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BOOK II.
GREGORY'S PONTIFICATE. CHAPTER III.
The Dialogues.
Towards the close of the year 593 or in the spring of
594 Gregory, at the urgent entreaty of his friends in Rome, published, under
the title of Dialogues a collection of stories, which for several
centuries contributed more than anything else to make his name popular. In
the Euchologion, indeed, and in Eastern books generally, the great Pope is
designated "Gregory of the Dialogue". It is true that the genuineness
of the curious work that we possess under this title has not been left
unquestioned; but it is now generally admitted that the grounds for doubting it
are entirely inadequate. Both the external and the internal evidence are almost
as good as we could desire. In his correspondence Gregory himself alludes to a
compilation he was making of stories of "the miracles of the Fathers which
were done in Italy", and some of the legends of the Dialogues are found
almost word for word in the Sermons. That he actually did complete such a
compilation is asserted by Bede, Paul the Deacon, John the Deacon, the Papal
biographer, and many others. Further, all the best manuscripts of the book we
have, attribute its authorship to Gregory. The internal evidence, again, is
scarcely less conclusive. The doctrine of the Dialogues, though it sometimes
goes beyond, is nevertheless in harmony with the doctrine of the Morals and the
Sermons. The style is certainly a little different, but not more so than we
should naturally expect, since the most consistent author would necessarily
express himself in somewhat different manners in a sermon, a letter, a
theological treatise, and a book of tales. And, lastly, we observe in the
Dialogues a number of little illustrative touches and allusions, which are
quite what we should look for if the author was Gregory, but which would imply
an unusual degree of literary skill in any writer living at a later time, who
wished to pass off his book as the handiwork of the Pope. For these and other
reasons the great majority of critics accept the ancient tradition, and agree
in ascribing the four books of the Dialogues to Gregory the Great. The treatise
was translated into Greek, but not with strict accuracy, by the order or (if
John may be trusted) by the hand of Pope Zacharias (November 741–March 752),
and in its Greek form was published throughout the East. Translations were also
made into Anglo-Saxon (by Bishop Waerferth of
Worcester) and into French.
The title of this curious work is, "The Four
Books of the Dialogues of St. Gregory the Pope, concerning the Life and
Miracles of Italian Fathers and concerning the Eternity of Souls". The
second book is wholly devoted to the life of St. Benedict—the earliest
biography of that saint which we possess —and some further account of it will
be given in the chapter on Gregory's contribution to Western Monasticism. The
fourth book is partly concerned with discussions of doctrinal subjects, such as
Purgatory and the Holy Eucharist; and an exposition of Gregory's views on these
matters will fall most appropriately into the Third Part of this work, which
deals at length with his theology. The remainder of the Dialogues consists of a
collection of marvelous stories—the visions, prophecies, and miracles of holy
men who were either natives of Italy or at least sojourned in that country, and
who were either still living when the book was written or else—at any rate in
the majority of cases—had been living within the last seventy years.
Such collections of pious anecdotes formed the
characteristic literature of the sixth and following centuries. For the mass of
the clergy, as well as for the people, the legends served the purpose at once
of poetry, theology, and history. They gratified and encouraged the vulgar love
of the marvelous. They excited lively emotions of wonder and awe. They gave an
account, which was implicitly believed, of those who were deemed the heroes of
Christianity. They sometimes afforded amusement by an occasional humorous tale
of demon or wizard. And, above all, they gave, or seemed to give, what the men
of these times especially craved for—a proof of God's continual presence with
His people, an assurance that even then, when evil seemed universally
triumphant, the power of God was still put forth to punish and to save.
Undoubtedly Gregory and others found in these legends a consolation and a hope
; undoubtedly the stories of miracles wrought in their own country and in
their own times appealed to them almost as strongly as the assurances of the
Bible. For they seemed to show, as it were visibly, a divine Providence
watching over the children of the true Faith, guiding and glorifying their
lives on earth, and giving them certain prospect of the rewards of heaven. Hence
we find that from the death of Gregory to the time of Charlemagne, the
principal literary works which were written or read—at any rate in Italy and
France—were narratives of the lives and miracles of saints. In hagiography the
history, the theology, the poetry, the philosophy, the fiction of the period
are summed up.
It is possible that besides the general motive of
providing some edifying and entertaining literature for his friends, Gregory
had a second and more special reason for the compilation of the Dialogues. His
book was intended, it seems likely, not only as an illustration of God's power
displayed for the consolation of His people, but also as a glorification of the
Catholic Faith for the conviction of heretics and unbelievers. All those who
performed miracles were Catholics, and many of the miracles were performed to
frustrate the malice of Arians and idolaters. Moreover, Paul the Deacon tells
us that the book was sent to the Lombard queen, Theudelinda, who was herself a
Catholic, though married to an Arian. It is probable, therefore, that Gregory
intended to demonstrate that, in spite of the apparent successes of the
heretical Lombards, God was on the side of the orthodox, and manifested His
power only through the orthodox; and he perhaps hoped that by means of his
stories the queen's faith would be confirmed, and the wrong belief of the
heretics around her would be put to shame and confuted.
As the title indicates, Gregory composed his work in
the form of a Dialogue. This species of composition was not, of course, new.
Both Jerome and Theodoret had made use of it in their polemical treatises, and
Palladius and Sulpicius Severus had employed it for relating the histories of
saints. Gregory followed their example, doubtless in order to impart a
liveliness to his narrative, and also to provide artistically an occasion for
sundry explanations and digressions. He represents himself, then, as conversing
with a certain Peter; perhaps he had in his mind Peter the Subdeacon, whom we
have already come across as the somewhat unsatisfactory rector of the Papal
estates in Sicily. However this may be, the Peter of the Dialogues is
skillfully depicted as a stolid, matter-of-fact man, with plenty of common
sense, but little imagination, extremely inquisitive about the miracles wrought
by his countrymen, yet inclined to be mildly skeptical until convinced by
Gregory's arguments. He makes a very good foil to Gregory himself, and his
questions and difficulties lead up naturally and artistically to the remarks
and discussions which the author wished to introduce. We may add that this
literary Peter was no doubt intended to represent, and did represent, the
average ecclesiastic of the period, and his doubts and perplexities probably
reflect pretty accurately the doubts and perplexities of most sixth-century
churchmen.
The book opens with a scene in a Roman garden.
"One day, when I was oppressed by the excessive burden of secular affairs,
in which we are often obliged to spend more than is strictly due, I sought a
retired spot, friendly to sorrow, and there all that was unpleasant in my
occupations rose up clearly before my eyes, and I beheld as it were in a single
glance all the causes of my disquiet. When I had been there a long time in deep
affliction and in silence, there came to me my well-beloved son, Peter the Deacon,
who from his earliest youth had been my bosom friend and the sharer of my
studies in Holy Scripture. He, seeing me thus consumed with grief and sickness,
exclaimed, 'Has any new trouble befallen? Why are you so sad beyond your
wont?". Thereupon Gregory gave utterance to a long lament over his lost
monastic peace, and the press of worldly business from which he was unable to
escape, and he added that his sorrow was increased when he called to his
remembrance the holy lives of "those men who with their whole minds had
left this present world". Peter replied that he did not know of any in
Italy to whom Gregory could thus allude. "I do not doubt", he said,
"that there have been good men here, but I think that either they have
wrought no signs and wonders, or else these signs and wonders have been so
buried in silence that we know not whether they were wrought or not".
Gregory answered that the day would not be long enough to tell all that he had
heard or witnessed of the marvellous deeds of the
saints; yet on Peter's entreaty he consented to relate a few examples.
"Such things as venerable and holy men have told me I will now repeat; and
to remove all occasion for doubt, I will mention in each case the source whence
I derived my information. But I would have you know that in some instances I do
not reproduce all the details of the communication, but only the general sense;
in others, however, I preserve both words and matter. For some of my informants
told their stories in very rustic style, so that a man of letters could not
decently preserve their very words in his record."
The supernatural tales which follow may be divided
into three classes—stories of visions, stories of prophecies, and stories of
miracles.
(a) Stories of Visions.
These stories, of course, present no difficulties to
the modern rationalist. That ignorant and superstitious people, living in a
mystical world which they firmly believed to be haunted by legions of
white-winged angels and fantastic demons, should have seen queer visions and
dreamed strange dreams, is only what we should have been led a
priori to expect. Even Gregory himself admitted, at any rate in the case
of dreams, that some were occasioned wholly, and others partly, by natural
causes. "Some dreams are caused", he said, "by the repletion or
emptiness of the stomach, others by (diabolical) illusion, others partly by
illusion and partly by our own thoughts." The revelations he believed to
be most frequent with dying persons, though they were often accorded to people
in good health. The following are among the more remarkable of the visions
recorded.
A certain Jew was once travelling along the Appian Way
from Campania to Rome. His road passed by Fondi,
where there dwelt a bishop named Andrew, who was a good and chaste man, but who
permitted a certain religious woman to live under his roof as housekeeper. When
the Jew drew near Fondi, night was falling, and as he
had nowhere to go, he determined to take shelter in a ruined temple of Apollo.
But these pagan shrines had a bad reputation, and therefore (although he was a
Jew) he took the precaution of protecting himself from demons by making the
sign of the cross. Even so, however, he was too terrified to sleep. At
midnight, as he lay awake, he suddenly beheld a crowd of evil spirits, moving
before one who appeared their chieftain, and who took his seat within the
temple. To this demon the other spirits did homage, and he inquired of each in
turn what mischief they had been doing in the world. Whereupon one stepped
forward and declared that he had been tempting Bishop Andrew in regard to his
housekeeper, and had so far succeeded that the good man had been moved that
very evening to give her an affectionate slap. The prince of the demons praised
his servant highly, and made him great promises if he should finish his evil
work; then, glancing towards the trembling Jew, he inquired who that
presumptuous fellow was, who dared to lie in the temple. The evil spirits
looked, and were amazed to find him marked with the cross. "Alas!
alas!" they cried; "here is an empty vessel, but yet it is signed".
With that they all vanished. The curious legend has a happy ending. The bishop,
when he heard the story, turned away his housekeeper and every other woman in
his household, and never afterwards had any inclination to fall in love. The
Jew was converted and baptized, and the temple of Apollo was turned into a
church and dedicated in commemoration of St. Andrew.
Paschasius was a saintly deacon of the Roman Church,
"a man of great holiness, much given to alms deeds, a considerer of the
poor, and a forgetter of himself". Unfortunately, he was a firm supporter
of the anti-Pope Laurentius, the opponent of Symmachus; but he died in the
highest reputation, and a demoniac was healed by touching the dalmatic on his
bier. A long while after, Germanus, bishop of Capua, was ordered by his
physicians to take a course of hot baths; and there, in the midst of the steaming vapours, he beheld, to his great horror, the deacon
Paschasius. The spirit addressed the bishop and said: "I am appointed to
this place of punishment for no other reason than because I took the part of
Laurentius against Symmachus; and therefore I beseech you to pray unto our Lord
for me, and by this token shall you know that your prayers have been heard, if
at your next coming you find me no longer here". The bishop went away and
prayed, and when he returned the spirit had vanished.
There was a nun of Portus who lived a chaste life, but
was given to foolish talking. When she died she was buried within the church,
and the same night the sacristan, "by revelation", beheld her body
cut in two, and half of it burnt before the high altar. The next morning,
Gregory adds, signs of the burning were discovered on the marble pavement. So
again, when a certain defensor of the Milanese
Church, named Valentinus, "a very shifty person, and addicted to every
kind of levity", was buried in the Church of St. Syrus at Genoa, the
sacristans beheld him dragged screaming from the building by two most frightful
spirits. Next day the body was discovered in another tomb outside the sacred
precincts.
A prettier story is told of a pious Roman shoemaker
named Deusdedit, who worked hard all the week, and on Saturdays used to
distribute to the poor at St. Peter's Church all that he had saved over and
above his necessary expenses. A friend saw in a vision a house in heaven being
built for this good man, but those who were building it worked on no day save
Saturday.
The next tale is remarkable chiefly for its lack of
point and meaning. Theodore, sacristan of St. Peter's at Rome, got up very
early one morning to attend to the lamps that hung by the door. As he stood on
a ladder pouring oil into the lamps, he saw beneath on the pavement the Prince
of the Apostles himself, who said to him, "My fellow-freedman, why have
you risen so early?" and then vanished. The unfortunate sacristan was so
shaken by his fright that he had to keep his bed for many days after.
Some very curious devil-apparitions are related in the
Life of St. Benedict. In one of the monasteries of Subiaco there was a monk who
could not stay at prayers. In spite of frequent admonitions, he was in the
habit of slipping out of chapel and wandering about, engaged in worldly
thoughts. St. Benedict at length determined to take the matter in hand. So he
came to the chapel and watched; and when the Psalms were ended and prayer
began, he saw a little black boy pulling at the garments of the perverse monk,
and leading him from the place. Then Benedict said to the Abbat Pompeianus and to Maurus, "Do you not see there who it
is that is drawing this monk out?" But they replied, "No".
"Then let us pray", said Benedict, "that you likewise may see
whom this monk follows". After two days of prayer Maurus saw, but the abbat still could see nothing. "The next day, when the
man of God had finished his prayer, he went out of the oratory, and found the
monk standing outside, whom he forthwith hit with his staff. And from that time
onwards the monk was free from the suggestion of the black boy, and remained
constant at his prayers. For the old enemy, as if himself had been beaten with
the whip, dared no more to take command of his thoughts."
Again, after Benedict had destroyed the temple of
Apollo at Monte Cassino, the devil "appeared, not covertly or in a dream,
but openly and visibly in the sight of the Father",—all afire, with
flaming mouth and flashing eyes, raging against him. He complained loudly of
the injuries he had received, calling the saint by name, "Benedict Benedict!" And when he got no answer, he cried,
"Thou Maledict, not Benedict, what hast thou to do with me? and why lost
thou persecute me?" Benedict alone beheld the fiend, though the brethren
heard his words.
Another time, when Benedict was on his way to pray at
the Oratory of St. John, he met Satan disguised as a physician riding on a
mule, and carrying a horn and mortar. "Whither are you going?" asked
the saint. "To give a potion to your monks", replied the devil. When
Benedict got back to the monastery, he found that the devil had entered into
one of the elder monks, tormenting him cruelly.
On yet another occasion, when Benedict was praying in
his cell, the devil appeared to him, jeering at him, and saying that he was
going to visit the monks at their work. Benedict at once sent a message to the
brethren, saying, "Have a care, for the wicked spirit at this hour is
coming to molest you". Scarcely had the message been delivered when the
devil overthrew a wall which they were building, crushing one young monk under
the masonry. In these stories we are already face to face with the mediaeval
devil.
Near Monte Cassino there lived in religious retirement
two ladies of noble parentage who were given to abusive language. Complaints of
their conduct having reached Benedict, he sent them a warning, "Have a
care of your tongues, for if you do not amend, I excommunicate you". But
they took no notice of the warning, and shortly afterwards died and were buried
in the church. After this their nurse, "who used to make offerings to our
Lord for them", beheld a dreadful sight. For in the mass, when the deacon
cried out, "If there be any that communicates not, let him depart",
the two nuns, spectral and terrible, arose from their graves and left the
church. This, according to the nurse's testimony, happened several times. At
last recourse was had to Benedict, who "with his own hands gave the
oblation, saying, Go, cause this oblation to be offered to our Lord, and they
shall be no longer excommunicate." Thenceforward the troubled spirits were
seen no more.
One vision recorded by Gregory is of an unusual
character. Benedict sent some monks to build a monastery at Terracina,
promising to come to them on a certain day. He remained, however, at Monte
Cassino, but, on the night before the day appointed, appeared in a dream to
both the abbat and the prior, and gave them minute
directions concerning the new building.
Visions of the souls of persons just dead were not
uncommon. "Many of our time", writes Gregory, "whose spiritual
sight is purified by undefiled faith and frequent prayer, have often seen souls
departing from the body". Thus Benedict beheld the soul of his sister
Scholastica depart in the form of a dove, and that of Germanus bishop of Capua
carried to heaven by angels in a globe of fire; Gregorius, a monk at Terracina,
beheld the soul of his brother Speciosus, when the
latter died at Capua; some people sailing between Sicily and Naples saw the
soul of a certain recluse carried up to heaven; some monks in a monastery six
miles from Norcia saw the soul of their dying abbat fly from his mouth in the form of a dove; a hermit saw the soul of King
Theodoric thrown down a crater at Lipari.
Most common of all, however, were visions vouchsafed
to persons who were either destined to die or who were actually dying, and also
to those who watched round the beds of the dying. These visions, however, are
of too conventional a character to claim our attention here. Warnings of death
are delivered sometimes by voices, sometimes by apparitions of the dead or of
saints, in one instance by a vision of the Virgin Mary. One young monk of
Portus received intimation of his approaching decease by seeing his own name
written in letters of gold. Another monk of St. Andrew's, in Rome, was warned
by a vision of a crown of white flowers. The deathbed visions are all of the
same general type. The dying wrestle with dragons, or with black men of
frightful aspect; they receive visits from angels, or saints clad in white, or
from the Saviour; heavenly music sounds, and fragrant odours fill the chamber with perfume. Sometimes their
dying senses perceive what is happening in other parts of the world, or in the
realm of spirits which they are about to enter. We may read the same things ad
nauseam in all the lives of the saints. We will, therefore, linger no longer
over these stories of visions, but will pass on to the second kind of stories
related in the Dialogues, the stories of prophecies.
(b) Stories of Prophecies.
Of these prophecies we may distinguish two kinds—those
uttered by the dying, and those uttered by saints. Of the first kind Gregory
writes: "Sometimes the soul itself, by reason of its subtle nature,
foresees somewhat of the future; sometimes souls before their departure attain
by revelation to the knowledge of things to come; sometimes when they are on
the point of quitting the body, by heavenly inspiration they penetrate with the
spiritual eye the secrets of heaven." Thus a Roman advocate knew on his
deathbed that he would be buried in the Church of St. Xystus, and a dying
servant foretold the names of all in the house who were going to die; a count
of Civitavecchia, named Theophanius, foretold that a
storm which was raging would cease for his funeral; Cerbonius bishop of Populonia predicted that those who buried
him would receive no hurt from the Lombards.
The prophecies uttered by saints are more interesting.
Sometimes, indeed, they refer to trifling events, as when Equitius of Valeria prophesied that he would not be allowed to obey a summons to Rome,
or when Bishop Boniface foretold that his nephew would never succeed him in the
episcopate. But occasionally they are of greater moment. Constantius bishop of
Aquino was asked on his death-bed who would succeed him. He replied:
"After Constantius a muleteer, after a muleteer a fuller. Alas for thee,
my city! thou hast yet this to endure". When he died, Andrew was made
bishop, who had once been employed in the stables; and after him came Jovinus,
a fuller. Meanwhile Aquino had been so wasted with war and pestilence that, on
the decease of Jovinus, no other bishop was elected.
By far the most remarkable of the prophecies, however,
are attributed to St. Benedict. Three of these are extremely interesting. One
was addressed to the Gothic king, Totila, and it ran as follows:
"Much evil doest thou;
Much evil hast thou done;
At least now give over thine iniquity.
Verily into Rome shalt thou enter ;
Thou shalt cross the sea ;
Nine years shalt thou reign, and die the tenth."
The second is the famous prediction about the fate of
Rome. Said Benedict to the Bishop of Canosa, "Rome shall never be
destroyed by the Gentiles, but shall be so shaken by tempests and lightnings,
by whirlwinds and earthquakes, that it will decay of itself". "The
mysteries of this prophecy", comments Gregory, "we now behold as
clear as day, for in this city we see the walls demolished, houses overturned,
churches destroyed by tempestuous winds, and buildings rotten with old age
decaying and falling into ruin". The third great prediction of Benedict
concerns the fate of the Monastery of Monte Cassino: "All this monastery
which I have built, with whatsoever I have prepared for my brethren, are by the
judgment of Almighty God delivered over to the heathen; and I could scarce
obtain the lives of those in this place". The words were fulfilled when,
in 589, Duke Zotto and his Lombards pillaged and burned the monastery, the
monks, however, escaping in safety to Rome.
In criticizing these stories of prophecy I need only
make one remark. It was natural and easy to attribute a power of foretelling
future events to holy men, particularly when, as in the case of Benedict, they
seem really to have possessed a kind of "second sight". It is to be
observed, however, that, with two exceptions, all the alleged prophecies
recorded by Gregory had been already fulfilled when he wrote. Of these two
exceptions, one was a prophecy of the end of the world, the other the
prediction of Benedict about the destruction of Rome—a prediction which
certainly represented accurately the fate of Rome up to the time of Gregory,
but which the history of the later centuries has falsified. These two
prophecies are the only ones which it is possible to test, and the test proves
them to be nothing better than wrong guesses. It is not unreasonable,
therefore, to suppose that the other tales of prophecies fulfilled were mostly
legends which grew up after the events which are said to have been prophesied.
At any rate, in the absence of proof as to the genuineness of the prediction,
such an explanation is the most intelligible.
(c) Stories of Miracles.
The miracles related by Gregory are, on the whole,
less striking than the visions. A great number of them are merely the usual
stories, such as we get repeated over and over again in monastic biographies.
We have here the oft-told tales of fish miraculously supplied to an ascetic on
a fast-day; of great rocks arrested or removed by prayer; of a saint rendered
invisible to his enemies; of poison made innocuous by the sign of the cross; of
lamps lighted without hands or burning without oil; of wild beasts, birds, and
reptiles gifted with miraculous intelligence; of glass and crockery smashed and
made whole; of provisions miraculously provided or increased; of raging fires
stayed; of sick persons and animals healed; of dead bodies raised to life or
miraculously preserved, or singing, or moving, or undergoing unnatural
transformation in the tomb; of springs produced by prayer, and rivers altering
their courses; of second sight; of the casting out of devils. The compilers of
miraculous histories had no great imagination, and they were mostly content to
embroider on a few well-worn themes. The anecdotes of Gregory, at any rate, are
not very original. I will, however, give one or two of the best of them as
samples.
The gardener of a monastery, finding that a thief
stole his vegetables, set a snake to watch the place in the hedge where the
thief was wont to break in, saying, "In the name of Jesus I bid you keep
this passage and suffer no thief to enter". The snake stretched itself
obediently across the way, and the monk then returned to his cell. Presently,
when the brethren were all taking their midday siesta, the thief came; but just
as he was climbing in, he caught sight of the snake. In his fear he fell back,
and his shoe catching in a stake, he was hung up head downwards, without any
means of extricating himself from his position. The snake meanwhile continued
to watch him until the gardener returned and dismissed it from the duty .
The next story taken from the Life of Benedict is
somewhat curious. One day at Subiaco, the little monk Placidus, the future
Apostle of his Order in Sicily, went to the lake to draw water, but
overbalanced himself and fell in. Benedict, who was sitting in his cell, was
supernaturally aware of the occurrence, and cried out hastily to his disciple
Maurus: "Run, Brother Maurus, for the child who went to fetch water has
fallen into the lake, and the stream has carried him a great way". Maurus
ran down to the edge of the lake, and then, "thinking still that he went
upon dry land, he ran upon the water", caught the drifting boy by the hair
and brought him safely back. It was only when he stood again on the firm ground
that Maurus realized that a miracle had taken place, and "much astonished,
he wondered how he had done that which knowingly he would not have dared to
venture". He therefore imputed the miracle to the virtue of Benedict,
while Benedict on his side attributed it to Maurus's prompt obedience. The
friendly contention in humility was finally settled in favor of Benedict by a
declaration of Placidus "When I was drawn out of the water I thought I saw
my abbat's garments over my head, and imagined that
it was he who drew me out."
Boniface, a bishop, was very poor, his whole revenue
being derived from a single vineyard. But as he was very charitable, he could
never bring himself to deny a poor man who asked for alms. Now, there lived in
the same house with him an ambitious priest named Constantius, who was nephew
to the bishop, and desired to become his successor. This man, in order to get
money to help him in his future candidature, had sold his horse for twelve gold
crowns, which he kept locked up in his chest. One day, when Constantius was
away, some poor people came to beg of Bishop Boniface, who, having nothing of
his own to give them, went to his nephew's chest, forced the lock "with
pious violence", and distributed the crowns among the beggars. Later on
Constantius returned, and, finding his money gone, bitterly reproached his
uncle. "All can live comfortably here except me", cried he. He raised
such a din that all the household ran to his room. The good bishop tried to
soothe him, but he only became the more abusive, shouting out, "Everyone
can live with you except me. Give me back my money!" At last the bishop,
in great grief, went to St. Mary's Church, and, holding his vestment in his
outstretched hands, he prayed to the Virgin to give him some money to quiet the
frantic priest. Casting down his eyes upon his vestment, he suddenly found in
it twelve golden crowns "as bright as if they had come that hour from the
mint". These, therefore, he took, and flinging them down before his
nephew, he said, "There is your money that you have made such a stir
about. But know that, for your covetousness, you shall never after my death be
bishop of this place." The story adds that the bishop's words came true,
and Constantius remained a presbyter to the end of his life.
Two monks of Valeria were hung by the Lombards from
the branches of one tree. When evening was come, the souls of both began to
sing most clearly and distinctly, so that both the Lombards themselves and many
captives in the place heard the music.
In the time of Ambrose there lived in Piacenza a
bishop named Sabinus, a man of wonderful virtue. One day he was informed by his
deacon that the river Po had overflowed its banks and flooded the Church lands.
The bishop said, "Go and say to the river, The bishop commands you to
retire and keep within your bounds." But the deacon burst out laughing,
and would not obey. Then Sabinus summoned a notary and dictated the following
letter: "Sabinus, servant of the Lord Jesus Christ, sendeth warning to the Po. I command thee, in the name of our Lord Jesus Christ, that
thou exceed not thy channel in such and such places, nor presume any more to
damage the lands of the Church." This missive was flung into the stream by
the notary, and the river at once retired from the estates mentioned. A
somewhat similar story is told of Frigdianus bishop
of Lucca. The river Serchio, which flowed near the town, was constantly doing
damage by its floods, and the inhabitants failed in their efforts to divert its
course. At last the bishop took a little rake to the bank of the river, and,
after praying to God, he ordered the river to follow the channel he marked out
with the rake. The Serchio obeyed, and never afterwards flowed in its old bed.
A priest of Valeria, named Stephen, returning one day
from a journey, said carelessly to his servant, "Come, you devil, take off
my stockings." Immediately invisible hands began to unloose his garters.
The priest, in great terror, cried out, "Away, foul spirit, away! I spoke
not to thee, but to my servant." So the devil departed, leaving the
garters half untied. "Whence we may learn", Gregory moralizes,
"that if the old enemy is so ready in things pertaining to our body, he is
yet more eager in watching the thoughts of our hearts."
Florentius of Norcia once found his cell beset by
innumerable snakes. He prayed to God to relieve him of the pest; whereupon it
thundered, and every snake was killed. Then the poor hermit prayed again,
"Behold, Lord, Thou hast killed them all; but who is to carry them
away?" Scarcely had he spoken when a flock of birds flew up, and each bird
bore away a serpent in its beak, leaving the hermitage quite clear.
The last anecdote I shall quote illustrates the
popular opinion as to the danger of offending a man of sanctity. Some Goths,
who were journeying to Ravenna, once kidnapped two little boys from a place in
the neighborhood of Todi. When Fortunatus, the bishop of that place, heard of
it, he sent for the Goths, and addressing them with courtesy asked them to name
any sum they chose as a ransom, and to restore the children. But the leader
replied, "Anything else you ask we will do, but we will on no account restore
the boys." The bishop then insinuated a threat: "You grieve me, my
son, for that you do not listen to your father; do not grieve me, lest you
suffer for it." But the Goth only repeated his refusal and went off. The
next day the bishop renewed his entreaties, with no better success; and when
the barbarian left his presence exclaimed, "I know that you will suffer
for leaving me thus in grief." However, the Goth gave no heed to the
warning, but sent the children on with his men, and himself mounted and rode
after. But before he had passed the city wall, by St. Peter's Church, he was
thrown from his horse and broke his hip-bone. Being carried back to the inn, he
sent in haste to recall the children, whom he ordered to be taken to Fortunatus
with the message: "Behold, you have cursed me and I am punished; receive
the children whom you asked for, and intercede for me." Fortunatus then
relented, and the Goth was healed by a sprinkling of holy water.
The miracles of the Dialogues are of great interest to
a student of the supernatural, because at first sight they seem to be extremely
well attested. To begin with, they were related of people who had been living
within the century, and whose lives and actions, therefore, were still
remembered by many. A false story, then, might easily have been detected.
Again, they were related by people who were still living, were well known, and
were, in many instances, eye-witnesses of the events recorded. The names of
these authorities are given in full by Gregory, and in the great majority of
cases they are names of persons whom we cannot for a moment suspect of
deliberate fraud. Again, there are indications that Gregory himself did not
rashly accept every miraculous tale he heard, but made some attempt to sift and
investigate. He reports in the Dialogues only such tales as he had reason to
believe were true.
The evidence for the miracula,
then, seems at first sight fairly strong. But if we look into it a little more
closely, we shall find that it is not so good as it appears.
First, it would be a great mistake to suppose that in
the sixth century a few years would be insufficient to permit a legend to grow
up round the name of a saint, or that such a legend would be at all likely to
be confuted or shown up. The contrary was the case. The minds of the people of
this period were predisposed in favor of the miraculous. Not only was every
unusual phenomenon at once attributed to supernatural agency, but even ordinary
events were explained on a supernatural hypothesis, if there was the slightest
excuse for doing so. The age, immersed in theology, judged everything by the
theological standard; the theological explanation of things seemed more
credible, more simple, more (if I may so say) natural, than any explanation
that the science of the time could offer. Hence miraculous accounts were
neither softened down nor explained away. They were entirely in harmony with
the prevailing habits of thought, with the prevailing conception of human
experience. The wonder to the men of this time was, not that a saint should
work miracles, but that he should not do so. Any miraculous account, therefore,
was accepted almost without question as perfectly credible, probable, and even
ordinary.
Secondly, the authorities quoted by Gregory cannot be
regarded as having much weight. In some few instances, indeed, we may be
justified even in suspecting them of deliberate falsehood. Take, for example,
the case of Gregory's informant concerning the miracles of Fortunatus of Todi.
"A certain poor old man was brought to me—because I always love to talk
with such men—of whom I inquired his country, and hearing that he was of the
city of Todi, I asked him whether he knew Bishop Fortunatus. He said he knew him
very well. Then I beseech you, said I, tell me whether you know of any miracles
that he did, and, since I am very desirous to know, explain to me what manner
of man he was." In reply to this leading question, the poor old man
related a miraculous story. Gregory continues: "When the old man had told
me this strange story, he was ready to proceed to others, but as I was at that
time to preach to some who expected me, and the day was far spent, I could not
then hear any more of the acts of the venerable Fortunatus. And yet if I could,
I would never do anything else than listen to such excellent stories."' We
cannot here help suspecting that the unnamed poor old man, finding the great
Bishop so eager to listen to his recital, thought it no harm to draw a little
on his imagination, and we are not the least astonished when we find that on
the next day he had a yet more marvelous tale to pour into the ears of his
interested patron. It may be admitted, however, that in the great majority of
cases the authorities spoke in good faith. It is quite incredible that
distinguished bishops, abbats, clergy, and monks
should have all conspired to invent fables to deceive the credulous Pope. Yet
even if we grant that Gregory's informants were men of good character and
position, even if we grant that they had opportunities for personal observation
or for collecting evidence from those who had observed, we have, nevertheless,
no means of judging how far they possessed the power of accurate observation,
or of reporting accurately what they had observed or collected without drawing
inferences of their own, and without adding any supplement or interpolation. An
unusual event inaccurately observed might easily be regarded as a miracle, and
if, in addition to this, it was carelessly reported, its miraculous character
might easily be emphasized. Now, when we remember that these informants were
predisposed to detect the miraculous in the most ordinary events, and moreover,
that in many cases the miracles they related were attributed to saints whose
disciples they had been and whose memory they wished to glorify, we cannot help
regarding their evidence with grave suspicion. At any rate, we have at this
time no means of testing it. The most we can say is that Gregory himself
regarded it as sufficient.
And this leads me to remark, thirdly, that Gregory is
not at all to be trusted as a critic of evidence. It is quite true that he did
investigate to some extent the histories related to him, and satisfied himself,
at any rate, of their truth. But what satisfied Gregory does not by any means
satisfy us. He tells us that he felt bound to believe the stories of his
revered and pious elders as certainly as if he had seen the events related with
his own eyes; and again he says that he learnt certain things "from the
relation of such very religious persons, that I cannot have any doubt whatever
of the truth." Now this means that Gregory was satisfied if he was assured
of the good character of his informant. He looked, not to mental, but to moral
qualities as the guarantee of truth. If the witness was honest, Gregory was
content to believe him trustworthy. This moral criterion, however, is, of
course, insufficient, and it is quite certain that Gregory, by relying upon it,
was betrayed into serious errors.
Of the many miraculous stories recorded in the
Dialogues, only three can be tested by independent evidence. And of these
three, the first, as it now stands, is entirely unhistorical; the second
relates inaccurately an event which, as is now acknowledged, was not
necessarily miraculous; while the third introduces into history a supernatural
element, which is noticeably absent in the accounts of the best authorities.
The first is the celebrated story of Paulinus of Nola.
It relates that when the Vandals devastated Campania, they carried off, among
other captives, the son of a poor widow. Paulinus, to whom the widow came for
help, could give no money to redeem the son; but, in lieu of that, he went
himself to Africa, and voluntarily took the man's place as slave to the
son-in-law of the Vandal king. When by a miraculous circumstance his true
position was discovered, he was honorably sent back to Italy, and carried with
him all the captives of his own city, who were set at liberty at his request.
It is a charming tale of humility and self-devotion, but unhappily it all turns
on the supposition that in the time of Paulinus the Vandals devastated
Campania, and carried off their captives to Africa; whereas, in fact, the
Vandal invasion of Italy did not take place till nearly twenty years after
Paulinus’s death. A desperate attempt has been made to save the credit of the
story by supposing that by "Vandals" Gregory meant "Goths".
But in that case the details of the narrative would be obviously incorrect. It
would be a less violent hypothesis to believe that in the time of the Vandals
someone named Paulinus actually did what Paulinus of Nola is said to have done,
and that in aftertimes the story got transferred from this unknown person to
his more celebrated namesake. In any case, it is certain that Gregory made a
serious mistake, which, by a little care, he might easily have avoided.
The second story relates how certain African Catholics
were able to speak after their tongues had been cut out—a fact, the truth of
which is now universally admitted, but which, it has been convincingly shown,
can be referred to a natural cause. In his narrative Gregory makes the
extraordinary mistake of placing the event in the reign of Justinian, and in
the details he differs considerably from the accounts of those who were
contemporaries. He seems to have picked up the story casually at Constantinople,
and to have committed it to writing without even taking the trouble to test it
by reference to the original authorities.
Thirdly, the account which Gregory gives of "the
martyrdom" of Hermenigild cannot be credited for a moment in view of the
silence of the Spanish historians, and the glaring inaccuracies of the
narrative itself. It is pure fiction.
It is clear, then, from these three cases—the only
ones which admit of being tested—that Gregory was often content to accept the
evidence of persons whom he thought he could trust, without taking pains to
verify and confirm their assertions. It may further be shown without difficulty
that even in cases where he had an opportunity of personally investigating the
miraculous powers accredited to saints, he was perfectly satisfied with the
scantiest and most inadequate amount of proof. I am led to this conclusion by
two instances in the Dialogues. (1) Gregory, as he believed, was enabled to
fast on Easter Eve in consequence of the prayers of Eleutherius. Few people
would consider this circumstance a proof that Eleutherius could raise the dead.
Yet to Gregory it was: "Thus I proved by my own experience that he had
really done the acts of which I was not myself an eye-witness." (2) In the
diocese of Tivoli, a wild and mountainous district, there lived a presbyter,
Amantius, of whom wonderful tales were told. Like the Apostles, he laid his
hands upon the sick, and the diseases, however severe, disappeared at his
touch. The forest serpents, when he made the sign of the cross over them, died
at once. If a snake fled into a hole, he made the sign of the cross over the
hole, and immediately the snake came out already dead. Of these miraculous
powers Gregory wished to have a proof: he accordingly sent for Amantius, and
placed him in a hospital where there were many patients. In this hospital the
presbyter remained some days, and on one night, by prayer and laying-on of
hands, he succeeded in calming the phrenzy of a patient who was deranged. Now,
if an English clergyman with such a reputation for miraculous powers were
placed for some days in a London hospital, and in that time only succeeded in
quieting one lunatic, his pretensions, to say the least, would be somewhat
discredited. But that was not the way that Gregory and his contemporaries
judged. "From this one act of his", says Gregory, "I learnt to
believe all the stories I had heard of him."
My conclusion is that Gregory had no capacity either
for weighing and testing evidence brought forward by others, or for drawing
correct inferences from what fell within his personal observation. Further,
since Gregory was certainly the most intelligent Roman of his age, it is safe
to attribute a similar or even greater incapacity to the original authorities
he quotes. Hence I can only regard the supernatural stories, which proceed,
either from Gregory himself or from these authorities, with the gravest suspicion.
And it certainly does not lessen that suspicion to note that of all the many
miracles recorded in the Dialogues, hardly any were performed in Rome. Gregory
does indeed say, "If I should attempt to relate all that I have known
happen at St. Peter's Church, I should have no time to speak of anything
else." But the only Roman miracles he actually records are the healing of
the lunatic by Amantius, and the healing of a paralytic girl by a sacristan of
St. Peter's, named Acontius. Thus we are asked to believe
that in all parts about the city monks and abbats and
presbyters and bishops were performing innumerable marvels, but that in Rome
itself, the sacred city, either no miracles to speak of were performed, or
those which were performed were not of sufficient interest or importance for
Gregory to note them down. This is indeed strange; and all the more so because,
as soon as eminent Romans left Rome and got to a distance, they are reported to
have worked miracles (e.g. Pope John healed a blind man at Constantinople, and
Pope Agapetus healed one who was dumb and lame in Greece); and further, because
directly we pass from the subject of miracles to that of visions, nearly one
half, and certainly the most beautiful of those recorded, are ascribed to
persons living in Rome. It certainly looks as though the miracle stories could
not bear the light of investigation by one upon the spot, even when that one
was by nature so ready to believe as Gregory.
With the modern reader, then, the legends of the
Dialogues will scarcely pass as strict records of fact. They are, however, of
great historical interest, as faithfully reflecting the customs, manners, and
beliefs of the Italians of Gregory's day. Just as
Boccaccio's Decameron mirrors the life of the fourteenth century, so
the Dialogues reveal the life of the sixth—the life of Italian peasants, monks,
and bishops in the villages and small episcopal towns, as well as the life of
the citizens of Rome. From this point of view the book is a most valuable
source of information on the period; second, indeed, to none save the
collection of Gregory's letters. It is a magazine full of curious matter, which
well repays investigation. Here, however, I can but touch on a few points of
interest, which throw some light on the life and manners of the Gregorian age.
The country, according to the representation in the
Dialogues, had for long been in a very disturbed and unsettled condition. First
the Goths, and then the Lombards, had devastated the rural districts.
Barbarians in bands or else in twos and threes roamed about, pillaging or
murdering all who were not strong enough to resist them. The roads were unsafe,
and unprotected travelers were in danger of being robbed. Children were
kidnapped and carried off, even from the midst of towns. Sometimes towns
themselves, such as Aquino or Populonia, were
ravaged. Monasteries which were reputed wealthy were frequently attacked, the
monks being either killed or put to the torture. Gregory represents both Goths
and Lombards as persecutors. The latter, on one occasion, murdered forty
peasants, because they refused to eat meats sacrificed to pagan gods; on
another, slew four hundred people who would not adore the goat's head, which
the Lombards, "according to their custom, sacrificed to the devil, running
round it in circles, and dedicating it with blasphemous songs"; on
another, hung up two monks on one tree, and again beheaded a deacon.
Sometimes, however, they were on friendly terms with
Catholics, as e.g. with Sanctulus of Norcia, to whom
they presented all the captives they had taken. In Spoleto, it seems, the
principal church remained in the possession of the Catholics, and when a bishop
of the Lombards, an Arian, endeavored to seize it by violence, he was struck
with blindness in punishment of his daring.
Besides the barbarian soldiers, the country was
infested with thieves and beggars. The attention of these people was
particularly directed to the monasteries, and there are some amusing stories in
the Dialogues which relate how they were themselves occasionally trapped. Thus
some thieves once broke into the garden of the monastery of Isaac the Syrian,
but found themselves compelled by a supernatural impulse to work hard at
digging the whole of the night. In the morning the abbat came out, and, with a twinkle in his eye, said to the perspiring burglars:
"Rejoice, my brothers; you have worked well: now you may take a
rest". He then gave them some breakfast, and sent them away with his
blessing and a present of vegetables. Some beggars, again, hoping to obtain
clothing from the holy Isaac, hid most of their garments in a tree, and, after
tearing and spoiling the rest, presented themselves at the convent in a
miserable plight. The abbat, who knew of their
doings, sent one of his monks quietly to fetch the clothes from the tree, and
then presented them to the beggars, saying, "Ye are naked; come, take
these garments and clothe yourselves." The men, recognizing their own
things, went away in great confusion.
The monasteries were the most prosperous institutions
of the age—havens of refuge for the destitute and oppressed. When the monks
were not being harried by the Lombards, they led a peaceful, and for the most
part a happy life. We see them generally engaged in some kind of manual
labor—tending their gardens, mowing hay in the fields, building walls, baking
bread, gathering olives, looking after the oratory, cleaning the lamps, and so
on. In one case only do we find an instance of monks engaged in copying manuscripts.
Often people of high position withdrew into monasteries; serfs bound to the
soil were not received until their landlord's permission was obtained. We
occasionally meet with bad communities, like that of Vicovaro;
but most of the monks in the Dialogues are estimable men. A feature of the
monasteries was the garden, always carefully tended; many possessed their own oliveyards or vineyards. In bad years the brethren were
sometimes sent out into the neighbouring oliveyards to gather fruit, being paid for their trouble
with a little of the oil. But this expedient was rarely resorted to, as it was
thought to be unsettling to the monks.
The power of the abbat, even
over the officials of the monastery, was absolute. We read, for instance, of
one abbat of Fondi who lost
his temper with his prior, and fell to beating him, first with his fists, and
afterwards, since a rod was not handy, with a footstool. Though the prior was
knocked about until he was black and blue, he made no remonstrance, but when
the abbat had finished, went quietly to bed. The next
day, when his bruises were noticed, he merely said, "Yesterday, for my
sins, I came in contact with a footstool, and got the injury you see."
The rule of poverty was, of course, strictly observed,
and excessive abstinence was regarded as a merit. Sometimes, however, monks
obtained an undeserved reputation for austerities. In the monastery of the
Galatians at Iconium there dwelt one who was renowned for fasting. When he was
dying, the brethren assembled round his bed, expecting to hear something
edifying from so good a man. But to their astonishment he said, "While you
thought I was fasting with you, I was really eating in secret, and so now I am given
up to be devoured by a dragon." To eat on the great fasts was held to be a
sin. Good men, moreover, were expected to look pale and ascetic. There is a
droll anecdote of Cassius bishop of Narni, who had
the misfortune to be high-coloured in face. When
Totila saw him he at once concluded that he was a drunkard, and despised him
accordingly. It needed a miracle to vindicate the poor bishop's reputation.
Some of these monks were brave men. An abbat of Sora, being warned by fugitives that the Lombards
were coming, at once distributed among them everything the monastery contained,
even to the contents of the garden. When the barbarians arrived and demanded
treasure, he was able to say with truth that he had absolutely nothing to give
them. The courageous abbot paid for his temerity with his life. He was taken to
a wooded hill and cut down with a sword. When the body fell, it was said
"the mountain and wood were shaken, as though the earth could not bear the
weight of his holiness."
We have a delightful sketch of Equitius,
the preaching abbat of Valeria. He had such a zeal
for saving souls that he would travel up and down the country, visiting towns,
villages, churches, and private houses, and trying by all means "to stir
men's hearts to the love of the heavenly country." This ardent missionary
presented a quaint and uncouth figure. His dress was so coarse and shabby, that
many who did not know him disdained even to reply to his salutation. He rode
upon the worst beast that could be found, with a halter for bridle, and for
saddle a sheep's skin; on right and left hung leather bags stuffed with
parchments of the Holy Scriptures. Everywhere he went "he opened the
fountain of Scripture and watered men's souls with his sermons". But this
queer evangelist had never received a license to preach, and his growing fame
filled the Roman clergy with jealousy. They went, therefore, to the Pope, and
persuaded him to summon Equitius to Rome to give an
account of his doctrine. So a certain Julian, who was afterwards made bishop of Sabinum, was despatched post-haste to bring Equitius with all honor to Rome.
When this man arrived at the monastery, he found some "antiquarii"
writing, who told him that the abbat was in the
fields making hay. Julian, therefore, sent his servant—an intractable and
bad-tempered fellow—to give notice of his arrival. He found a number of monks
hard at work haymaking in the meadow, and he asked one of them disdainfully to
point out the abbat. But so soon as he set eyes on Equitius his bad spirit was subdued, and, trembling
greatly, he bowed himself before him and embraced his knees, telling him that
his master desired to speak with him. Equitius ordered him to carry up some of the hay for the horses, and, said he, "I
will straightway come when I have dispatched the little work that
remains." Meanwhile Julian was chafing at the delay, and when he saw his
servant returning alone laden with hay, he cried out angrily, "Man, what
does this mean? I sent you to bring the abbat, and
not to fetch provender for my horse". "Sir", replied the
servant, "he will come to you by-and-by". Presently Equitius appeared in hob-nail shoes and mean apparel,
carrying his scythe over his shoulder. The pompous Roman cleric despised him
and prepared to greet him rudely; but even he, as the abbat drew nearer, experienced the compelling influence of his holy personality, and,
stammering out his message, he fell on his knees and begged the good man's
prayers.
Besides the congregations of monks and nuns who lived
a common life in monasteries, we read of "religious", both male and
female, who lived separately, under a monastic rule and wearing the monastic
dress, but either in their own houses or in some private cell. Thus in Spoleto
a nobleman's daughter insisted on adopting the religious life, for which cause
she was disinherited by her father, who cut her off with half of one small
estate. Many noble girls joined her, however, and dedicated themselves to
virginity. Gregory's own three aunts lived a monastic life in their own house
in Rome; three other women resided in a house near the Church of St. Mary
Major; Gregory's mother had a cell near the Basilica of St. Paul. Male hermits
generally took up their residence in caves and solitary places, from which they
rarely issued, save sometimes to go and worship at St. Peter's tomb in Rome.
Some of these men bore themselves in a very eccentric fashion. One in Campania,
named Martin, fastened himself to the wall of his cell with an iron chain, so
that he could never move further than the length of the chain. When great St.
Benedict heard of this he sent him a message: "If you are a servant of
God, let not a chain of iron hold you, but the chain of Christ." Then
Martin took off the chain, but he walked no further than he had been accustomed
to when bound. Many recluses had tame pets for company. Florentius of Norcia
kept a bear—he used to call him "Brother Bear"—who daily led out the
hermit's sheep to pasture, and brought them back at the hour his master named.
One day, some monks who were jealous of the hermit's reputation, killed the
bear; whereupon Florentius cursed them, saying, "I hope in Almighty God
that they may, in this life and before the eyes of all, receive the reward of
their malice, who have thus killed my bear that did them no harm." The
four guilty monks were stricken with a horrible disease and died; and the
repentant Florentius for the rest of his life bewailed himself as their
murderer.
A very strange figure is that of Isaac the Syrian. One
day he suddenly appeared in Spoleto, entered the church, and asked leave of the
sacristans to remain as long as he wished, without being turned out at closing
time. He then commenced to pray, and continued thus all that day and all that
night, and a second day and a second night, and a third day also. Then one of
the sacristans, "filled with the spirit of pride", began to abuse
him, calling him a hypocrite and impostor for showing himself in prayer for so
great a length of time, and at last even struck him. At once the man was seized
with a devil, who threw him down and forced him to cry out, "Isaac doth
cast me forth." The saint, whose name was thus disclosed, expelled the
spirit. Immediately the whole city was in an uproar. Men and women, nobles and
peasants, rushed pell-mell to the church, trying to induce the holy man to come
to their houses. Some offered him lands to build a monastery on, others offered
money, others anything that they had. But Isaac refused them all, and, retiring
a little distance from the city, he built a hermitage. Many others soon joined
him and put themselves under his direction. To the end of his life, however,
Isaac refused to accept gifts. "A monk who seeks for possessions," he
was wont to say, "is not a monk." Gregory adds quaintly:
"Although he was incomparably adorned with the virtue of abstinence, the
contempt of worldly wealth, the spirit of prophecy and perseverance in prayer,
yet he had one reprehensible trait, namely, that sometimes he would so exceed
in mirth, that unless men had known him to be full of virtue, they would never
have believed it."
This instance of popular enthusiasm for a holy man is
by no means unique. A great deal of attention was paid to anyone who had
acquired a reputation for sanctity. The rich sent him presents and asked his
prayers; the poor were eager to do him little services. Laymen, and even
clerics, would travel long distances for the privilege of seeing him. A
humorous story is told of a saint named Constantius, who lived near Ancona, and
served as sacristan in St. Stephen's Church. So great was the reputation of this
holy man that people came from all parts of Italy to visit him. Among the rest
came one day a simple countryman from a distant place. Arriving at St.
Stephen's, he found a little tiny man of very insignificant appearance perched
on some wooden steps and tending the church lamps. The bystanders assured the
countryman that this was the great Constantius himself. But the foolish fellow
could not for long believe that so celebrated a saint could look so
insignificant. When at last he was convinced, he burst out laughing and cried,
"I believed that he was a great big man, but that little creature has
nothing of a man about him." Constantius, hearing his words, jumped down
the steps and warmly embraced the Boor. "You are the only man," said
he, " who has his eyes open, and sees me as I am."
The country-folk had a thorough belief in miraculous
powers of such saintly personages. Sick persons, demoniacs, even ailing
animals, were brought to them to be cured. On one occasion a holy prior met a
funeral. A mother was going to bury her son; but as soon as she caught sight of
the "servant of God" she seized the bridle of his horse, saying,
"You shall not leave me unless you raise up my son." Another time two
sisters came running to a bishop on Easter Eve, entreating him to come and
restore their dead brother to life. These greater miracles the saints are
represented as performing with unwillingness on account of their humility:
when humility was not preserved, there was a danger that the miracle would be
undone. Thus Abbat Eleutherius of Spoleto was put to sleep with a demoniac boy
and healed him. But because the abbat boasted of his
feat, the boy was again afflicted, and could only be healed by the united
prayers of Eleutherius and the brethren.
It was generally supposed that a saint continued to
exhibit miraculous powers after death. St. Equitius of Valeria, after his decease, was thought to have defended his monks from the
violence of the Lombards. Bishop Fortunatus of Todi, says Gregory,
"continues" to work miracles at his tomb, healing the sick and insane
"as often as they ask in faith." A dead presbyter of Valeria
prevented the escape of a thief who had stolen a ram belonging to his Church. A
mad woman was healed in St. Benedict's cave. A stocking of St. Honoratus was
instrumental in restoring a dead man to life. The coat of St. Eutychius of
Norcia, was carried through the fields in time of drought, and produced rain.
It was a dangerous thing to offend a holy man even in
the most trifling matters. Bishop Boniface, on the festival of St. Proeulus the Martyr, went after mass to a nobleman's house
to dine. Just as he was about to say grace, he was interrupted by a strolling
player with an ape, who appeared at the door and began clashing his cymbals.
The bishop, in great irritation at the noise, cried out, "Ah, ah! That
wretch is a dead man! that wretch is a dead man! Here have I come to dinner,
and I have not opened my lips to praise God, when that fellow with his ape must
needs come and clash his cymbals." Then he said to the servants, "Go
and give him meat and drink for charity; yet know that he is a dead man."
The bishop then said grace and ate his dinner, and the player too was
entertained; but when the latter was going out a stone fell from the roof of
the house and wounded him so severely that he died the next day,
"according to the saying of the man of God."
The clergy of the period lived in a simple fashion,
and were often extremely poor. One bishop, for example, derived his whole
revenue from a small vineyard. They seem, however, to have exercised a
universal charity—affording relief, not only to the poor of their own dioceses,
but to all passing travelers that demanded it. Often they were men sprung from
the people, and we hear of a stableman and a fuller being made bishops.
Occasionally they had religious women living in their houses, and this was
regarded as a great scandal. There is one contrary case of a married presbyter,
who "from the time of his ordination loved his wife as a sister, but was
on his guard against her as an enemy, and never allowed her on any pretext to
approach him." When she came to visit him on his death-bed, he cried,
"Depart from me, woman! There is still a little fire left: take away the
straw!". Many clerics showed unseemly eagerness to be promoted to
bishoprics. We read of a presbyter who hoarded up money to secure his election;
of an archdeacon who in his impatience tried to poison the bishop. A curious
tale is told of a priest of Interocrina, who was
engaged in pruning his vines when he was sent for to shrive a dying penitent.
He delayed in order to finish what he was about, and meanwhile the man died. So
great, however, was the presbyter's grief at this mischance, that the dead man
was restored to life for eight days, that he might confess and perform suitable
penance!
The churches were cared for by sacristans, who looked
after the cleaning, saw to the lamps, kept the worshippers in order, and opened
and closed the buildings at the proper times. The sacred edifices themselves
were regarded with awe by the people, who were afraid to enter them after
committing any great sin. Alms were distributed in the porches, and beggars had
their stations there as in the present day. The custom of burial within
churches had begun, and the bishops often exacted money for the privilege. Gregory
says that to be buried in a church was good for those whose sins were not
great, because their friends, seeing their tombs, were reminded to pray for
them; it was perilous, however, for the bad, who were only punished the more
for their presumption. Martyrs appeared and ordered the bodies to be removed;
foul spirits came and dragged them out by the feet; shrieks of agony were heard
proceeding from the tomb, and the corpses mysteriously disappeared.
The principal service was, of course, the Mass. Many
stories are told to illustrate the efficacy of the Holy Oblation. Two nuns
could not rest quiet in their tomb until it was offered on their behalf; the
body of a young monk of Monte Cassino was twice cast up from the grave, and
only stayed in peace when the Host was laid upon the breast; thirty masses
delivered the soul of Justus from purgatory; seven masses freed a spirit
condemned to serve bathers in some sulphurous baths;
a prisoner was miraculously released from his chains on the days on which his
wife at home had offered for him; a sailor was saved from drowning on the day a
bishop said mass on his behalf; Pope Agapetus healed a dumb man by placing the
Host in his mouth. Altar-breads were sometimes given away by the clergy as a
special favor. The Viaticum was always brought to the dying when possible. The
altar was regarded as peculiarly sacred, and a little dust from it is said to
have been instrumental in restoring a dead man to life.
The sign of the cross is frequently mentioned in
the Dialogues. Loaves and cakes were marked with the cross. Men signed
themselves when they slept, ate, or drank. A nun, wandering in the garden of
her convent, plucked and ate a lettuce without first making the holy sign, and
in consequence was possessed by a devil. At the exorcism which followed, the
spirit cried out, "What have I done? What have I done? I was sitting upon
a lettuce, and she came and ate me." The sign of the cross was several
times used in working miracles. On one occasion holy water was employed.
The belief in demoniacal agency was universal. In
speaking of visions, I have already quoted some instances of this belief; here
I may add one other. A devil cast out of a man by Fortunatus of Todi took the
form of a stranger, and walked up and down the streets of Todi, crying:
"Oh, the holy bishop Fortunatus! see what he has done! He has turned a
stranger out of his lodging. I seek a place to rest in, and in this city I can
find none." A certain man who was sitting by his fireside with his wife
and little son, hearing the cry, went out and asked the stranger in. But while
they were talking, the spirit suddenly attacked the child, and flung him into
the fire before the eyes of his father. "Then the wretched, bereaved man
knew whom he had entertained and whom the bishop had expelled from his
lodging."
This Fortunatus, we are told, "had a most
singular grace in putting spirits to flight, so that sometimes he would cast
out legions of devils from possessed bodies." The following instance is
peculiar. A certain Tuscan lady who had violated an ecclesiastical rule was
seized in church by an evil spirit. The priest attempted to cast it out by
covering the lady with the altar-cloth; but because he presumed beyond his
strength, a devil entered into him also. Then the lady was taken by her
relatives to certain wizards, who plunged her into a river, reciting at the
same time magical incantations. The result was that though the first demon was
driven out, a whole legion entered in; "and from that time forward the
woman began to be agitated with as many emotions and to shriek out with as many
voices as there were devils in her body." At last she was brought to
Fortunatus, who prayed over her for many days and nights, and in the end, with
much difficulty, effected a cure.
In the Dialogues we read of some curious visions of
heaven and hell. The vision of the soldier, which has been referred to in an
earlier chapter, is the most elaborate and remarkable. Volcanoes were regarded
as entrances into hell, and Gregory says the mouths of the craters were growing
wider, to accommodate the increased number of persons that pass through them as
the world draws near its end. A dying man sent a message to a friend, who was
also dying, to say that the ship was ready to take them to Sicily; and this was
interpreted to mean that they were going to hell through the volcanoes in that
island. Hell itself was believed to be a furnace of material fire. The corpse
of a dyer buried in the Church of St. Januarius near the Laurentian Gate in
Rome, was heard shrieking in his tomb, "I burn! I burn!". Flames
broke out of the grave of a wicked curialis of
Valeria, consuming both the body and the sepulchre! A
dying man saw in a vision a bad presbyter named Tiburtius burning on a funeral
pile. Of purgatorial punishment we get two remarkable instances, where the
spirits of dead persons were compelled to remain in sulphur baths and to serve as attendants on the living bathers.
I will close this account of the Dialogues with two
representative anecdotes, one of a wizard and the other of a haunted house.
About the year 504 a certain Basilius was accused of practicing magical arts in
Rome, and was thrown into prison. Taking advantage, however, of the insanity of
his gaoler, he escaped and fled into Valeria,
disguised as a monk. Here he managed to win the good graces of the Bishop of
San Vittorino, who recommended him to the famous Abbat Equitius.
The story goes that, so soon as Equitius set eyes on
the man, he recognized him to be "a devil", but as he was unable to
convince the bishop, he received him into his monastery. Shortly afterwards the abbat set off on one of his preaching tours, and
Basilius took advantage of his absence to bewitch a beautiful nun in a
neighboring convent, who fell into a fever and kept crying out, "I shall
die at once unless Basilius the monk come to me and heal me by his skill in
physic". But the elder monks would not permit Basilius to approach the
convent without the permission of the abbat. They
sent, however, a message to Equitius, to ask what
they should do. So soon as Equitius heard the story
he exclaimed, "Did not I say that Basilius was a devil and no monk? Go and
drive him from the monastery." This was accordingly done, and the nun at
once recovered. After his expulsion, Basilius was wont to declare that he had often
by his magic suspended the abbat’s cell in the air,
but he had never been able to harm any of the monks. In the end Basilius was
arrested, and "in an outbreak of Christian zeal" was burned alive in
Rome.
The second story is singular. When Datius of Milan was
on his way to Constantinople, in the time of Justinian, he broke his journey at
Corinth, where he endeavored to hire a house large enough for himself and his
company. After seeking in vain for a long time, he at length discovered a
good-sized mansion which seemed to suit his requirements. He was told by the
people of the place, however, that the house was haunted by the devil, and had
remained empty in consequence for several years. But Datius said: "We
ought all the more to lodge in this house, if the wicked spirit has taken
possession of it and driven men away". The place was accordingly prepared,
and the bishop took up his quarters. When evening came he went to bed and fell
asleep; but about midnight he was aroused by a hideous din, which resembled the
roaring of lions, the bleating of sheep, the braying of asses, the hissing of
serpents, the grunting of hogs, and the screaming of rats, all combining in
terrific uproar. Then Datius in great rage got up and addressed the devil:
"Thou art rightly served, wretch Thou art he who said: I will sit in the
sides of the north; I will be like the Most High; and now, through thy pride,
see how thou art made like hogs and rats. Thou unworthily didst desire to
imitate God, and now behold, according to thy deserts, thou dost imitate
brutes." At these words the devil was so ashamed that he took himself off
and never returned; and the haunted house was soon afterwards taken by some
good Christians, who never suffered any further inconvenience.
Such are the stories vouched for by the highest
ecclesiastical authority and the keenest intellect of the age. Let me, in
conclusion, once more call attention to the strange combination of shrewdness
and superstition which characterized the mind of Gregory. It is certainly
astonishing that the clear-headed man who managed the Papal estates and
governed the Church with such admirable skill, should have contributed to the
propagation of these wild tales of demons and wizards and haunted houses, of
souls made visible, of rivers obedient to written orders, of corpses that
scream and walk. And yet such was the fact. The landlord of the Papal
Patrimonies and the author of the Dialogues are one and the same person. And in
him we have, perhaps, the first genuine Italian example of the mediaeval
intellect.
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