Chapter I: The Christian House

[Note: In the actual text, footnotes are at the bottom of each page, not placed in brackets are they are here.]

It is on an afternoon in September of the year 302, that we invite our reader to accompany us through the streets of Rome. The sun has declined, and is about two hours from his setting; the day is cloudless, and its heat has cooled, so that multitudes are issuing from their houses, and making their way towards Caesar's gardens on one side, or Sallust's on the other, to enjoy their evening walk, and learn the news of the day.

But the part of the city to which we wish to conduct our friendly reader is that known by the name of the Campus Martius. It comprised the flat alluvial plain between the seven hills of older Rome and the Tiber. Before the close of the republican period, this field, once left bare for the athletic and warlike exercises of the people, had begun to be encroached upon by public buildings. Pompey had erected in it his theatre; soon after, Agrippa raised the Pantheon and its adjoining baths. But gradually it became occupied by private dwellings; while the hills, in the early empire the aristocratic portion of the city, were seized upon for greater edifices. Thus the Palatine, after Nero's fire, became almost too small for the imperial residence and its adjoining Circus Maximus. The Esquiline was usurped by Titus's baths, built on the ruins of the Golden House, the Aventine by Caracalla's; and at the period of which we write, the Emperor Dioclesian ws covering the space sufficient for many lordly dwellings, by the erection of his Thermae* [Hot-baths] on the Quirinal, not far from the Sallust's garden just alluded to.

The particular spot in the Campus Martius to which we will direct our steps, is one whose situation is so definite, that we can accurately describe it to any one acquainted with the topography of ancient or modern Rome. In republican times there was a large square space in the Campus Martius, surrounded by boarding, and divided into pens, in which the Comitia, or meetings of the tribes of the people, were held, for giving their votes. This was called the Septa, or Ovile, from its resemblance to a sheepfold. Augustus carried out a plan, described by Cicero in a letter to Atticus, of transforming this homely contrivance into a magnificent and solid structure. The Septa Julia, as it was thenceforth called, was a splendid portion of 1000by 500 feet, supported by columns, and adorned with paintings. Its ruins are clearly traceable; and it occupied the space now covered by the Doria and Verospi palaces (running thus along the present Corso), the Roman College, the Church of St. Ignatius, and the Oratory of Caravita.

The house to which we invite our reader is exactly opposite, and on the east side of this edifice, including in its area, the present church of St. Marcellus, whence it extended back towards the foot of the Quirinal hill. It is thus found to cover, as noble Roman houses did, a considerable extent of ground. From the outside it presents but a blank and dead appearance. The walls are plain, without architectural ornament, not high, and scarcely broken by windows. In the middle of one side of this quadrangle is a door, in antis, that is, merely relieved by tympanum or triangular cornice, resting on two half columns. Using our privilege as "artists of fiction," of invisible ubiquity, we will enter in with our friend, or "shadow," as he would have been anciently called. Passing thorugh the porch, on the pavement of which we read with pleasure, in mosaic the greeting SALVE or WELCOME, we find ourselves in the atrium, or first court of the house, surrounded by a portico or colonnade.* [The Pompeian Court in the Crystal palace will have familiarized many readers with the form of an ancient house.]

In the centre of the marble pavement a softly warbling jet of pure water, brought by the Claudian aqueduct from the Tusculan hills, springs into the air, now higher, now lower, and falls into an elevated basin of red marble, over the sides of which it flows in downy waves; and before reaching its lower and wider recipient, scatters a gentle shower on the rare and brilliant flowers placed in elegant vases around. Under the portico we see furniture disposed, of a rich and sometimes rare character; couches inlaid with ivory, and even silver; tables of oriental woods, bearing candelabra, lamps, and other household implements of bronze or silver; delicately chased busts, vases, tripods, and objects of mere art. On the walls are paintings evidently of a former period, still, however, retaining all their brightness of colour and freshness of execution. These are separated by niches with statues, representing indeed, like the pictures, mythological or historical subjects; but we cannot help observing, that nothing meets the eye which could offend the most delicate mind. Here and there an empty niche, or a covered painting proves that this is not the result of accident.

As outside the columns, the coving roof leaves a large square opening in its centre, called the impluvium; there is drawn across it a curtain, or veil of dark canvas, which keeps out the sun and rain. An artificial twilight therefore alone enables us to see all that we have described, but it gives greater effect to what is beyond. Through an arch, opposite to the one whereby we have entered, we catch a glimpse of an inner and still richer court, paved with variegated marbles, and adorned with bright gildling. The veil fo the opening above, which, however, here is closed with thick glass or talc (lapis specularis), has been partly withdrawn, and admits a bright but softened ray from the evening sun on to the place, where we see, for the first time, that we are in no enchanted hall, but in an inhabited house.

Beside a table, just outside the columns of Phrygian marble, sits a matron not beyond the middle of life, whose features, noble yet mild, show traces of having passed through sorrow at some earlier period. But a powerful influence has subdued the recollection of it, or blended it with a sweeter thought; and the two always come together, and have long dwelt united in her heart. The simplicity of her appearance strangely contrasts with the richness of all around her; her hair, streaked with silver, is left uncovered, and unconcealed by any artifice; her robes are of the plainest colour and texture, without embroidery, except the purple ribbon sewed on and called the segmentum, which denotes the state of widowhood, and not a jewel or precious ornament, of which the Roman ladies were so lavish, is to be seen upon her person. The only thing approaching to this is a slight gold cord or chain round her neck, from which apparently hangs some object, carefully concealed within the upper hem of her dress.

At the time that we discover her she is busily engaged over a piece of work, which evidently has no personal use. Upon a long rich strip of gold cloth she is embroidering with still richer gold thread; and occasionally she has recourse to one or another of several elegant caskets upon the table, from which she takes out a pearl or a gem set in in gold, and introduces it to the design. It looks as if the precious ornaments of earlier days were being devoted to some higher purpose.

But as time goes on, some little uneasiness may be observed to come over her calm thoughts, hitherto absorbed, to all appearnce, in her work. She now occasionally raises her eyes from it towards the entrance; sometimes she listens for footsteps, and seems disappointed. She looks up towards the sun, then perhaps turns her glance towards a clepsydra or water clock, on a bracket near her; but just a felling of more serious anxiety begins to make an impression on her countenance, a cheerful rap strikes the house-door, and she bends forward with a radiant look to meet the welcome visitor.

For the Beauty of the Earth will add the missing ingredients to make your science curriculum (grades one through six) sound.

* The 140 page illustrated student anthology contains all the literature for the units (well over 100 poems, psalms, and excerpts).

* The text is divided into lessons suitable for grades 1 & 2, 3 & 4, and 5 & 6.

* Each lesson begins with a text or reading and includes four kinds of questions (textual questions about the reading, observational questions about the thing being studied, questions of admiration designed to instill wonder, and questions of religious analogy).

* The 57 page teacher's manual contains the lesson plans, questions, answers, and choices of activities designed to lead the student deeper into each subject of study.

by Dr. James Leek, Dr. Kenneth Klassen, Diane Dickerson, and Anne Patrick

Click here to see a sample activity

<* Human in asking children to stand in admiration of the mysteries of creation.

* Integrated to allow parents or teachers to combine literature, art, science, and religion in one lesson.

* Reverent as it guides the student to recognize the Creator in His works.

ONE

Good News

IT WAS the twenty-first of March, the birthday of spring, but in Canada winter still reigned, Snow was whirling allover Quebec, allover its fields and wooded hills, all over the mute St, Lawrence River in its prison of ice.

Steadily the snow came down, covering with its pure mantle the rusty confusion of railway yards and the smoking factories of Lachine, a suburb of Montreal. It also fell silently and daintily on the houses and gardens of its residential district. One of the largest gardens belonged to Friendly Gables, the home of the Mitchells. They had lived there most of the two years since they had moved to Canada from Washington, D.C.

The snow kept falling, falling, muffling all sounds, so that cars whispered past and pedestrians moved like ghosts. In this stillness, if someone had stood at the front gate of Friendly Gables and listened carefully; he could have heard a baby wailing in Mrs. Mitchell's bedroom.

One of the twins had been put into Mrs. Mitchell's arms. The other was being powdered and pinned and bundled by the nurse. The doctor had gone; there was only a slight smell of disinfectant left in the room; the perfumes of powder and baby oil were taking over. Mother lay back on her pillows, one newborn son firmly nestled against her. She watched the other one longingly.

"Is he almost ready, Miss Thorpe?" she asked.

"Just a minute, just a minute," answered Miss Thorpe. She was a tall, angular woman with a firm mouth. Her hands were capable and strong - too strong, thought Mother. No wonder the baby was yelling, he must be seasick, the way Miss Thorpe tossed him about.

"Don't you think he's dressed enough now?" she pleaded. "I want to see if they're alike."

"All babies are alike," mumbled Miss Thorpe through the safety pin she held between her teeth.

"Oh no, they aren't. Mine were all different," protested Mother.

"That's your imagination," said Miss Thorpe, rolling the baby in a blanket as if she were wrapping a loaf. "Give him to me," Mother begged.

"Here you are, then." And Miss Thorpe handed her the second baby, who stopped crying at once. Mother laid the babIes side by side on her lap and compared them. They both had red, crumpled faces and lots of dark, wiry hair.

"They are alike, aren't they?" she said. "I'm going to call them Johnny and Jimmy, after my husband and his brother. Won't John be surprised when he hears it's twins ! We wanted another boy, but we didn't dream we'd get two! That makes it even - four boys and four girls. Does he know yet?"

"The doctor said he'd phone him," answered Miss Thorpe. "I have my hands full. Twins make twice the work. "

"Yes, and I wonder - have we enough diapers and things? I've only one cradle. .." A worried flush spread over Mother's face.

"Never mind, Mrs. Mitchell, they'll both fit in the one for a while, and I'd get diaper service, if l were you. It's no fun, washing for twins. "

"No - you're right," agreed Mother. She glanced at the clock. "It's almost three," she said. "The children will soon be coming home from school. I'm longing to show them the babies - the girls will be delighted! Is Catherine awake yet?"

"No, sound asleep," said Miss Thorpe. "Thank goodness. I had trouble enough getting her to bed. She knew something was happening and she kept wondering what the doctor was bringing in his black bag-was it a kitty? I asked her, wouldn't she rather have a little brother or sister, but she said no. She seems a very determined young lady. Are they all like that?"

"Oh, you haven't met the others yet, have you?"

Mother raised herself on an elbow and listened. "There's Timmy." A pleased smile warmed her face. "Do you hear him?"

"No," said the nurse, folding up some towels. "I don't hear anything." But presently she did notice a faint, clear thread of sound rising from the road below and growing louder all the time.

"Good news, Mommy!" it said. "Good news!"

"Timmy is our evangelist," explained Mother. "He always has good news, and he starts shouting at the beginning of our avenue and keeps on all the way up. Sometimes it's a good mark he got at school, or a game he has won, or a friend he's made, but it's always good news. I wonder what it is this time?"

"You're not thinking of letting him come up here, near the babies?" asked Miss Thorpe, horrified.

"Why not?" asked Mother calmly.

"But - he'll be full of germs," warned the nurse. Mother looked surprised. "I've always let my children see my newborn babies and no harm ever came of it," she protested.

They heard the clomp-clomp-clomp of boots on the stairs, and then the door of the bedroom was flung open and a six-year-old little boy tramped in, snow still melting on his blond hair, his cheeks red, his hazel eyes shining. He was breathing out the frosty air and brought afresh smell into the room.

"Good news, Mommy," he began. Then he stopped as he noticed the bundles on either side of Mother. "Two!!" he cried. "Two babies! You've got two! They came! Two of them!"

"Yes, twins, isn't it wonderful?" Mother smiled.

"Ooooh-twins," breathed Timmy, tiptoeing nearer, a holy awe on his face. " Real twins. I thought they only happened in books." He touched the bundles gently with his finger. "They're rather small, though, aren't they?" he said in a worried way. "I don't think you rested enough, Mother. They don't look quite finished."

"They'll grow," Mother assured him.

"Are they girls?" asked Timmy.

"No, boys."

"Oh, goody!" Timmy sat down at the edge of the bed.

"Do you think they'll ever be big enough to play with?" he asked.

"I'm sure they will, dear-sooner than you think."

"May I hold one?" asked Timmy.

"Not yet, dear; wait till they're a little older. You might hurt them."

"But when they're older I won't want to hold them," said Timmy wisely.

Mother smiled. "What's your good news?" she asked.

"Oh, I forgot!" Timmy's face regained its radiance.

"There's a new girl in our class, called Philosophy."

"Philosophy?" asked Mother. "I've never heard that name before. "

"I don't call that good news," came the cool voice of the nurse suddenly. "I call that bad news." Timmy looked around, startled.

"That's Miss Thorpe, dear, my nurse," explained Mother.

"Oh! How do you do," said Timmy politely.

"Pleased to meet you," said Miss Thorpe, but she didn't smile and Timmy wondered whether she really was.

"Well, tell me more about Philosophy," asked Mother.

Timmy heaved a sigh. "She is pretty," he said.

"She'd better be, with that name," said Miss Thorpe. There was a ring at the door, and Timmy clattered out of the room to answer it, his loose shoelaces tick-ticking on the floor. A little later the door opened again to admit what seemed at first a basket of flowers on legs. Then the basket tumbled on the bed, giving Mother's big toe a jolt, and from behind it emerged a breathless Timmy, waving an envelope.

"Here," he said. "This says who sent it."

The nurse took the flowers and put them on the table by the window. She clucked her tongue in admiration. "Such lovely yellow tulips," she said with a sigh. "They go so well with the pink hyacinths. You'd think spring was here already. " And she sighed again, for she came from England, and there the fields are green in March, and little white lambs gambol over the first primroses. Miss Thorpe found the long Canadian winters hard to bear. Mother had been reading the note. "They're from my husband-isn't it extravagant!" she cried, flushing happily. "He says he'll come home as soon as his meeting is over."

"Yes, and you should be taking a nap, Mrs. Mitchell," warned Miss Thorpe. "You know what the doctor said."

"But the other children haven't seen the babies yet," murmured Mother. Her eyes were falling shut. She was sleepy.

The nurse chased Timmy out of the room and lowered the shades. Then she settled herself in an easy chair with a book. Soon there was only the sound of breathing and the whirring of the electric clock in the room. Mother and babies were fast asleep.

Timmy felt very important. None of the others knew about the twins. He would have to tell them. Their schools got out much later than his. He put on his ski jacket and boots again and stood outside. The snow was still falling in feathery flakes. Timmy saw Mrs. Garneau pass. She was an aristocratic French lady who lived in the brick mansion opposite Friendly Gables.

"We've twins!" he shouted.

The lady stopped. "Comment?" she asked.

Timmy searched for the right French word. " Deux bibis," he said, holding up two fingers.

"Tiens!" Madame Garneau didn't look happy. Already there were too many young Mitchells so far as she was concerned. Two more seemed an imposition. How much extra noise would that make? She hurried into her house.

Timmy waited. He looked longingly down the avenue, where trees marched one after the other, wearing jaunty caps of snow. In the distance he could see the gray streak of the St. Lawrence River, still in its prison of ice.

He could hear the streetcar singing along the wires, coming closer and closer. Now the others would soon be here. Timmy ran to meet the streetcar, the loose straps of his galoshes flapping about his ankles. "Good news," he shouted, "good news!"

He wasn't watching where he was going and ran full tilt into a thick overcoat. Thus abruptly stopped, he looked up into the laughing face of the mailman, who asked, " Ai, ai, where hare you going?" in a strong French accent. " And what is thees good news, hein?"

"We've twins!" crowed Timmy. "Just born! Boys!"

He felt he was making a tremendous contribution to the world in general by spreading this stupendous piece of information before even the papers got hold of it. The mailman was duly impressed, and went on his round, delivering letters and papers and telling everyone he saw, "Did you 'ear, the Meetchells 'ave twins!"

Meanwhile Timmy had caught sight of his brother and sisters, who were descending from the streetcar.

"Joan! Patsy!" he yelled. "Angela! Peter! We've twins - twins! They've come! Two babies! Boys! Come and see!"

Mother Mitchell was in a deep, refreshing sleep. She was dreaming that she was a child again, playing in the meadow. But as she picked the pretty daisies, they began to glitter and twinkle in her hands. They had turned into stars.

Crash! Boom! Her bouquet of stars exploded in her face.

"What's that?" She sat up, trembling. Then she sank back onto her pillows with a sigh of relief. It was only the children. They came storming into the room, and to Miss Thorpe's astonished eyes they seemed an army; Children you don't know always seem more numerous than they do when you know them. Peter, a tall boy of eleven with dark, quarreling hair and lengths of bony, uncovered wrist, reached his mother first. He bent over her with an almost grown-up air of protective tenderness.

"Congratulations," he said, kissing her. "Twins. What a bargain! Two for the price of one, eh?" Mother smiled at him. But Joan was already pushing Peter away. She was a tall blond girl of fifteen.

"Oh, the darlings," she crooned. "Aren't they just like Catherine when she was a baby? Can I hold one, Mommy? Let me have one, may I?" Lifting one of the twins from his reluctant mother's arms she sat down in the easy chair with him. He started to cry, but she put him over her shoulder and patted him in an expert way, to the admiration of Timmy and Angela, who were hanging about her chair. Peter and Patsy were leaning over their mother, admiring the other twin.

Mother was sitting up in bed, flushed, with shining eyes. " Aren't they wonderful!" she kept saying.

Miss Thorpe disapproved of the congestion in the bedroom and frowned at her.

"Oh!" said Mother. "You haven't met Miss Thorpe, who is kindly helping us out till I'm stronger."

The children suddenly sobered and turned their faces toward this unknown person. They had been only vaguely conscious of someone in the background while they admired the babies. Miss Thorpe looked formidable to them in the icy white of her starched linen uniform. Her dark eyebrows met over her nose, and her lips were pinched together. After a momentary hush Patsy got up to shake hands with her and Angela and Peter followed her example. Joan smiled from her chair, as she was holding the baby.

Miss Thorpe was clearing her throat to greet the children when a wail from the next room interrupted her. Catherine had waked up. There was a thud as she rolled out of her crib, then the sound of bare feet pattering on the floor. The door of Mother's bedroom was pushed open and Catherine entered, the wrinkles of her pillow still showing on her soft, pink cheek and her eyes dark and dewy under the pale wisps of her ruffled curls.

"Mommy!" she cried. She was clad only in a vest and panties and her fat tummy peeped through the gap. Miss Thorpe clucked in distress. "Come, dear, let me dress you."

But Catherine avoided her outstretched hands and steered a straight course to Mother's bed.

"Look at the babies!" cried Timmy.

Catherine's eyes darkened ominously when she saw the small bundle in Mother's arms. Her face grew red. She threw herself on Mother's bed.

"I don't want babies," she wailed. "I want a kitty."

"Well, dear -" began Mother.

"Now, Catherine," said Miss Thorpe.

"Babies are much nicer!" cried Joan.

"I want a kitty!" yelled Catherine.

Miss Thorpe pursed her lips. "Really," she said. "There are too many in this room. I'm afraid the children will hove to leave. "

"Yes, you're right, Nurse," Mother sighed. She allowed Miss Thorpe to push the protesting Catherine out of the room. Joan brought the baby back to his mother and smoothed her pillow.

"It's true, Mommy," she said, "you'd better rest. You've had twins, you know." And she herded the other children into the hall.

Miss Thorpe closed the door after her. "It was about time," she sighed. "What you need, ma'am, is a nanny."

The children felt ashamed of Catherine's behavior. Fancy not wanting baby brothers! She was as bad as Mary Jane, who didn't want rice pudding. They'd call her Mary Jane, if she didn't stop howling. What would the new nurse think? What would the neighbors think? There-now the twins were crying too; Catherine had started them. Why did they cry? Because Catherine didn't want them, of course. How would you like not being wanted?

Catherine's sobs subsided. She still whimpered a few times that she had asked for a kitty; Mommy knew she wanted a kitty; but the wails coming from the bedroom impressed her. It wasn't long until she was happily munching a cooky, which she shared with Trusty, the dog. When Father came home all was more or less peaceful - even the twins were asleep - so he and Mother could rejoice for a moment together.