The History of Christianity - John S. C. Abbott (bookstand for reading .txt) 📗

“The Lord reigneth: let the earth rejoice;

Let the multitude of the isles be glad thereof.

Confounded be all they that serve graven images,

That boast themselves of idols.

Worship him, all ye gods.”

Julian, in his exasperation, caused the arrest of several of the most prominent of these Christians, and sentenced them to the severest punishments. One young man, Theodosius, was subjected to the utmost extremity of torture. He bore the agony with such fortitude as to excite the admiration of the pagans.

While Julian was thus breathing threatenings and slaughter against the Church, he was summoned to the frontiers of Persia, where a terrible invasion was menacing the empire. Persia had gradually risen into a military power which threatened to assume independence.

The country between the Euphrates and the Tigris, called Mesopotamia, or between the rivers, consisted of a region about five hundred miles long and fifty wide. It was an exceedingly fertile plain. The inhabitants called themselves Assyrians. Being wealthy and numerous, and far distant from the central power of Rome, they had not only raised the banner of revolt against the empire, but had sent large armies across the Euphrates, which ravaged the adjacent provinces, and returned enriched with plunder and slaves.

To bring these Assyrians again into subjection to the Roman power, Julian commenced a campaign against them. He took with him sixty-five thousand veteran Roman soldiers and a vast body of Scythian auxiliaries and roving Arabs. Eleven hundred barges crowded the Euphrates, to float down the stream the emperor’s ponderous engines of war and his military supplies.

These boats, flat-bottomed, were easily converted into pontoon-bridges. As this immense army crossed the Euphrates, and entered Assyria, Julian gathered the whole body around him, and, with the most imposing rites of pagan religion, offered sacrifices to the pagan gods, appealing to them for aid in his enterprise. The appeal, for a time, seemed not to be in vain. Signal success accompanied his arms. City after city fell before the terrible power of the Roman legions. The trail of the victorious army was marked by smouldering ruins and blood.

Maogamalcha was one of the most important cities of this Assyrian realm. The wolfish Roman legions burst through the gates. Every conceivable outrage was inflicted upon the wretched inhabitants, and then they were consigned to indiscriminate massacre. The governor of the city was burned alive. There were in the suburbs three palaces, enriched with every thing which could minister to the pride of an Eastern monarch. Palaces, gardens, parks, statuary, paintings,—all were reduced to utter ruin.

The devastation of a palace creates much emotion; but it is the burning of the cottage, of which history takes such little notice, which fills the world with weeping and woe. Julian became such a terror to this whole region, that the painters of the nation represented him as a lion vomiting fire. And yet this same man seemed to have his appetites and passions under perfect control: he was quite free from many of those vices which degrade humanity; he shared all the hardships of the soldiers, often traversing with them, on foot, the burning plains.

But ere long the heathen gods, whose aid he had implored, and upon whom he had relied, seemed to abandon him. He was led to adopt the most insane measures, which could only result in his ruin. Troubles gathered thickly around him. He became so harassed with anxiety, that he could not sleep. One night, in troubled dreams, or in a revery, an angel appeared before him weeping, and covered with a funereal veil.

The superstitious monarch, affrighted, rushed from his tent. It was midnight. The camp was silent. The stars of Mesopotamia shone down sadly upon the apostate. Suddenly a brilliant meteor shot athwart the sky. To the superstitious pagan it was a menace from the god of war, indicating defeat.

At break of day the trumpets suddenly sounded, summoning the soldiers to repel an attack from the foe springing by surprise upon them. It was a sultry summer’s morning: not a breath of air mitigated the overpowering heat. Julian, as he rushed to the field, laid aside his cuirass. A cloud of arrows and javelins fell upon him. A barbed javelin, lined with sharp inlaid blades of steel, grazed his arm, pierced his ribs, and, with its keen point, penetrated deeply the liver of the monarch. Frantic with pain, Julian seized the weapon, and endeavored to wrench it out. In the attempt, his hands were severely lacerated by the blades. Bleeding, fainting, he fell senseless to the ground.

His guards bore his inanimate body from the tumult of the battle to a neighboring tent. It was some time before he awoke to consciousness. The blood was gushing from the wound. It was evident to Julian, and to all others, that he must soon die. Grasping a handful of the crimson gore, he flung it madly toward the heavens, as if conscious that Jesus was reigning there, and exclaimed, “O Galilean! thou hast conquered.”

The current of life was now fast ebbing, and death was manifestly near at hand. The wretched Julian made a faint attempt to rally to his support his pagan philosophy.

“I have lived,” he said, “without any sin. I am not afraid to die. My soul is now to be absorbed into the ethereal substance of the universe.”

Thus he died. At midnight, the spirit of Julian the apostate ascended to the judgment-seat of Christ. This sad record suggests a few obvious thoughts, to which we cannot refrain from directing the attention of our readers:—

1. The experience of eighteen centuries seems to prove that the final triumph of Christianity is certain. Every weapon raised against Christianity has failed. Argument has exhausted its most profound efforts. Persecution has in vain expended all its energies of torture, dungeons, flames, and death. Though there are men now who hate the religion of Jesus, who oppose it in every possible way,—some by direct hostility, and some by neglect,—still Christianity was never before so potent as now. Never before has it exerted so controlling an influence over the hearts and lives of men. Its power has steadily increased with the lapsing centuries.

2. It is obvious that the triumph of Christianity will not be a triumph in which all the enemies of Christianity will become its friends: its persistent enemies will perish. Satan may never be converted; but he will be held in chains. Julian died hurling defiance at Jesus Christ: he may forever remain thus obdurate; but he will never again have it in his power to persecute the Christians. Julian is immortal: he is as free now to love or hate as he was fourteen centuries ago. God never robs his intelligent creatures of the freedom of the will. But those who remain unrelenting can never be permitted to mar, by their malice, the joys of heaven.

3. There are in this world, probably in the wide universe of God, but two parties,—those who are the friends of Christ, and those who are not his friends. To this solemn truth we must ever come. “He that is not with me is against me,”185 says Christ. One’s love for Christ may not be fully developed; one’s rejection of Christ may exist in a latent state: but the germs of love or rejection are in every soul; every one is in heart either with Constantine or Julian.

4. Death is to all alike the same sublime event. There is something awful in the death of Julian. The tumult and the uproar of the battle rage around him; the blood gushes from his lacerated veins. But death itself is an event so sublime, that all its surroundings are of but little moment. It is the one thing, the one only thing, of which every person is sure. No matter when, where, or how, death comes: to leave this world forever; to go to the judgment-seat of Christ; to hear the sentence, “Welcome, ye blessed!” or “Depart, ye cursed!” and then to enter upon eternity, a happy spirit in heaven, or a lost spirit in hell,—this is an event so transcendently sublime, that its accidental accompaniments are scarcely worthy of a thought.