The History of Christianity, John S. C. Abbott [ebook reader browser .txt] 📗

head with their oars and boat-poles, and she sank senseless in the waves. The barge soon foundered; but Agrippina floated off on a portion of the wreck. The agents of Nero, supposing they had effected their object, swam to the shore.

Agrippina, in the early dawn, was picked up by a small boat, and conveyed to her villa at Antium. Shrewdly she pretended to regard the adventure as an accident. She despatched a courier to inform her affectionate son, that, through the mercy of the gods, she had escaped fearful peril. She entreated him not to be needlessly alarmed, as she had received but a slight wound, and would probably soon be quite restored.

Nero was thunderstruck. He knew his mother too well to imagine that she was blind to the stratagem from which she had so wonderfully escaped. He felt assured that she would at once resort to some desperate measures of retaliation and of self-defence. Not a moment was to be lost. He despatched a band of assassins to Antium to break into the apartment of his mother, and with their daggers immediately to secure her death beyond all question.

The armed band reached the villa late at night, burst open the gates, and advanced rapidly to the chamber where the empress had retired to her bed. All the slaves encountered on the way were seized. In the chamber of Agrippina a dim light was burning, and one maid was in attendance. The assassins surrounded the bed. The leader struck her a heavy blow on the head with a club: the rest plunged their daggers into her heart. She slept in death, the guilty mother of a demoniac son.

“In these particulars,” writes Tacitus, “authors are unanimous; but as to whether Nero surveyed the breathless body of his mother, and applauded its beauty, there are those who have affirmed it, and those who deny it.”

After the murder of Agrippina, which was so openly perpetrated as to render it vain to attempt any disguise, Nero, either consumed by remorse or distracted by terror, retired to Naples. It is said that his appearance and movements indicated that he was the victim of utter misery; while at the same time his demoniac malice blazed forth more luridly than ever. He sent a communication to the senate, stating that he had caused the death of his mother because she was plotting his assassination. His sister Octavia and his wife Poppæa soon fell victims to his insane vengeance: the one was placed in a vapor-bath, had her veins opened in every joint, and then had her head cut off; the other perished from a brutal kick.

Immediately there ensued a series of executions and assassinations of the most illustrious men of Rome, who were accused of conspiring against the tyrant. Tacitus gives the details of many of these atrocities. The recital would be but wearisome and revolting to the reader.

Rome was stricken with terror. No one was safe from either the poisoned cup, the dagger, or the headsman’s axe. At length, human nature, even unspeakably corrupt as it had become in Rome, could endure the monster no longer. Servius Galba, seventy-two years of age, was governor of Spain. He was a man of unusual virtues for those times, was of pensive, thoughtful temperament, and endued with courage which no peril could intimidate. Placing himself at the head of his devoted legions, he openly proclaimed war against the tyrant, and commenced a march upon Rome for his dethronement. The tidings outstripped the rapid movements of his troops, and garrison after garrison unfurled the banners of revolt.

One night, Nero, dressed in woman’s clothes, was in one of the palaces of Rome, surrounded by his boon companions, male and female, indulging in the most loathsome orgies, when a great uproar was heard in the streets. A messenger was sent to ascertain the cause. He returned with the appalling tidings, that Galba, at the head of an avenging army, was marching rapidly upon Rome; that insurrection had broken out in the streets; and that a countless mob, breathing threatenings and slaughter, were surging toward the palace.

The wretched tyrant, as cowardly as he was infamous, was struck with dismay. He sprang from the table so suddenly as to overturn it, dashing the most costly vases in fragments upon the floor. Beating his forehead like a madman, he cried out, “I am ruined, I am ruined!” and called for a cup of poison. Suicide was the common resort of the cowardly, in those days, in their hours of wretchedness. Nero took the poisoned cup, but dared not drink it. He called for a dagger, and examined its polished point, but had not sufficient nerve to press it to his heart. He then rushed from the palace in his woman’s robes, with his long hair fluttering in the wind. Thus disguised, he almost flew through the dark and narrow streets, intending to plunge into the Tiber. As he reached the bank, and gazed upon its gloomy waves, again his courage failed.

Several of his companions had accompanied him. One of them suggested that he should flee to a country-seat about three miles from Rome, and there conceal himself. Insane with terror, bareheaded, in his shameful garb, he covered his face with a handkerchief, leaped upon a horse, and succeeded, through a thousand perils, in gaining his retreat. Just before he reached the villa, some alarm so frightened him, that he leaped from his horse, and plunged into a thicket by the roadside. Through briers and thorns, with torn clothes and lacerated flesh, he reached the insecure asylum he sought.

In the mean time, the Roman senate had hurriedly assembled. Emboldened by the insurrection, and by the approach of Galba, they passed a decree, declaring Nero to be the enemy of his country, and dooming him to death more majorum; i.e., according to ancient custom. Some one of Nero’s companions brought him the tidings in his hiding-place. Pallid and trembling, he inquired, “And what is death more majorum?” The appalling reply was, “It is to be stripped naked, to have the head fastened in the pillory, and thus to be scourged to death.”

The monster who had amused himself in witnessing the tortures of others recoiled with horror from this dreadful infliction. Seizing a dagger, he again endeavored to nerve himself to plunge it into his heart. A prick from its sharp point was all that he could summon resolution to inflict. He threw the dagger aside, and groaned in terror. Again he strove to talk himself into courage.

“Ought Nero,” said he, “to be afraid? Shall the emperor be a coward? No! Let me die courageously.”

Again he grasped the dagger, and anxiously examined its keen edge; and again he threw it aside with a groan of despair.

Just then the clatter of horsemen was heard, and a party of dragoons was seen approaching. His retreat was discovered, and in a few moments Nero would be helpless in the hands of his enemies: then there would be no possible escape from the ignominious and agonizing death. In the delirium of despair, he ordered a freedman to hold a sharp sword, so that he might throw himself violently against it. He thus succeeded in severing the jugular vein, and his life-blood spouted forth. As he sank upon the ground, the soldiers came up. He looked at them with a malignant scowl; and, saying “You’re too late!” he died.

Thus perished this monster of depravity. It is said that this event took place on the 19th of June, A.D. 68. Many Christians at the time supposed Nero to be the antichrist. This wretch had reigned thirteen years, and died in the thirty-second year of his age. In view of his career, the only solution upon which the mind can repose is found in the declaration of Scripture, “After death cometh the judgment.”

These events occurred eighteen hundred years ago. During the long and weary centuries which have since elapsed, what a spectacle has this world almost constantly presented to the eye of God! The billows of war have, with scarcely any intermission, surged over the nations, consigning countless millions to bloody graves. Pestilence and famine have ever followed in the train of armies, creating an amount of misery which no human arithmetic can ever gauge. Slavery, intemperance, domestic discord, ungovernable passions, the tyranny of kings, the oppression of the rich and powerful, and the countless forms in which man has trampled upon his feebler brother-man, have made this world indeed a vale of tears. The student of history is appalled in view of the woes which, century after century, man has visited upon his fellow-man. For all this there is and can be no remedy but in the religion of Jesus. Here is the panacea for nearly every earthly woe. Here, and here only, is there hope for the world.

Against this almost universal corruption the Christians were struggling. The conflict seemed hopeless. In this moral warfare, the only weapon they had to wield was the simple preaching of the gospel of Christ. But that gospel, by its wonderful triumphs, has proved itself to be “the wisdom of God and the power of God to salvation.” It is refreshing to read a letter which Clement, the bishop of Rome, wrote to the church at Corinth about this time. We can quote but one paragraph:—

“Let us endeavor to be of the number of those who hope to share in the promises of God. And how shall we accomplish this, my dear brethren? If our minds are established in the faith; if we seek in all things to please God; if we bring ourselves in entire accord with his holy will; if we follow the paths of truth, renouncing all injustice, avarice, contention, anger, deceptions, complainings, impiety, pride, vanity, ambition,—then, my dear brothers, we shall be in the path which conducts us to Jesus Christ our Saviour. Let the strong help the feeble, and let the feeble respect the strong. Let the rich give to the poor, and let the poor thank God that he has given to the rich the means of supplying their wants. He who has created us has introduced us into this world, which he has so richly prepared for our abode. Having received from him so many favors, we ought to thank him for all things. To him be glory for ever and ever. Amen.”

Such was the spirit of the religion of Jesus. To banish this gospel from the world, imperial Rome often combined all its energies.