally adopted throughout the monasteries of Italy. There is, however, no conclusive proof that the Benedictine Rule was established in St. Andrew's Monastery in 574, or, indeed, that Gregory himself had any knowledge of it before that date. And therefore the controversy is without decisive results. On the whole, however, it seems probable that, though the Rule of Benedict may not as yet have been adopted in its entirety in St. Andrew's Monastery, still it formed the groundwork of Gregory's regulations, and its general spirit and leading principles were carefully conserved. Such an institution as that of Monte Cassino would naturally be taken as a model for subsequent foundations, and the main features of the monastic discipline would be repeated. Hence we shall probably be not far wrong if we imagine that the life of Gregory at St. Andrew's was ordered for the most part in accordance with that Rule, “the marvellous discretion and lucidity” of which provoked at a later time his enthusiastic admiration.

The main principles which underlie the varied prescriptions of Benedict are three—the principle of Absolute Obedience; the principle of Simplicity of Living; and the principle of Constant Occupation. In other words, the good monk was required to resign his individual will, to minimize his appetites and wants, and to eschew all forms of idleness.

First is the principle of Obedience—“obedientia sine mora”, prompt, cheerful, zealous, rendered to God and to the abbat as God's representative. “Nullus in monasterio proprii sequatur cordis voluntatem”, must be the motto of all.

This unqualified obedience must be rendered, in the first place, to the constituted monastic authorities. The head of the society was the abbat, who represented Christ; and about his orders there could be no questioning, and from his decision no appeal. "We foresee," writes Benedict, "that it is expedient for the preservation of peace and charity, that the entire government of the monastery depend upon the will of the abbat." Any brother who ventured to go anywhere or do anything, however trifling, or to receive any letter or present without the abbat's permission, was subject to punishment. If a task was enjoined upon him utterly beyond his powers, he might state his difficulty humbly and patiently, but if his superior persisted in his command, he must obey at once, trusting in God's help? On no account might any monk uphold or defend another, or communicate with those who were under the abbat's displeasure. The abbat, further, was the sole arbiter of rewards and punishments, and in his decisions the whole body was bound to acquiesce. This autocratic authority, however, was modified in three ways. In the first place, the abbat was elected from and by the community, who were to be guided in their choice by the virtue, learning, and practical wisdom of the candidate. If a man of evil life were by some chance elected, the bishop of the diocese and the neighbouring abbats had power, prior to his consecration, to set the election aside. In the second place, when constituted, the abbat, in common with the rest of the community, was bound to the strict observance of the Rule; in which, moreover, he is constantly reminded that he is to be a father to his monks, that he has received a charge of souls to be brought to God, that he will have to account for them at the judgment, that he is to exercise strict discipline indeed, but with kindness, patience, and consideration, adapting himself to the character of each individual, and always framing his regulations with that discretion “which is the mother of virtues”. Thirdly, on all matters of importance, the abbat was obliged to consult with the whole community, even the youngest being permitted to express his opinion. On minor questions he was to take the advice of senior monks. The final decision, however, always rested with himself.

The obedience due to the abbat was also enjoined towards the other officials of the monastery, who exercised delegated authority—the deans, chosen from among the brethren for their merits and learning; and the provost or prior, appointed by the abbat in council with “such of the brethren as have the fear of God before them”. These officers, assisting the superior in the government of the monastery, were to receive all due respect from the monks. At the same time, they themselves owed implicit obedience to the abbat, who might depose them from their places if he found them unworthy.

Besides obedience to the abbat and his delegates, the brethren were bound to render obedience to one another. It is true that in one sense all the monks were equal, patrician and peasant meeting on the common ground of religious confraternity. Yet, on the other hand, there was a graduated scale according to which the monks took rank—their place in the scale depending on the date of their “conversion”, the merit of their lives, or the appointment of the abbat. These “seniors” (not in respect of age, but of standing) were addressed as “Fathers” by the “juniors”, by whom they were treated with deference and respect. The juniors were enjoined to ask their blessing, to rise from their seats when they passed by, and never to presume to sit in their presence unless expressly bidden to do so. If a junior offended one of the seniors, he was to throw himself prostrate at his feet, and there remain until he received his blessing and forgiveness. Thus, says Benedict, “the brethren shall mutually obey each other, knowing that by this path of obedience they shall go unto God”.

To foster this habit of prompt, uncomplaining obedience, Benedict trusted to the spirit, which, as he believed, the observance of the Rule would create among the brethren—the spirit of humility, that virtue on which he laid the greatest stress. For him the Christian life—and therefore, of course, the monastic life—was symbolized by the ladder of Jacob's vision. It rose from the humbled heart to God. Its two sides represented the body and the soul of man; its steps were the degrees of humility. The first step was the ever-present fear of God; the second was the surrender of self-will; the third was implicit obedience to authority; the fourth, patience in difficulties and even under ill-treatment; the fifth, humble confession to the abbat of all secret sins of act or thought; the sixth, contentment with the meanest condition, based upon a conviction of unworthiness; the seventh, not merely to proclaim, but really to believe one's self inferior to all; the eighth, to do only what is recommended by the Rule and the example of the superiors; the ninth, to practise silence; the tenth, not to be fond of laughing; the eleventh, to speak briefly, quietly, gravely, humbly; and the twelfth, to show humility by the very posture of the body, keeping the head bent and the eyes fixed upon the ground,—and this at all times, whether at work or in the oratory, in the monastery, in the garden, in the field, or on the road. “When all these degrees of humility have been surmounted”, Benedict concludes, “the monk will presently come to that love of God which is perfect and casteth out fear—to that love, whereby everything which at the beginning he observed through fear, he shall now begin to do by custom, without any labour, naturally, as it were; not now through fear of hell, but for the love of Christ, out of a good custom and a delight in virtue”.

Benedict’s second principle was that of Simplicity of Living. Necessaries were freely conceded, but all superfluities were entirely cut off. The sacrifice of all individual personal property was insisted on. “Especially let this vice be cut away from the monastery by the very roots, that no one presume without leave of the abbat to give, receive, or hold as his own anything whatsoever, either book, or tablets, or pen, or anything at all; for they are men whose very bodies and wills are not in their own power”. All that was requisite for a monk to have was given him by the abbat—that is, the bare necessaries of life. For clothing each man was supplied with two tunics or shirts, two cowls (in winter lined with wool), a scapular, shoes and stockings, a girdle, a knife, a pen, a handkerchief, and tablets, “that all pretence of necessity may be taken away”. If he went on a journey he was given in addition a pair of drawers, which, on his return, were replaced in the common wardrobe. For bedding a straw mattress, a blanket, coverlet, and pillow sufficed, the monks being required to sleep in their clothes. To those who were in health, and especially to the young, the luxury of a bath was seldom granted. As regards food, on the weekly fast-days and from the middle of September till Easter, one meal only was allowed. Throughout the rest of the year, however, and on Sundays, there was dinner at midday and supper in the evening. The food consisted of two cooked dishes, with a third of fruit or raw vegetables, a pound of bread (which must suffice for both dinner and supper), and about a pint of wine. There was to be total abstinence from the flesh of four-footed beasts, and the meals were to be eaten by daylight. Special provisions were made, however, in favour of the young, the sick, and the infirm. The monks themselves were bidden to cultivate a grave and decorous demeanour. Habits of silence were to be fostered, and all flippancy and buffoonery strictly repressed. The mode of living thus prescribed is clearly the simplest possible: at the same time, however, the Benedictine regulations are remarkable for their careful avoidance of extreme rigour. The ordinance that there should be two hot dishes, "because of the infirmities of different people, so that he who cannot eat of one may make his meal of the other," the concession of animal food and the use of the bath to the sick and weakly, the admonition to the abbat to take care that the dresses were of size suitable to the wearers, above all, the permission of wine, and that even in extra quantity for those engaged in arduous labours or living in hot climates,—all these provisions bear striking testimony to the kindliness and reasonableness of the legislator. Austerity without extravagance, discipline without harshness, simplicity with moderation—such was the key-note of the constitution of Benedict.

The third principle laid down in the Rule was the principle of Constant Occupation. “Idleness”, said Benedict, “is the enemy of the soul”. He therefore arranged that his monks should be continually busy. Their exercises were of two kinds—mental and physical.

Of the former kind the first and most important occupation was worship, called in the Rule pre-eminently "the work of God." To the regulation of this worship Benedict devoted much care and attention. He instituted the familiar canonical hours—Nocturns, Matins, Prime, Tierce, Sext, None, Vespers, and Compline—basing his arrangement probably on that of more primitive services, analogous to those now used in the Eastern Church. The Psalter was sung through once each week, being commenced afresh on Sundays at Matins; and Benedict enjoined that particular care should be taken to make the singing as good as possible. Besides the public services, opportunities for meditation and private prayer were afforded to the monks. Also from two to three hours on week-days, and a longer time on Sundays, were set apart for the study of Holy Scripture and other religious books; and at meal-times and before Compline such books were read aloud to the assembled brethren. In Benedict's monastery, and also probably at St. Andrew's, the literature was exclusively religious.

On the value of physical labour Benedict laid great stress. The good monk, he declared, must be a worker. Anchorites and hermits might enjoy a life of contemplation; but only those deserved to be hermits who "after long probation in a monastery, have learnt to fight against the devil." They must, in short, be educated for contemplation, and the best educator was manual toil. Hence the Master of the Rule appointed five or six hours each day to be spent on labour. Even on Sunday—a day devoted to worship and reading—any who shall be so negligent and slothful as to be either unwilling or unable to meditate or read, shall have some work imposed upon him that he can do, and so avoid being idle. Of this kind of labour there were several varieties. Some of the monks were employed in agriculture, some in the arts and crafts, some in attending on the sick, some in. serving the abbat and his guests, some in transacting the business of the monastery out of doors. The more intellectual monks were entrusted with the education of the children. Moreover, all the brethren in turn took their share of the work of the house—baking the bread, cooking the meals, and cleaning the rooms. The persons appointed to this office were chosen every week; and it marks the religious significance which Benedict wished to give to all work, that on Sunday morning after Matins, the monks elected, before commencing their task, invoked the help of God and desired the prayers of their brethren that their work might be done aright, and on the following Sunday they again requested the intercession of the community for all that had been done amiss, and thus with thanks to God and the benediction of the abbat retired from office .

The disposition of all the work depended on the abbat. All necessary facilities were provided within the grounds of the monastery, so that no one—unless sent on a special commission—need go beyond the precincts. And in all their tasks the monks were particularly warned to cultivate a spirit of humility. "If any of them be proud of the skill he has in his craft, because he thereby seems to gain something for the monastery, let him be removed from that craft and not exercise it again, unless, after humbling himself, he receive permission from the abbat."

Such were the main principles of Benedict's constitution; and the Rule which he drew up strikes us as a monument of legislative art, remarkable alike for its completeness, its simplicity, and its adaptability. The great founder, it is evident, had at once a profound knowledge of human nature and a profound sympathy with human weakness. He recognized that there were limits which ordinary Western piety could not safely overleap, and with wonderful practical sagacity he adapted his constitution to the necessities of men, not striving after an impossible ideal, but laying down sound, workable principles, capable of being put into execution in common life. His reasonableness and moderation are truly admirable. He was content to frame "a tiny rule written for beginners;" to prescribe such observances only as should be within the powers of all who embraced the monastic life sincerely: and this, not because he was ignorant that there were greater heights of perfection attainable—to those who sought a loftier plane he commended the study of Holy Scripture and the Fathers, particularly "the Collations, Institutes, and Lives of the Fathers," and the Rule of Basil—but in condescension to the frailties of the majority of mankind. The concluding sentence of the prologue best expresses the spirit and aim of the Master of the Rule: "We therefore are now about to institute a school of divine servitude, in which we hope nothing will be ordained rigorous or burdensome. But if in some things we proceed with a little severity, sound reason so advising, for the amendment of vices or preservation of charity, do not straightway, for fear thereof, flee from the way of salvation, which is always strait and difficult in the beginning. But in process of time and with growth of faith, when the heart has once been enlarged, the way of God's commandments is run with unspeakable sweetness of love; so that, never departing from His teaching, but persevering in our monastery in His doctrine until death, we share now by patience in the sufferings of Christ, that we may hereafter deserve to be partakers of His kingdom."

With the help of Benedict's Rule, we are able to picture with some degree of vividness the kind of life which Gregory led in St. Andrew's Monastery—a peaceful life of unvarying routine, somewhat monotonous, but none the less grateful on that account to the harassed ex-Prefect. We can imagine this delicately nurtured lord, with the pale face and dreamy eyes which the Italian painters love to bestow upon their favourite saints, clad in his tunic and long black cuculla, now meditating in his cell on the mystic meaning of the Sacred Writ, now chanting the services in the quiet oratory, now copying laboriously the manuscripts of the Fathers; or perhaps engaged in menial work in dormitory or kitchen, or tending spring vegetables in the convent garden, or eating silently in the refectory, while the voice of the reader drones monotonously on, or in the class-room, making the lay-scholars wonder at the eloquence with which he expounds the Scriptures. Sometimes the quiet of his life is broken by the advent of visitors; for there would often be guests in the monastery, and Benedict had directed that all who came should be received "as Christ Himself, since He will say, I was a stranger, and ye took Me in." On these days the abbat would doubtless invite the illustrious brother to help entertain the strangers and pilgrims, who brought with them into their retreat the news and gossip of the outside world. But apart from such excitements, Gregory's existence during these few years was one of unruffled calm. He was able to forget for a while the turmoils of the time, and to devote himself wholly to the study of perfection.

In one respect the life at St. Andrew's seems to have diverged from Benedict's prescriptions. The Roman monks appear to have devoted less time to manual labour than their brethren of Monte Cassino. One reason of this was that, being settled in a city, they had the fewer opportunities of outdoor work; another was that Gregory, by endowing the monastery, had in great measure freed the inhabitants from the necessity of toiling for their maintenance. For these causes the time allotted to manual work was probably diminished, and the hours of reading and meditation proportionately increased. Thus, in the case of Gregory himself, it seems likely that—though he would take his share in the duties of the house and garden—the greater part of his day was occupied with reading, meditation, and prayer, perhaps also with giving instruction to the novices and young monks. And it is highly probable that in the long quiet hours spent in his cell or in the library of the monastery, the future Doctor of the Latin Church laid the foundation of that profound knowledge of Holy Scripture for which he was afterwards conspicuous. Perhaps also he here acquired the habit of allegorical interpretation—a method of exegesis of which he was inordinately fond. Poring for days together over the pages of Holy Writ, the uncritical, imaginative monk would accustom himself to search out latent meanings and to wrest all manner of unsuspected lessons from the most unpromising word-material. It was an exercise of ingenuity which would naturally be attractive to a visionary; yet it must be confessed that this mystical method of interpretation is the principal cause of the weariness which besets a modern reader who ventures upon a prolonged study of Gregory's Commentaries.

Gregory was not content to stop short with those exercises "for beginners" which Benedict had ordained in his Rule; by additional austerities, fastings, and vigils, he aspired to the higher perfection. His asceticism was extreme. His fasts particularly were so rigorous and prolonged as seriously to injure his health, and to sow in him the seeds of diseases from which, for the remainder of his life, he was never wholly free. His unregulated enthusiasm in this matter is illustrated by an anecdote in the Dialogues. One year, towards the end of Lent, he tells us, he had become so weak and ill, that it seemed impossible that he could live unless he took nourishment frequently. "The Paschal Day was at hand. And when I found I could not fast on that most sacred sabbath—i.e. the Saturday before Easter—on which all people, even little children, fast, I began to sink more from sorrow than from weakness. But in my sorrow it suddenly occurred to me to take Eleutherius, the man of God, privately with me to the oratory, and to beg of him to obtain by his prayers from Almighty God that I might receive power to fast on that day. This I did. And so soon as we entered the oratory he began, at my humble request, to pray earnestly with tears. After a short time, his prayer ended, and he left the oratory. But when he pronounced the benediction over me, my stomach at once received such strength that all thought of food and feeling of sickness utterly vanished; and I began to wonder what I was and what I had been, for even when I called to mind my weakness I could not recognize in myself any of the sensations I remembered. While I was occupied in the affairs of the monastery, I entirely forget my sickness; and if I did remember it I felt so strong that I wondered whether I had not really taken food. When evening came, my strength was such that, had I wished it, I could have continued fasting till the next day."

Gregory's ordinary diet consisted mainly of raw vegetables and fruit, which his mother Silvia used to send to him from Cella Nova on a silver dish—the last prized relic of the former grandeurs of the palace of Gordianus. The dainty patrician lady had renounced every luxury she once enjoyed, but she still kept back one piece of silver plate; and about this dish a legend was invented, which, though it properly refers to a later time when Gregory was abbat of his monastery, may for convenience be reported here. One day when Gregory was writing in his cell, one in the guise of a shipwrecked mariner appeared, and begged an alms. Twice did the saint supply his need; but when he returned the third time it was discovered that there was no more money in the house. Then, being reminded of his mother's silver dish, which had been sent that day with food, Gregory gladly presented it to the beggar, "that a poor man who asks to be comforted may not depart in sorrow." Of course, the supposed mariner turned out to be an angel in disguise, and from that time—says John the Deacon—Gregory became so renowned for his miracles and virtues that he was believed to govern his monastery not alone, but conjointly with the Apostle St. Andrew himself.

Mention has been made above of the pious Eleutherius, whose prayers were so effectual for the Paschal fast. We hear of another saintly monk named Merulus, who was at this time one of Gregory's companions, and whose peculiar virtues seem to have made a deep impression on his mind. Of this man the following story is related: "There was in my monastery a monk named Merulus, who devoted himself with all earnestness to weeping and prayer. The words of the Psalms were almost always on his lips, except when he was taking food or sleeping. To him it appeared in a vision of the night that a crown of white flowers descended from heaven upon his head; and soon afterwards he fell ill and died in great peace and cheerfulness of mind. Fourteen years later, when Peter, the present abbat, wished to make for himself a grave near the grave of Merulus, there came from the latter, as he says, a sweet fragrance, as though all the odours of all the flowers were blended together there."

The three years which Gregory spent as a monk in the Monastery of St. Andrew were always regarded by himself as the happiest of his life, and to them he afterwards looked back with unfeigned regret. "When I was in the monastery," he writes, "I could refrain my tongue from idle words and keep my mind almost continually in an attitude of prayer." Over and over again, when distracted with the care of the Churches and all the anxieties of his high office, the great Pope burst out into laments for the monastic peace and quiet that he had for ever lost. "I remember with sorrow," he cries in one typical passage, "what I once was in the monastery, how I rose in contemplation above all changeable and decaying things, and thought of nothing but the things of heaven; how my soul, though pent within the body, soared beyond its fleshly prison, and looked with longing upon death itself as the means of entering into life. But now, by reason of my pastoral care, I have to bear with secular business, and, after so fair a vision of rest, am fouled with worldly dust. I ponder on what I now endure. I ponder on what I have lost. For now am I shaken by the waves of a great sea, and the ship of the soul is dashed by the storms of a mighty tempest. And when I recall the condition of my former life, I sigh as one who looks back and gazes on the shore he has left behind."

It was well, however, that Gregory was not left to the undisturbed enjoyment of his quiet. Had his monastic life been prolonged for many years, his splendid energies might, not improbably, have been frittered away in unprofitable austerities and self-tormentings. Asceticism, as we have seen, had already obtained too strong a hold upon his mind. He was in a fair way, had he been left in his retreat, to become one of those saintly marvels, whose self-inflicted sufferings are the admiration of their time, but whose beneficial influence on the world at large is found to be insignificant. Fortunately for Rome and Italy, however, Gregory was withheld from this career. A higher destiny was in store for him. Before it was too late he was drawn from his hiding-place by a power which he dared not disobey, and thrown back, all reluctant, into the busy world of men.

Pope Benedict the First, who succeeded John in 574, had marked the career of this gifted man. Doubtless he had observed him when still Prefect, knew of his popularity with the people, remarked his upright conduct, his unwearied attention to business, his legal skill, sound judgment, and administrative ability; had shared, perhaps, in the universal astonishment when he resigned his wealth and became a monk; but kept his eye upon him all the more, noted his progress in piety and learning, his cheerful endurance of hardships, his profoundly religious character; and concluded in the end that such a one was likely to be of service to the Church. Pope Benedict the First was himself in no wise a remarkable man. On the contrary, he was one of those colourless figures of history, of whom little is remembered either good or bad. But in one case at least we have incontestable evidence of his shrewd sense and foresight and we honour him as the first Papal patron of one of the greatest of the Popes.

Sorely against his will, yet obedient to Benedict's command, Gregory quitted his beloved monastery, probably in the spring of 578, and was ordained "Seventh Deacon" of the Roman Church. It has been suggested that the Seventh Deacon was identical with the Archdeacon, and that, inasmuch, as the latter office was generally regarded as an avenue to the Papacy,' Benedict actually intended that the humble young monk should one day succeed him in the chair of Peter. Proof of this suggested identification, however, is not forthcoming, and it seems improbable that Gregory should have been raised at once to so high a dignity as the theory would imply. It is best, therefore, to say simply that Gregory was appointed one of the seven eminent ecclesiastics who shared the counsels of the Pope, and were charged with the superintendence of the seven Regions of Rome. The nomination of an untried monk to a post of such distinction is sufficiently surprising, and we need not seek to exaggerate the honour.

Benedict himself did not long survive the elevation of his protégé. His pontificate had been a troubled one. Lombards, pestilence, and famine had decimated the population of Italy. Many towns had been captured by the enemy, and Rome itself had been threatened. In 577 an embassy, headed by Pamphronius the Patrician, carried to Constantinople a tribute of three thousand pounds of gold, and an urgent request that succours might be sent. The Emperor good-naturedly gave them back the tribute, together with some sound advice, but could spare no troops. In the next year, 578, Farwald, duke of Spoleto, laid siege to Rome. The plague was raging in the city, and a tremendous rainfall created a general conviction that the Deluge was returning. The citizens were crazed with terror. In the month of July Pope Benedict succumbed; and after a short interval, in the November of that year, Pelagius the Second was elected his successor and hurriedly consecrated, without waiting for the Emperor's confirmation of the election.

The crisis was acute. Rome was most inadequately garrisoned. A handful of Byzantine troops, supported by a feeble city militia, was clearly insufficient to defend the place against the swarming Lombards. It seemed to Pelagius that, unless reinforcements could be procured from the East, Rome must certainly be lost. He therefore determined to make one more attempt to move the Emperor. He despatched another embassy, consisting of prominent senators and ecclesiastics, to present his case; and with them, he sent as his apocrisiarius, or permanent ambassador at the court of Byzantium, none other than Gregory himself.

It was, it seems probable, early in the spring of 579 that Gregory—the Prefect, the Monk, the Seventh Deacon, and now the Papal Apocrisiarius—set forth in company with the special embassy on his journey to the Bosphorus. Six years were destined to elapse before he would once again set eyes upon the hills of Rome.

BOOK I. CHAPTER VI.

GREGORY AT CONSTANTINOPLE