The first barbarian that invaded Rome was a Jew.  There was then there a small colony of Hebrews.  Porters, pedlers, rag-pickers, valets-de-place, they were the descendants mainly of former prisoners of war.  The Jew had a message for them.  It was very significant.  But it conflicted so entirely with orthodox views that there were few whom it did not annoy.  A disturbance ensued.  The ghetto was raided.  A complaint for inciting disorder was lodged against a certain Christos, of whom nothing was known, and who had eluded arrest.

Rome, through her relations with Syria, was probably the first Occidental city in which the name was pronounced.  Though the message behind it annoyed many, others accepted it at once.  These latter, the former denounced.  Some suppression ensued.  But it had no religious significance.  The purport of the message and the attitude of those who accepted it was seditious.  Both denied the divinity of the Caesars.  That was treason.  In addition, they announced the approaching end of the world.  That was a slur on the optimism of State.  A law was passed-Non licet esse Christianos.  None the less, they multiplied.  The message that had been brought to Rome was repeated throughout the Roman world.  It crossed the frontiers.  It reached races of whom Rome had never heard.  They came and peered at her.  Over the context of the message they drank hydromel to her fall.

The message, initially significant, dynamic at birth, developed under multiplying hands into a force so disruptive that it shook the gods from the skies, buried them beneath their ruined temples, and in derision tossed after them their rites for shroud.  In the convulsions a page of history turned.  The great book of paganism closed.  Another opened.  In it was a new ideal of love.

Realization was not immediate.  Entirely uncontemplated and equally unforeseen, the ideal was an after-growth, a blossom among other ruins, a flower that developed subtly with the Rosa mystica from higher shrines.

Meanwhile, the message persisted.  Titularly an evangel, it meant good news.  The Christ had said to his disciples:  “As ye go, preach, saying, The Kingdom of God is at hand-for verily I say unto you, Ye shall not have gone over the cities of Israel till the Son of Man be come.”

“All these things shall come upon this generation,” were his subsequent and explicit words.  After the incident in the wilderness he declared:  “The time is fulfilled and the Kingdom of God is at hand.”  Later he asserted:  “Verily I say unto you that there be some of them that stand by which shall in no wise taste of death till they see the Kingdom of God come with power."

In repeating these tidings, the evangelists lived in a state of constant expectation.  Their watchword was “Maran atha”-the Lord cometh.  In fancy they saw themselves in immediate Edens, seated on immutable thrones.

The corner-stone of the early Church was based on that idea.  When, later, it was recognized as a misconception, the coming of the Kingdom of God was interpreted as the establishment of the Christian creed.

Jesus had no intention of founding a new religion.  He came to prepare men not for life, but for death.  He believed that the world was to end.  Had he not so believed, his condemnation of labor, his prohibition against wealth, his injunction to forsake all things for his sake, his praise of celibacy, his disregard of family ties, and his abasement of marriage would be without meaning.  Observance of his orders he regarded as a necessary preparation for an event then assumed to be near.  It was exacted as a means of grace.

On the other hand, it may be that there was an esoteric doctrine which only the more spiritual among the disciples received.  The significant threat, “In this life ye shall have tribulation,” contains a distinct suggestion of other views.  Possibly they concerned less the termination of the world than the termination of life.  Life extinct, obviously there must ensue that peace which passeth all understanding, the Pratscha-Paramita, or beyond all knowledge, which long before had been taught by the Buddha, in whose precepts it is not improbable that Jesus was versed.

To-day there are four gospels.  Originally there were fifty.  In some of them succincter views may have been expressed.  The possibility, surviving texts support.  These texts are provided by Clement of Alexandria.  They are quoted by him from the Gospel according to the Egyptians, an Evangel that existed in the latter half of the second century and which was then regarded as canonical.  In one of them, Jesus said:  “I am come to destroy the work of woman, which is generation and death.”  In another, being asked how long life shall continue, he answered:  “So long as women bear children."

These passages seem conclusive.  Even otherwise, the designed effect of the exoteric doctrine was identical.  It eliminated love and condemned the sex.  In the latter respect, Paul was particularly severe.  In violent words he humiliated woman.  He enjoined on her silence and submission.  He reminded her that man was created in the image of God, while she was but created for him.  He declared that he who giveth her in marriage cloth well, but he that giveth her not doth better.

Theoretically, as well as canonically, marriage thereafter was regarded as unholy.  The only union in which it was held that grace could possibly be, was one that in its perfect immaculacy was a negation of marriage itself.  St. Sebastian enjoined any other form.  The injunction was subsequently ratified.  It was ecclesiastically adjudged that whoso declared marriage preferable to celibacy be accursed. St. Augustin, more leniently, permitted marriage, on condition, however, that the married in no circumstance overlooked the object of their union, which object was the creation of children, not to love them, he added, but to increase the number of the servants of the Lord.

St. Augustin was considerate.  But Jesus had been indulgent.  In the plentitudes of his charity there was both commiseration and forgiveness.  Throughout his entire ministry he wrote but once.  It was on an occasion when a woman was brought before him.  Her accusers were impatient.  Jesus bent forward and with a finger wrote on the ground.  The letters were illegible.  But the symbol of obliteration was in the dust which the wind would disperse.  The charge was impatiently repeated.  Jesus straightened himself.  With the weary comprehension of one to whom hearts are as books, he looked at them.  “Whoever is without sin among you, may cast the first stone.”

The sins of Mary Magdalen were many.  He forgave them, for she had loved much.  His indulgence was real and it was infinite.  Yet occasionally his severity was as great.  At the marriage of Cana he said to his mother:  “Woman, what have I to do with thee?” In the house of the chief of the Pharisees he more emphatically announced:  “If any man come unto me and hate not his father and mother and wife and children and brethren and sisters, yea, and his own life also, he cannot be my disciple.”  Elsewhere he advocated celibacy enforced with the knife.  John, his favorite disciple, beheld those who had practised it standing among the redeemed.

That vision peopled the deserts with hermits.  It filled the bastilles of God, the convents and monasteries of pre-mediaeval days.  The theory of it was adopted by kings on their thrones.  Lovers in their betrothals engaged to observe it reciprocally.  Husbands and wives separated that they might live more purely apart.

The theory, contrary to the spirit of paganism, was contrary also to that of the Mosaic law.  The necessity of marriage was one of the six hundred and thirteen Hebraic precepts.  The man who omitted to provide himself with heirs became a homicide.  In the Greek republics celibacy was penalized.  In Rome, during the republic, bachelors were taxed.  Under the empire they could neither inherit nor serve the State.  But the law was evaded.  Even had it not been, the people of Rome, destroyed by war or as surely by pleasure, little by little was disappearing.  Slaves could not replace citizens.  The affranchised could be put in the army, even in the senate, as they were, but that did not change their servility, and it was precisely that servility which encouraged imperial aberrations and welcomed those which Christianity brought.

The continence which the Church inculcated was not otherwise new.  The Persians had imposed it on girls consecrated to the worship of the Sun.  It was observed by the priests of Osiris.  It was the cardinal virtue of the Pythagoreans.  It was exacted of Hellenic hierophants.  Gaul had her druidesses and Rome her vestals.  Celibacy existed, therefore, before Christianity did.  But it was exceptional in addition to being not very rigorously enforced.  Vesta was a mother.  All the vestals that faltered were not buried alive.  There was gossip, though it be but legend, of the druidesses, of the muses as well.  Immaculacy was the ideal condition of the ideal gods.  Zeus materially engendered material divinities that presided over forces and forms.  But, without concurrence, there issued armed and adult from his brain the wise and immaculate Pallas.

Like her and the muses, genius was assumed to be ascetic also.  Socrates thought otherwise.  His punishment was Xantippe, and not a line to his credit.  A married Homer is an anomaly which imagination cannot comfortably conjure.  A married Plato is another.  Philosophers and poets generally were single.  Lucretius, Vergil, and the triumvirs of love were unmarried.  In the epoch in which they appeared Rome was aristocratically indisposed to matrimony.  To its pomps there was a dislike so pronounced that Augustus introduced coercive laws.  Hypocrite though he were, he foresaw the dangers otherwise resulting.  It was these that asceticism evoked.

The better part of the tenets of the early Church-sobriety, stoicism, the theory of future reward and punishment, pagan philosophy professed.  Adherents could, therefore, have been readily recruited.  But the doctrine of asceticism and, with it, the abnegation of whatever Rome loved, angered, creating first calumny, then persecution.

Infanticide at the time was very common.  To accuse the Christians of it would have meant nothing.  They were charged instead with eating the children that they killed.  That being insufficient they were further charged with the united abominations of OEdipus and Thyestes.

Thereafter, if the Tiber mounted or the Nile did not, if it rained too heavily or not enough, were there famine, earthquakes, pests, the fault was theirs.  Then, through the streets, a cry resounded, Christianos ad leonem!-to the arena with them.  At any consular delay the mob had its torches and tortures.  Persecution augumented devotion.  “Fast,” said Tertullian.  “Fasting prepares for martyrdom.  But do not marry, do not bear children.  You would only leave them to the executioner.  Garment yourselves simply, the robes the angels bring are robes of death.”

The robes did not always come, the executioner did not, either.  The Kingdom of God delayed.  The world persisted.  So also did asceticism.  Clement and Hermas unite in testifying that the immaculacy of the single never varied during an epoch when even that of the vestals did, and that the love of the married was the more tender because of the immaterial relations observed. Gregoire de Tours cited subsequently an instance in which a bride stipulated for a union of this kind.  Her husband agreed.  Many years later she died.  Her husband, while preparing her for the grave, openly and solemnly declared that he restored her to God as immaculate as she came.  “At which,” the historian added, “the dead woman smiled and said, ‘Why do you tell what no one asked you.’”

The subtlety of the question pleased the Church.  The Church liked to compare the Christian to an athlete struggling in silence with the world, the flesh, and the devil.  It liked to regard him as one whose life was a continual exercise in purification.  It liked to represent his celibacy as an imitation of the angels.  At that period Christianity took things literally and narrowly.  Paul had spoken eloquently on the dignity of marriage.  He authorized and honored it.  He permitted and even counselled second marriages.  But his pre-eminent praise of asceticism was alone considered.  Celibacy became the ideal of the early Christians who necessarily avoided the Forum and whatever else was usual and Roman.  It is not, therefore, very surprising that they should have been defined as enemies of gods, emperors, laws, customs, nature itself, or, more briefly, as barbarians.

Yet there were others.  At the north and at the west they prowled, nourished in hatred of Rome, in wonder, too, of the effeminate and splendid city with its litters of gold, its baths of perfume, its inhabitants dressed in gauze, and its sway from the Indus to Britannia.  From the day when a mass of them stumbled on Marius to the hour when Alaric laughed from beneath the walls his derision at imperial might, always they had wondered and hated.

In the slaking of the hate Christianity perhaps unintentionally assisted.  The Master had said, “All they that take the sword shall perish by the sword.”  His believers omitted to do either.  When enrolled, they deserted.  On the frontiers they refused to fight.  The path of the barbarians was easy.  In disorganized hordes they battened on Rome and melted away there in excesses.  Tacitus and Salvian rather flattered them.  They were neither intelligent or noble.  They must have lacked even the sense of independence.  They pulled civilization down, but they fell with it-into serfdom.

Already from the steppes of Tartary had issued cyclones of Huns.  Painted blue, wrapped in cloaks of human skin, it was thought that they were the whelps of demons.  Their chief was Attila.  The whirlwind that he loosed swept the world like a broom.  In the echoes of his passage is the crash of falling cities, the cries of the vanquished, the death rattle of nations, the surge and roar of seas of blood.  In the reverberations Attila looms, dragging the desert after him, tossing it like a pall on the face of the earth.  “But who are you?” a startled prelate gasped.  Said Attila, “I am the Scourge of God.”

Satiated at last, overburdened with the booty of the world, he galloped back to his lair where, on his wedding couch, another Judith killed him.  In spite of him, in spite of preceding Goths and subsequent Vandals, Rome, unlike her gods that had fled the skies, was immortal.  She could fall, but she could not die.  But though she survived, antiquity was dead.  It departed with the lords of the ghostland.