SECTION I.

GLIMPSES

OF

THE DARK AGES;

OR,

SKETCHES OF THE SOCIAL CONDITION

OF EUROPE,

FROM

THE FIFTH TO THE TWELFTH CENTURY.

LONDON:

THE RELIGIOUS TRACT SOCIETY,

_Instituted 1789._

PREFACE.

In the following sketch, the author has confined himself to one

branch of the History of the Middle Ages. He attempts nothing more

than a glance at the social condition of Europe, from the fifth to

the twelfth century; political affairs, military transactions, the

rise and fall of dynasties, the relation of European states to each

other, and the lives and deeds of the heroes of those days, do not

come within the range of his plan. He has marked out the first six

centuries of the middle ages, for separate consideration, because in

the twelfth century a new epoch commenced.

Much of what is true of the former period, is not true of the latter.

New social elements were then formed, and old ones received new

life--it was the dawn of modern civilisation. It is difficult to

draw a well-defined line between the two ages, but it may be placed

somewhere about the twelfth century. Events and institutions which

arose then, and which seem to belong to the later period of social

progress in Europe, have, therefore, received no notice in the

following pages.

The author has been careful in consulting authorities, though he has

abstained from loading his pages with references. The quotations are

taken immediately, not second-hand, from the works cited at the foot

of the page; and in referring to books as authorities, the author has

generally chosen such as are best known, easiest of access, and most

adapted to furnish additional interesting information on the topics

in question.

CONTENTS.

CHAPTER I.--FALL OF ROME.

SECTION 1. Taking of the city

2. Roman civilisation

3. Barbarians

CHAPTER II.--THE CHURCH.

SECTION 1. Political relations

2. Superstitions

3. Morals

4. Literature and art

CHAPTER III.--THE MONASTERY.

SECTION 1. Rise of monachism

2. Monastic life and manners

3. Monkish employments

4. Effects of monastic institutions on society

CHAPTER IV.--THE FEUDAL CASTLE.

SECTION 1. Rise of feudalism

2. Feudalism in France

3. Modification of the system in England

4. Estimate of the effects of feudalism

CHAPTER V.--THE TOWN.

SECTION 1. Roman municipalities

2. Rise of modern Italian cities

3. Cities of Germany, and the Netherlands

4. Anglo-Saxon boroughs

GLIMPSES

OF

THE DARK AGES.

CHAPTER I.

THE FALL OF ROME.

SECTION I.--TAKING OF THE CITY.

The city of Rome had sustained little diminution in her architectural

splendour, when the setting sun shed his parting beams, as if with

prophetic significance, upon the gilded roof of the venerable

capitol, on the evening of the 24th of August, A.D. 410. The temple

of Jupiter, though shorn of some of the dazzling ornaments with which

the emperor Domitian had adorned its portals and pediments, still

remained an imposing monument of the ancient paganism of the Imperial

City. Other costly temples and public buildings, clustered around

that seat of Roman pride and greatness, and met and charmed the eye

of the citizen, as he ascended the slope of the Capitoline Hill.

With a lordly air, these noble structures threw their long shadows

over the spacious forum, where, of old, the sons of the republic had

been accustomed to gather in crowds around the rostrum, to listen to

the speeches of their orators; and where still the degenerate Roman

was reminded of the deeds of his fathers, by the monuments of

patriotism and victory which were strewn around him. On that

evening, might be seen many a citizen and foreigner passing to and

fro, along its stately colonnades, or reclining at his ease upon the

marble seats; and in whatever direction he went, on leaving that

far-famed spot, he passed through squares and streets which were

adorned with temples, palaces, and baths, such as could have been

erected in no city but one that had enriched itself with the spoils

of the whole world. In short, Rome had undergone but little

alteration since the eastern emperor Constantius, fifty years before,

on visiting the city of his fathers, had been overwhelmed with

astonishment at its surpassing magnificence. An historian of that

period,[1] describing the visit in that inflated style which is so

characteristic of the age, observes; "As Constantius viewed the

seven-hilled city, with its valleys and suburban districts, every

object around him seemed to shine with transcendent splendour:--the

temple of Tarpeian Jove exceeding everything he had beheld, as much

as a Divine production could exceed the works of man; the spacious

baths spreading around like provinces; the Amphitheatre with its

solid walls of Tiburtine marble, and so lofty, that the eye is

fatigued in looking upward to its summit; the Pantheon with its vast

circular space, arched over by a magnificent dome; and its lofty

pediments rising one above another, and crowned with statues of Roman

heroes; the Forum and Temple of Peace; the Theatre of Pompey; the

Musical Hall; the Stadia, and other imposing objects in the Eternal

City. But when he came to the Forum of Trajan--the most astonishing

structure under the face of heaven, and, as I conceive, wonderful in

the estimation of the deities themselves--he was struck with

astonishment, while considering its gigantic buildings, which are not

to be described in language, or again to be equalled by mortal skill.

Discarding the idea of erecting another forum like that, he thought

that he might rear an equestrian statue, which should resemble the

colossal horse of Trajan; but this design he also abandoned, upon

hearing it remarked by the prince, Hormisdas, 'If you would succeed

in having a similar horse, you must first provide a similar stable,'"

Such was the grandeur of ancient Rome; and it was probably with

feelings of admiration like those of the emperor and his historian,

that many a citizen returned from the baths and the forums to his own

dwelling on the eventful evening in question. Gradually the sounds

of business, and the murmur of voices in the streets died away: and

as the stars shone forth in the face of heaven, the mighty city slept

in silence. But it was a silence soon to be disturbed.

At the midnight hour, a blast of trumpets like the roar of thunder

reverberated from hill to hill, and woke up myriads of the

inhabitants from their deep slumbers--it was the signal that Alaric

the Goth, with his mighty army, had entered Rome.

Two years before the barbarian general had besieged the city. Swayed

by what he conceived a supernatural impulse, he led his victorious

troops down the passes of the Apennines, upon the rich plains of

Italy. A pious monk, it is said, met the warrior on his way, and

exhorted him to refrain from his expedition; but he replied, "I am

urged on in spite of myself, by an irresistible impulse which is

continually saving to me, 'March to Rome, and desolate the city.'"[2]

Thus, prompted by his ambition, he fulfilled his destiny, and wreaked

a fearful amount of vengeance on the heads of the Romans, for the

wrongs which they had inflicted upon others. Twice did he blockade

the gates of Rome, and subdue the proud masters of the world. During

the first siege, the terrors of famine and pestilence reduced the

senate to submission, and the conqueror agreed to raise the siege,

only upon the condition of his being paid a very large ransom.

Negotiations for peace with the emperor Honorius, who was then at

Ravenna, having failed, Alaric returned to Rome, and again pitched

his camp before the walls. The remembrance of their calamities,

during the former siege, constrained the people once more to yield;

when the Gothic warrior insisted upon their renouncing allegiance to

Honorius, and imposed upon them a new emperor in the person of

Attalus, the prefect of the city. But it was not long before the

latter forfeited the confidence of his master, and Alaric immediately

proceeded publicly to strip him of the imperial purple. The Goth,

after this circumstance, renewed his negotiations with the court of

Ravenna; but being insulted by the heralds, and attacked by the

troops of Honorius, he turned his army a third time towards the gates

of Rome.[3]

Historians inform us, that it was by an act of treachery, that Alaric

was now admitted into the city; but no satisfactory information can

be obtained respecting the particulars of the important transaction.

The Gothic trumpet, however, at the Salarian gate, the march of the

enemy along the great highway, and the flames issuing from the palace

of Sallust--which was fired by the troops, as soon as they entered

within the walls--proclaimed that Rome, the Queen of Cities, after

the lapse of nearly eight hundred years from her invasion by the

Gauls, was once more in the hands of a barbarian foe. Although the

Romans had been aware of the vicinity of Alaric, yet, lulled into a

state of false security, they did not anticipate any assault, and the

senators were quietly slumbering in their beds when the enemy entered

the city. Fearful were the scenes enacted; and well might Jerome

apply to it the lines of Virgil, in reference to the sack of Troy:

"What tongue can tell the slaughter of that night?

What eyes can weep the sorrow and affright?

An ancient and imperial city falls--

The streets are fill'd with frequent funerals;

Houses and holy temples float in blood,

And hostile nations made a common flood;

All parts resound with tumults, plaints, and fears,

Ana grisly death in sundry shapes appears."

The cruel and licentious soldiery made a dreadful slaughter of the

Roman people, and violated many a matron and virgin. The horrors of

the invasion were further heightened by the excesses which were

practised by forty thousand slaves, who now broke loose from the

authority of their masters, and retaliated, on them and their

families, the wrongs which themselves and their predecessors had

endured through ages of oppression. But it is acknowledged by all

writers, that Alaric--who was himself an Arian--showed some

considerable regard for the Christians of the city, and spared the

churches where they met for worship. Indeed he appointed the

edifices, which had been dedicated to the apostles Peter and Paul, as

places of refuge for the terrified Christian inhabitants, and gave

strict orders that those who fled there for sanctuary, should be

protected from injury. Instances illustrative of the forbearance of

the soldiers, and of their respect not only for the persons of the

Christians but for the consecrated vessels which they employed in

their worship, are afforded us by the historians of those times.

Orosius gives us a graphic description of a long train of Christians,

carrying on their heads the communion-plate of gold and silver, and

singing their sacred hymns, who were escorted in safety, by the

Gothic soldiers, through the streets of the ravaged city, to the

church of St. Peter. He speaks also of many of the barbarians, and

the pagan Romans, uniting in these songs, and joining in the solemn

procession; and represents the latter as saving themselves from

vengeance, by taking shelter beneath the wing of the Christian faith.

But, notwithstanding this abatement of the horrors connected with the

taking of Rome, enough is recorded on the page of authentic history

to convey a fearful idea of that memorable event. Numbers were

slain, the houses of the wealthy were pillaged, their most costly

treasures were unsparingly seized, many of the most beautiful works

of art were destroyed; and if only a few of the buildings of Rome

were reduced to ashes, they were all, no doubt, stripped of whatever

was valuable, and capable of being removed in the heavy wagons which

followed in the rear of the Gothic army. Multitudes of the people of

rank were sold for slaves, or driven into exile. "Who would

believe," exclaims Jerome, "that Rome, built up with the spoils of

the whole world, and the very cradle of nations, should be turned

into a sepulchre; that the shores of Egypt, Africa, and the east,

should be crowded with the handmaids of the imperial city; that every

day nobles of both sexes, who had lived in affluence, should come as

beggars to the sanctuaries of Bethlehem."[4]

But it is not the intention of the author to write a history of the

invasion of Rome by Alaric: he has selected that event, simply as a

starting-point in his introduction to a review of the state of

society in the middle ages. That invasion forms the first grand

epoch in the fall of Rome, which thenceforth became the prey of

barbarian violence, till, at length, no traces of its greatness

remained, and the eternal city itself became a field of ruins. And

as it was the fall of Rome which prepared the way for the social

phenomena of the mediæval period, it was natural, before entering

upon an enumeration of those times, to glance at the event which

appears so conspicuously among the causes which effected them.

It will be proper, before we proceed further, briefly to notice the

previous state of Roman civilisation, as this will in some measure

explain the remarkable fact of so great an empire having been overrun

by barbarians, and will also illustrate the character of that form of

society which was succeeded by the social changes of the middle ages.

[1] Ammianus Marcellinus, lib. xvi. c. 10.

[2] Socrates, Hist., lib. vii. c. 10.

[3] Gibbon's Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, chap. xxxi.

[4] Hieron., Pref. in Ezekiel.

SECTION II.

ROMAN CIVILISATION.

The history of Rome is that of a municipality pushing its vigorous

arms in all directions, extending its influence on every side,

without suffering its own central power to be affected--without

admitting any other city or country to share in its dominion; other

cities were but her daughters, or her slaves, and her extensive

provinces were but like so many vast suburbs encircling her walls.

The chief magistrates in the Roman city were the chief magistrates in

the Roman world. This phenomenon of a single municipal government

administering the affairs of a wide surrounding territory, and of

distant provinces and colonies, is the very type of ancient political

civilisation: there is nothing like it in Europe, in modern times.

London is a great municipality, but the power of its magistracy is

confined within its own walls. If we connect with it the

neighbouring city of Westminster, it derives considerable political

importance from its being the locality where the national government

is accustomed to meet; but, in this respect, its character is very

different from Rome. It draws together the lines of influence which

flow from the provinces, it receives and concentrates them: but the

city of Rome was the centre of a system of absolute power, spreading

its ramifications over the world. The former unites and gives

intensity to what it receives from without--the latter propelled far

and wide an influence which originated from within. Rome was the

fountain of political power--London is but the focus.

"A municipality like Rome," says Guizot, "had been able to conquer

the world, but it was not so easy a task to govern and organize it.

Thus when the work seemed consummated, when all the west, and a great

part of the east, had fallen under the Roman sway, we find this

prodigious accumulation of cities, of small states, instituted for

isolation and independence, disunited, detached from each other, and

slipping the noose, as it were, in all directions. This was one of

the causes which led to the necessity of an empire."[1]

Under Augustus, Rome lost its republican character, and became an

imperial city--a military despotism succeeded to free institutions.

Mercenary troops and standing armies took the place of those

invincible legions which had been composed of Roman citizens; and the

new military power thus created was placed in the hands of the Roman

emperor. The senate remained, together with other institutions which

had existed in the days of the republic; but they had lost the spirit

which had once animated them, and were now overshadowed and rendered

almost powerless by the influence of imperial authority. Under

Diocletian a system of partition was introduced, when the two Augusti

and the two Cæsars became the rulers of the four great provinces into

which the Roman empire was divided: this new system affected both the

form and the spirit of the government; for, by removing these rulers

from the city to their respective provinces, it released them from

whatever little restraint the senate might have put upon their

proceedings. They became absolute sovereigns, oppressing the

provinces by their exactions, and spreading desolation around them,

by their wars with each other. Constantine overcame all his rivals

in power, and engrossed to himself the whole government of the

empire; but by removing his residence and court from Rome to

Constantinople, he prepared for that separation of the eastern from

the western provinces, which produced in fact two separate and

independent empires. Other changes were introduced by Constantine:

the despotism of the court succeeded to the despotism of the army:

state officers were multiplied without number; and, as Heeren

observes, "if the good of a commonwealth consisted in forms, rank and

title, the Roman empire must at this time have been truly happy!"[2]

How completely had Rome now lost the greatness which she once

possessed! patriotism had faded from the empire; the spirit of

liberty had expired. If republican forms remained, the life which

had once animated them was gone, and they were made the covering for

despotic practices, and oriental courtiership. Laws no longer

depended on the decrees of the senate, but on the rescripts of

emperors, and government sank into a fearful despotism,--the

punishment, under Divine Providence, of states unfaithful to liberty.

It has been often observed, that despotism was the only kind of rule

which could hold the Roman empire together during the last age of its

history: but what a striking proof does that fact present of the

thoroughly corrupt state of Roman civilisation!

Society in Rome was divided into three great classes, nobles,

plebeians, and slaves. The accounts which are given by historians of

the wealth, splendour, and luxury of the first of these classes,

almost exceed belief. A writer of the period, describing the state

of Rome under Honorius, relates, that several of the senators

received from their estates an annual income of four thousand pounds

of gold, which would be equivalent to more than one hundred and sixty

thousand pounds sterling, without reckoning provision of corn and

wine, which, if sold, would have realized one-third of that sum. The

estates of these patricians spread over distant provinces, and, as

early as the time of Seneca, "rivers which had divided hostile

nations, flowed through the lands of private citizens." With such

resources at their command, there were no bounds to their

extravagance. "Many of their mansions might excuse the exaggeration

of the poet, that Rome contained a multitude of palaces, and that

each palace was equal to a city; since it included within its own

precincts everything which could be subservient either to use or

luxury--markets, hippodromes, temples, fountains, baths, porticoes,

shady groves, and artificial aviaries."[3] A remarkable instance of

Roman splendour, belonging to an earlier period, is afforded in the

account we have of the house of Scaurus, which was valued at a sum

equal to £885,000 of our money. A distinguished antiquary has given

a fancy picture of the dining-room in this palace, which was probably

equalled in some of the Roman houses of a later date. He describes

the apartment as divided into two portions; the upper occupied by

tables and couches, the lower left empty for the convenience of

attendants. The former was adorned with valuable curtains: garlands

entwined with ivy divided the wall into compartments, which were

bordered by fanciful ornaments: and the frieze above the columns was

formed in twelve divisions, each of which was surmounted by a sign of

the zodiac, and by meat, fish, and game, emblematical of the season.

Bronze lamps, suspended from the ceiling, or raised on candelabra,

shed a brilliant light, and were trimmed by slaves. The tables were

of citron-wood more precious than gold, and rested on ivory feet.

The couches were overlaid with silver, gold, and tortoise-shell; the

mattresses were of Gallic wool, dyed purple; the cushions of silk,

embroidered with gold, were worked at Babylon, and cost thirty-two

thousand pounds. The pavement was of mosaic, and represented the

fragments of a feast scattered about, as if the floor had not been

swept since the last meal. While waiting for their masters, young

slaves strewed over the pavement sawdust, dyed with saffron, and

vermilion, mixed with a brilliant powder, made from the _lapis

specularis_, or talc.[4] An historian, before quoted,[5] who lived

during the fourth century, gives a lively description of the Roman

nobility at that time, from which it appears that luxury of every

kind was carried to the greatest excess. They adorned their houses

with magnificent statues of themselves. Their robes were of the most

costly description, and became a burden to the wearer from the

immoderate weight of their rich embroidery. When they travelled to

any distance, so large was the retinue that it was like the march of

an army, and even when they rode in their splendid chariots through

the streets of the city, they were followed by a train of fifty

servants, and tore up the very pavement by their furious driving.

Sometimes they sailed in their painted yachts from the Lucrine lake,

on the coast of Puteoli, and thought when they had done it, that they

had performed an exploit which might rival the expeditions of either

Alexander or Cæsar. Their tables were covered with the rarest

delicacies, and the pleasures of the feast occupied no small share of

their time and conversation. Musical concerts and visiting the

baths, the theatres, and other places of amusement, absorbed nearly

all the rest. Great was the change since the days of Cincinnatus.

Roman simplicity had been succeeded by oriental magnificence. Cloaks

of Laconian wool and purple, tables of thurga-root, with claws of

silver and ivory, services of plate, set with precious stones,

furniture of the costliest materials, and most elegant workmanship,

banqueting-halls of florid architecture, baths of marble, and villas

surrounded by enchanting gardens, were now the signs of greatness,

instead of wisdom in the cabinet, or valour in the field.

The second class of Roman society consisted of the plebeian citizens,

numbers of whom, neglecting all industrious employments, lived upon

the public distribution of bread, bacon, oil, and wine, which, from

the time of Augustus, had been made for the relief of the indigent

among the people. These idlers spent their time chiefly in baths and

taverns, and in witnessing those public amusements in the circus and

the theatre, which their corrupt magistrates and great men, from the

emperors downwards, were accustomed to provide as a means of securing

and maintaining popularity. "Some," says Ammianus, "passed the night

in taverns, and others under the awnings of the theatres: they

occupied their time in playing at dice, or, which was a more

favourite employment, in sitting from morning till evening in the sun

or the rain, enjoying the amusements of the circus, and discussing

the excellences, or the defects of the horses and the charioteers.

It was truly surprising to see an innumerable concourse of people,

with the most ardent minds, watching the event of a chariot face."[6]

The third portion of Roman society consisted of slaves. This unhappy

class formed a large portion of the Roman population from an early

period. So numerous were they at one time, that when it was proposed

to distinguish them from the citizens by a particular dress, the

proposal was negatived, on the ground that it would be dangerous to

the state, if these bondmen discovered their numerical strength.

Domestic occupations of all kinds were allotted to slaves, numbers of

them were employed as artisans. Some of them were devoted to

professional pursuits; and great men had among their slaves,

physicians, librarians, and secretaries: a state of things obviously

most pernicious, as the moral influence exerted by them upon the

families with whom they resided must have been most injurious: nor

was the peril small from having so large a class of persons in the

community, whose feelings towards their masters, in a multitude of

instances, must have been deeply embittered. At one period, the

possessors of slaves in Rome exercised over them a perfectly

irresponsible authority, and scourged and put them to death at

pleasure: but under the emperors Adrian, and the Antonines, the

shield of legal protection was extended over this oppressed portion

of society. Some melioration in the state of Roman slaves, no doubt,

was secured during the last age of the empire; but the wrongs

inseparable from slavery were still endured, and a disposition to be

avenged on their oppressors still nourished; for amidst the scenes of

terror and violence, which marked the taking of Rome by Alaric, we

have seen forty thousand slaves rising to join the Goths in shedding

Roman blood, and in trampling in the dust the remains of Roman pride

and greatness. That the servile part of the Roman population,

ministering, as they did, to the luxury, the extravagance, and the

vices of their masters, partook of the prevalent moral corruption of

the times is certain; and thus society, in the imperial city,

presented the picture so affectingly described by the prophet, "the

whole head is sick, and the whole heart faint, from the sole of the

foot even unto the head there is no soundness in it: but wounds and

bruises and putrifying sores; they have not been closed, neither

bound up, neither mollified with ointment."[7]

Had not Christianity "mollified" them? No doubt what there was of

healing and preserving power in society at Rome, during its latter

days, proceeded from the influence of the Christian religion; and it

is worthy of remark that the court of the Christian emperors

presented a striking contrast, in point of morality, with the court

of their pagan predecessors. There were also pious believers, who

saw, and bewailed the increasing tide of popular depravity,--who

"sighed and cried because of the abominations done in the midst of

the city." But it must not be forgotten, that by the close of the

fourth century Christianity in Rome was not what it was in the days

when Paul wrote his epistle to the church, and congratulated them on

their faith and piety. "The gold had become dim." Very great

innovations had been made upon Christian doctrine and practice: they

had been slowly growing up for years, and, after the council of Nice,

developed themselves more boldly than before. Christianity

originally appeared as a system of wisdom and mercy, for the

reconciliation of fallen man with God through the one Mediator, Jesus

Christ, and for the renewal of his depraved nature by the power of

the Holy Spirit; but now a crowd of inferior mediators had begun to

rise in the church, and to hide the Saviour from the eye of the

repenting sinner; while the scriptural doctrine of Divine influence

was made void by the notion of the saving efficacy of the sacraments.

In the New Testament we are informed that the religion of Christ is

not a religion of forms--that the kingdom of God is not meat and

drink, but righteousness, peace, and joy in the Holy Ghost; but now

ceremonies were multiplied, men were led to addict themselves to

these as of primary importance, and to lose sight of the spirituality

of the Christian scheme. The morality of the gospel, as taught by

Christ and his apostles, was pure and perfect; but in the writings of

some of the Fathers it assumed a different character, for "there

principles may be found concerning veracity, which undermine the

foundation of all true virtue."[8] The church at first was "not of

this world;" but now a spirit of secularity took possession of it,

and it was hastening to identify itself more and more with the powers

of the earth.

Scenes were witnessed in Rome, in connexion with ecclesiastical

proceedings, which, so far from presenting an instructive and

beneficial contrast to the flagrant disorders of society at the time,

were of the very same description. "Damasus and Ursinus being

extremely ambitious for the episcopal dignity, contended for it so

fiercely, that, in the quarrel, were inflicted wounds and death; when

Juventius, the prefect of Rome, not being able to repress these

outrages, retired from the city. Damasus overcame. In the church of

Licinius, where there was an assembly of Christians, a hundred and

thirty-seven were killed in one day; and it was a long time before

the excitement of the people was calmed." "Do not deny," proceeds

the heathen historian, "that considering the wealth of the city, they

who covet such things are justified in pursuing them, even though it

be with contention, since, having obtained these honours, they will

be enriched with the oblations of matrons, and will ride, sumptuously

clad, in chariots, and make profuse entertainments, vying with regal

banquets. But surely they might be happy, if disregarding the

grandeur of Rome, which they allege as a reason for their luxury,

they would follow the example of provincial bishops, who, by the

plainness of their table, and their unostentatious dress and manners,

commend themselves to the Divine Being as men of purity and

religion."[9]

There is no doubt of the truth of this statement, respecting the

episcopal quarrel, as it is corroborated by Socrates and Sozomenes,

who were Christian historians: and while the satirical remark of the

pagan writer, respecting the luxury of the bishops of Rome, throws a

sad light on the state of the church in that city, his admission

relative to the simplicity and virtues of some of the provincial

pastors, shows that Christianity was still yielding its own proper

fruit in other places. Christianity, thus corrupted and secularized,

was not likely to produce a salutary influence upon society, and to

retard the progress of moral decay and dissolution in the Roman

state. Besides, Christianity, such as it was, had by no means been

universally embraced in Rome, though the emperors had adopted the

profession of Christianity, and laws had been made for its support.

Paganism was still the religion of many. In the year A.D. 384, the

senate petitioned that the altar of victory might be restored in the

senate-house; and, at the time of Alaric's invasion, there were some

of the same assembly, who recommended that Rome should endeavour to

avert impending calamities, which they attributed to the anger of the

gods, on account of the spread of Christianity, by offering, as of

old, sacrifices to their honour, in the capitol, and other temples.

Pagan rites, too, were no doubt sometimes performed in private, till

a late period; for though the laws forbade them, the magistrates seem

to have displayed a tolerant spirit toward the lingering vestiges of

the ancient religion of the empire. Such being the case,

Christianity having been corrupted, and paganism still existing to a

great extent, in the city and the empire, the vice and profligacy of

the Roman people, under the latest of the emperors, can furnish no

materials for any just reflection upon the social tendencies of the

Christian system, considered in itself.

In an age of social corruption and licentiousness, it would be vain

to expect the cultivation of a pure taste in matters of art, or any

noble efforts of the human intellect in the departments of

literature. The imagination and judgment of mankind feel the moral

contagion, and the intellectual energies in general become enfeebled

and depressed. Hence the artistic civilisation of Rome, at the

period before us, displayed a most vitiated taste. The studious

imitation of classic beauty, as expressed in Grecian works of art,

characterized the early cultivation of artistical skill among the

Romans, and led them to produce buildings and statues which might

bear comparison with their admired models; but now, a taste for the

really elegant, had been superseded by a passion for oriental

magnificence and luxury. Colossal magnitude, and profuse ornaments,

excited admiration rather than symmetry of proportion, and chasteness

of decoration. As to literature, it was either neglected altogether,

or cultivated according to the prevailing taste.

"The causes of this decay," observes Ammianus Marcellinus, "are not

difficult to be traced: they are the dissipation of our young men,

the inattention of parents, the ignorance of those who pretend to

give instruction, and the total neglect of ancient discipline. The

mischief began at Rome, it has overrun Italy, and is now with rapid

strides spreading through the provinces." The same author also

distinctly notices, in his sketch of the state of Rome, the prevalent

ignorance and corrupt tastes of the higher classes, observing, that

musical performers were preferred to philosophers; and that jugglers

had taken the place of orators; while libraries were closed and

deserted, like sepulchres of the dead.[10]

From this slight review of well attested facts, it must be evident to

the reader, that Roman civilisation, immediately before the fall of

the empire, was thoroughly corrupt. Every one will discern, in that

corruption, enough to account for the prostration of the proud

imperial city, beneath the power of barbarians. But the Christian

mind will further recognise, in the facts of this memorable case, the

operations of one of the established laws of Divine Providence. The

full punishment of individual men for their transgressions in this

life, is reserved for a future state of being; but as nations in

their collective capacity, will have no existence hereafter, the

punishments of their sins is sure to be inflicted upon them sooner or

later in the present world. The retributive justice of God is as

clearly to be seen in the overthrow of Rome, as in the extirpation of

the Canaanites, or the fall of Jerusalem.

[1] Guizot's Lect. on Civilisation, lect. 2.

[2] Manual of Ancient History. Oxf. p. 450.

[3] Gibbon, vol. iv. p. 94.

[4] Pompeii, vol. ii. p. 13.

[5] Ammianus Marcellinus.

[6] Ammianus Marcellinus. lib. xiv. c. 25.

[7] Gibbon gives a full view of the state of Roman society, ch. xxxi.

of his "Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire."

[8] Giesler, vol. i. p. 298.

[9] Ammianus Marcellinus, lib. lxxvii. c. 3.

[10] Ammianus Marcellinus, lib. xiv. c. 6.

SECTION III.

BARBARIANS.

The Goths, the first of the barbarians who invaded Rome, were

descended from one of those tribes whom Tacitus has described in his

valuable treatise on the manners of the Germans. They were wandering

hordes, neglecting agriculture, living upon the produce of the chase,

and upon their prolific flocks and herds. Unlike the now effeminate

Romans, they were hardy and robust. War was their business, conquest

their delight, and the sword and buckler their choicest ornaments.

Freedom was their birthright, and the power of their rulers was

curbed by considerable limitations. In peace, their princes were

bound to consult them on all affairs of government, and in war, it

was left to the soldier to choose the standard under which he would

enlist: but once pledged to a particular chief, no dangers or

allurements could induce him to desert. A spirit of fidelity and

freedom mingled with their ferocious habits, and formed the national

characteristic of this remarkable race. The lapse of some three

centuries, intercourse with the Romans during the latter part of that

period, and the professed adoption of the Arian form of Christianity,

had no doubt, in some measure, modified the Gothic character; and if

we are to admit the statement of Salvian, a writer of that period, it

would further appear that the morals of the barbarians were of a

higher tone than those of the empire. Still there can be no doubt

that they retained much of their original fierce independence of

character.[1]

We have already glanced at the spectacle of Rome invaded by the Goths

under Alaric: but though that invasion was a fatal blow given to the

city, and the empire, it did not complete their ruin. Rome was not

built, nor could it be destroyed, in a day. Forty years after it had

yielded to the Goths, it beheld another enemy approaching its gates,

in the person of Attila, the chief of the Huns, a tribe pre-eminently

barbarous and cruel, who had forsaken their encampments in Hungary,

to seek victory and spoil in the fair and fruitful provinces of the

south. Yet this powerful prince, moved by the persuasion of Leo, the

bishop of Rome, and, perhaps, still more by costly gifts; by the

prevalence of disease among his troops; and by the superstitious

presentiments of his own mind, abandoned his design of entering Rome,

and gave another respite to the doomed city.

Twenty-four years elapsed, and Odoacer, at the head of the

Vandals--who, with the Goths, seemed to have sprung from a common

origin--again inspired terror in the enfeebled Romans, took the city,

dethroned the last of the emperors--who was styled Romulus Augustus,

as if in mockery of the proud associations connected with those two

noble names--and caused himself to be proclaimed the king of Rome.

But the empire cannot be said, even then, to have completely fallen;

for the barbarian rulers held the government, in commission, under

the imperial successors of Constantine, who occupied the throne of

the east. Scenes of conflict and desolation followed in rapid

succession: the wars of Totila with Belisarius fearfully ravaged the

region of Italy, and left Rome a scene of ruins; but the

establishment of the exarchate of Ravenna kept up some faint shadow

of the empire of Constantine, till Charlemagne was crowned king of

the Romans, when the last vestiges of that great commonwealth melted

away for ever.

The ancient city of Rome was at once the type, and the centre of the

civilisation of the old world. Her image was reflected in the great

cities which adorned the shores of the Mediterranean, and she spread

her manners, arts, and luxury, over the far distant nations which she

subdued. But her power being thoroughly despotic, and her

civilisation corrupt at the core, the laws of Divine Providence

rendered her overthrow inevitable; and in her fall were involved the

dissolution of the forms, and the extinction of the spirit of ancient

civilisation. It is probable that had Rome pursued a different

course, the night of the middle ages would not have brooded over

Europe; and that to her despotism and vices may be traced the origin,

or the occasion, of those social evils which followed for so long a

period. But that Divine and gracious Being, who maketh the wrath of

man to praise him, and who turneth the shadow of death into the

morning, has so controlled events, as to make those temporary evils

subservient to lasting good. The Gothic invasion, as it were, melted

down the forms of ancient society, and infused into the mass new

elements of power, thus furnishing the materials for the civil and

social polity of modern times. The progress of the change was

gradual--the beneficial result could not spring forth at once in a

finished and perfect state; it was developed, after the lapse of

ages, like useful vegetation, clothing some rich and fruitful soil,

which has been formed by gradual deposits in the bed of some ancient

lake, or river, and left to yield its treasures when the waters have

retired.

[1] See extracts from Salvian in "Ancient Christianity." vol. ii. 71.

CHAPTER II.

THE CHURCH.

This was the leading element of civilisation, the most active power

at work in society upon the dissolution of the Roman empire; and,

indeed, throughout the whole of the dark ages, it exerted a

pre-eminent share of influence on the social condition of Europe.

The character of that influence will be unfolded in the present

chapter.

SECTION I.

POLITICAL RELATIONS.

It will be proper for us to glance at the relation which the church

sustained to the state during that period. The adoption of the

Christian religion by Constantine, and his interference in

ecclesiastical matters, completely altered the position of the church

in this respect. From having been an independent spiritual

community, it became a sort of chartered corporation, linked by

manifold ties to the civil government. It acquired political

influence, both in executing and making laws. During the barbaric

period, that season of wild disorder which ensued upon the invasion

of the Roman empire, and which extended from the fifth to the seventh

century, the political influence of the church greatly increased.

Bishops were invested with extraordinary powers. In the towns and

cities where they resided, the general superintendence of public

affairs was committed to their hands. The codes of Justinian

empowered them to act in the management of city revenues, and in the

oversight of the public works, such as the construction and the

repairs of magazines, aqueducts, baths, harbours, bridges, and roads.

Other powers were given them, rather more in accordance with the

clerical character. They were to interfere in the appointment of

guardians over the young, in the protection of prisoners, insane

persons, foundlings, stolen children, and oppressed women, in the

general administration of justice, and in the public maintenance of

morality and order.[1] Whatever opinion we may form respecting the

discharge of civic functions by the ministers of Christianity, we are

constrained to confess that here was an instance in which temporal

authority might be most beneficially exercised. But if the temper of

the clergy answered the description given by a writer of that

period--and if that temper descended to their successors, the

beneficial effect of the church's civil power was not very widely

extended. "Is it likely that any should undertake the cause of the

oppressed, when even the priests of the Lord do nothing,--the most of

them either holding their peace, or if they speak, acting like the

silent? So it is that the poor are plundered, widows groan, orphans

are trampled upon, and many are driven to take refuge among the

barbarians, seeking among the barbarians Roman humanity, because

among the Romans they are not able to endure their barbarous

inhumanity."[2]

Some abatement, perhaps, may be justly made from this sweeping

censure: most probably, even in that degenerate age, cases were not

wanting in which the benign spirit of Christianity prompted those who

were invested with such extraordinary powers, to employ them for the

relief of human suffering, the vindication of injured character, and

the protection of the oppressed.

But it was not in the administration of municipal affairs alone, that

the clergy were possessed of political power. They had no small

share in making laws, as well as in executing them. This was

especially the case in Spain. The laws of the Visigoths, instituted

at the council of Toledo, were compiled by the bishops. Here the

influence of the church was decidedly beneficial. Those laws exhibit

traces of a philosophic and Christian spirit. "Amongst the

barbarians, men were valued at a fixed rate, according to their

situations; the barbarian, the Roman, the freeman, the vassal, were

not estimated at the same sum: their lives were made matter of

tariff. The principle of men being of equal value in the eyes of the

law was established in the code of the Visigoths. With regard to the

system of procedure, we find the oath of compurgatores and the

judicial combat displaced for the proof by witnesses, and such a

rational examination into facts as might be adopted in any civilized

society. In a word, the whole Visigoth code bears a wise,

systematic, and social character. We perceive in it the labours of

that same clergy which held command in the councils of Toledo, and

operated so powerfully on the government of the country."[3]

The judicial prerogatives and legislative influence of the bishops of

the church, were backed by the extravagant veneration of the priestly

office, so natural to such a state of society as that which prevailed

at the commencement of the middle ages; and these causes combined to

elevate the rulers of the church to the loftiest position in society.

As an example of the power of the clergy, and of the precedence which

they claimed for themselves, as well as of the social manners of the

period, we may quote an anecdote of the famous Martin, bishop of

Tours, in the fourth century, recorded in his life, by Sulpicius

Severus. Dining once at the royal table, the emperor Maximus ordered

the cup to be first offered to the bishop, expecting next to receive

it himself. But the bishop handed it to a presbyter, who was sitting

by him, as an indication that a priest took precedence of a prince.

On another occasion, the empress waited on this celebrated

ecclesiastic, in the capacity of a menial, preparing his food,

bringing water for his hands, standing motionless by his side, in the

attitude of a slave; presenting him with wine, reverently collecting

the crumbs which fell from his table, and above all, in imitation of

the woman in the gospel, bathing his feet with her tears, and wiping

them with the hair of her head.[4] In the spirit thus displayed by

this haughty prelate, the churchmen of that day maintained that the

priesthood was above the crown, as much as heaven is nobler than the

earth, and the soul than the body: and acting upon that principle, we

find the bishops of France in the ninth century deposing Louis, the

son of Charlemagne. An ecclesiastical council in the same kingdom

afterwards adjudged his son Lothaire, unworthy of the crown, and

conferred it on his brother, Charles the Bald. A subsequent council

deposed him, when the pusillanimous monarch complained, "I ought not

to have been deposed, or at least not before I had been judged by the

bishops, who gave me royal authority: I have always submitted to

their correction, and am ready to do so now."

But while this kind of power was altogether inconsistent with the

ministerial character, and was often most tyrannically employed, it

is some little relief to know, that the history of the middle ages

can supply numerous instances of the beneficial exercise of clerical

influence in checking the vices of the great, and curbing the

injustice of monarchs. The church, too, sometimes interposed between

nobles and princes at variance with each other, and prevented the

shedding of blood; of which a pleasing instance occurs in the life of

Theodore, archbishop of Canterbury, in the seventh century, who, just

before his death, reconciled two Saxon kings on the eve of a

sanguinary conflict, and thus closed his public acts by sheathing the

sword of war.[5]

The bishops of Europe during the dark ages formed a civil as well as

a spiritual aristocracy, controlling, to a great extent, the affairs

of empires: but the bishop of one see climbed above all the rest, to

the highest pinnacle of power, first obtaining a sort of limited

monarchy, and then grasping at universal despotism. It comes not

within the range of our present design to trace the steps by which

the prelates of Rome attained their vast prerogatives;

"Were they not

Mighty magicians? Theirs a wondrous spell,

Where true and false were with infernal art

Close interwoven: where together met

Blessings and curses, threats and promises:

And with the terrors of futurity

Mingled whate'er enchants and fascinates,

Music and painting, sculpture, rhetoric,

And dazzling light, and darkness visible,

And architectural pomp such as none else.

What in his day the Syracusan sought,

Another world to plant his engines on,

They had, and having it, like gods, not men,

They moved this world at pleasure."[6]

Several of the popes were men of political and far-seeing minds, and

laid their plans in the spirit of profound statesmanship; but it is a

mistake to suppose that they were all political calculators--some of

them unintentionally contributed to rear the fabric of Roman

despotism, and a number of circumstances, which were quite

independent of pontifical control, concurred in producing the

ultimate result. In the twelfth and thirteenth centuries reached the

zenith of its pride and power, and presented a spectacle of despotic

authority unparalleled in the history of the world.

The spiritual aspect of this despotism was the strangest of all. "We

can, to a certain extent, imagine that, although evil may result from

it, mankind may abandon to a visible authority the direction of their

material interests and temporal destiny. We can understand the

philosopher who, on being informed that his house was on fire,

answered, 'Go and tell my wife. I have nothing to do with the

affairs of the household.' But when the matter at issue is

conscience, thought, the inward moral existence, for men to abdicate

the government of themselves, and to give themselves up to a foreign

sway, is an actual moral suicide, a servitude a hundred times more

abject than can befall the body, or than that endured by the tethered

serf."[7] One is terrified at the sight of the moral prostration of

Europe for so long a period, and shrinks from the thought of the

eternal state of millions thus enslaved, while an instinctive shudder

agitates the soul at the bare conception of the acts of presumptuous

insolence towards the King of Zion, committed by those who usurped

his authority over the consciences of men.

But it is the social condition of Europe during the dark ages which

forms our present subject, and therefore we must confine ourselves to

the influence of the papacy as it bore in that direction. That

influence was fearfully malign. Reducing, as it did, the souls of

men to a state of spiritual slavery, robbing them of the birthright

of moral inquiry, and interdicting the performance of the bounden

duty of proving all things, and holding fast that which is good, it

could not fail to cripple and weaken the human mind.

By gradually extending the jurisdiction of spiritual courts, and

especially by the promulgation of the canon law in the twelfth

century, the papacy encroached far and wide upon the civil rights of

society, and placed at its mercy the lives and fortunes of mankind.

The powerful body of lawyers who studied this code and practised in

these courts, most of whom were ecclesiastics, would not fail with

characteristic bigotry to defend every pretension or abuse to which

the received standard of authority gave sanction.[8] The wars which

the popes fomented with a view to their own aggrandizement; the

family feuds which they stirred up, as in the case of the sons of

Henry the Fourth of Germany, whom they excited to an almost

parricidal revolt: and the shameless extortion which they practised,

drawing from England alone, in a few years, by means of their agents,

the enormous sum of fifteen millions sterling, are also serious items

in the list of charges against Rome, and clearly show the baneful

influence which it exerted in a social point of view. But, perhaps,

the most striking example of the general fact before us, is to be

found in those strange spectacles exhibited in Europe, towards the

close of the dark ages, when nations were laid under an interdict.

At such a time, all the people were excommunicated. The churches

were closed, the eucharist was denied, the marriage service was

refused, the sick man in vain applied for the ordinances of the

church, and the dead remained unburied according to the rites of

Christian sepulture. An invisible arm seemed to smite the land, and

to pour on the population a bitter curse.[9]

Such were some of the social evils of the system: but it seems to be

a law of Divine Providence that nothing in this world can be so bad

but that it yields some advantage. The history of the papacy,

perhaps, presents as few instances of beneficial effects as can be

found in connexion with any system of government that ever existed;

yet a gleam or two of light may be seen shining among the clouds of

social evil with which it darkened the world. Nicholas the First, in

the ninth century, employed his influence, on one occasion, as the

defender of an injured queen: and Gregory the Seventh, in pushing his

ambitious schemes, probably effected some moral reforms in society.

Nor would we deny that the balance of papal favour happened sometimes

to be on the side of popular rights and interests. A circumstance of

permanent advantage to the interests of civilisation, may also be

recognised in that system of intercommunication between the clergy of

different parts of Europe, which arose out of the supremacy of the

papal power, and which was one great means of circulating whatever

knowledge of literature, or taste for the fine arts, might exist in

the dark ages.

[1] Cod. Just. lib. i. tit. iv.

[2] Salvian, quoted in "Ancient Christianity," vol. ii. 52.

[3] Guizot, Civilisation of Europe, Lect. 3.

[4] Sulp. Sevenis, Dial. ii. 6.

[5] Bede, Ecc. Hist. 1. iv. 21.

[6] Rogers' Italy.

[7] Guizot, Hist. of Civ. Lect. 6.

[8] Hallam, Middle Ages, chap. vii.

[9] Ibid.

SECTION II.

SUPERSTITIONS.

The course which was pursued by the church in reference to the

superstitions prevalent among the barbaric tribes whom it converted,

or sought to convert, at least to a nominal Christianity, was the

very opposite of that which the Scriptures prescribe. The Jews were

forbidden to compromise the character of their religion by

accommodating themselves to heathen practices; and an inspired

apostle, indignant at the thought of amalgamating Christianity with

paganism, exclaims, "What communion hath light with darkness? what

concord hath Christ with Belial? or what part hath he that believeth

with an infidel?"

The church of the middle ages proceeded on a different principle.

"Idol temples," said Gregory the Great, in his epistle to the abbot

Melitus on his mission to Britain, "Idol temples are not to be

destroyed, but only the idols which are in them. Let the fanes be

sprinkled with holy water, and the altars consecrated by relics. If

these edifices be well built, it is desirable that they should be

converted from the worship of demons to the use of the true God; for

the people, seeing that their temples are not destroyed, will more

easily overcome their prejudices, and acknowledge and adore the

Almighty in the places where they have been wont to worship. And

since they are accustomed to slay oxen in sacrifice to their gods,

let this be turned into a Christian solemnity, so that on the day of

dedicating a church, or on the festivals of the holy martyrs whose

relics may be there preserved, booths of green boughs may be erected

round these same churches and Christian rites be celebrated. Animals

are no more to be offered in sacrifice to devils, but they are to be

eaten by the people in gratitude and to the glory of God. By

retaining these outward forms of rejoicing you will more easily bring

them to participate in spiritual joys."[1] The result of such

mistaken policy might have been foreseen; for this spirit of

compliance is sure to deteriorate the system which it seeks to

extend, and to confirm the prejudices which it seeks to overthrow.

The issue of the process is ever the same. Pagans are not truly

converted to Christianity, but the profession of Christianity itself

is paganized.

There were also persons in the middle ages who in the same spirit

adopted parts of pagan mythologies, and moulded fancies of their own

according to the prevailing forms of popular superstition. Not only

do we find the Italians borrowing their patron saints from the _dii

presides_ and the _dii patrones_ of their pagan fathers, and,

sometimes, transforming the statue of a heathen god into the image of

a Christian saint, but we also find people, in other parts of

Christendom, accommodating to their own use certain fables current

among the barbaric nations. The Scandinavian mythology gives great

prominence to the exploits of Odin: sometimes he is called Nikar, and

appears as a destroying spirit raising storms on the Scandinavian

lakes and rivers, and teasing the fishermen, by hanging up their

boats on the summits of the fir-trees. This fabled deity appears in

the hagiology of the middle ages under the name of St. Nicholas, the

patron of sailors, supposed to have power over the storm and tempest.

Mementoes of this superstition still remain in churches situate near

the sea, and dedicated to this saint of the ocean, whom many a seaman

still invokes, as he catches a glimpse of the distant church rising

above the shore. Beside instances in which mythological fables were

thus adopted, and, if we may use the term, thus Christianized, there

are proofs of the spirit of pagan superstition having moulded the

conceptions formed of invisible beings by the ecclesiastical teachers

of the dark ages. Satan is commonly represented by them under forms

which they could have borrowed only from such a source. The monster

with horns and tail was evidently the creation of the fancy under the

influence of legendary superstitions. One cannot help smiling at the

grotesque scenes painted by the saints, in which the Spirit of Evil

is introduced as the chief actor. He is said to have teased St.

Gudula by blowing out her candle, on her way to church, at the hour

of cock-crowing; but this story is surpassed by another related

respecting the arch-enemy and St. Britius. "Once, whilst St. Martin

was saying mass, St. Britius, whose name hath retained a place in the

Protestant calendar, officiated as deacon, and behind the altar he

espied the devil busily employed in writing down on a slip of

parchment, as long as a proctor's bill, all the sins which the

congregation were actually committing. Now St. Martin's congregation

was anything but serious; they buzzed and giggled, and the men looked

upwards, and the women did not look down, and were guilty of so many

transgressions, that the devil soon filled one side of his parchment

with short-hand notes from top to bottom, and was forced to turn it.

This side was also soon covered with writing. The devil was now in

sad perplexity; he could not stomach losing a sin, he could not trust

his memory, and he had no more parchment about him. He therefore

clenched one end of the scroll with his claws and took the other

between his teeth, and pulled it as hard as he could, thinking that

it would stretch. The unelastic material gave way and broke. He was

not prepared for this, so his head flew back and bumped against the

wall. St. Britius was wonderfully amused by the devil's disaster; he

laughed heartily, and incurred the momentary displeasure of St.

Martin, who did not at first see what was going forward. St. Britius

explained, and St. Martin took care to _improve_ the accident for the

edification of his hearers."[2]

Such fables respecting Satan are so similar to the tales abounding in

the traditionary mythology of an early age, relative to wicked

sprites, who are represented as combining in their character a

strange medley of fun and malice, that it is impossible to mistake

their origin. And it may be observed by the way, that such men as

St. Martin, St. Benedict, and St. Gregory, who retail many an idle

story of this sort, are surely not the men whom a wise and

sober-minded Christian would think of choosing as the guides of his

faith. But the tales just related are introduced here to show how

the church leaned to pagan superstitions, and thus to illustrate the

influence which it produced on society. Stories of this description,

sanctioned by ecclesiastics, became current among the people, and

formed the staple of conversation during the long winter evenings, as

the sons and daughters of our distant forefathers gathered round the

blazing hearth. They thus bring up before us the domestic scenes of

those early times, and show the opinions and sentiments which would

be sure to prevail in the popular mind. The church, instead of

zealously setting itself to purify, as far as it could, the thoughts

of men from the errors and follies which they had derived from

paganism, in many cases accommodated itself to them, from motives of

policy, or caught their spirit, from sheer sympathy; and thus helped

to perpetuate habits of credulity, degrading to the mind, and

superstitious feelings, injurious to the heart: the lingering remains

of which may be found in many parts of Europe, and in some of the

rural districts of our country, to the present hour.

The use of the ordeal is of great antiquity. Blackstone[3] notices

obvious traces of it among both the ancient Greeks and Germans, but

especially the latter. It was chiefly of two kinds, the fire ordeal,

and the water ordeal: the former, which was confined to persons of

high rank, consisted in carrying a piece of red-hot iron, or in

walking barefoot upon red-hot ploughshares; the latter kind of

ordeal, which was intended for the common people, consisted in

plunging the arm up to the wrist, or the elbow, in boiling water, or

in being thrown into a deep river, or pond.[4] If the person escaped

unhurt from these perilous trials, it was supposed that the Divine

Being had interposed for his safety, and he was pronounced innocent

of the charge which had been brought against him. The pernicious

nature of the custom, in reference to the welfare of society, is too

evident to require remark; and Christianity shows itself to be the

friend of man in discountenancing such practices. Under the

influence of the principles of Christianity, some of the churchmen of

the dark ages did condemn the use of the ordeal, but others, in the

accommodating spirit already noticed, gave to it a decided sanction.

In the sixth century, it was appealed to for the decision of

theological questions; and after the ninth century, the clergy in

general assumed its superintendence, probably from benevolent, though

mistaken notions. A third kind of ordeal was engrafted upon one of

the most solemn services of the church. The _corsned_, or morsel of

execration, was either the sacramental wafer itself, or a piece of

bread administered in connexion with the eucharist. A solemn prayer

was offered that the bread might cause convulsions, if the person

receiving it were guilty. The reader, perhaps, will remember the

history of earl Godwin, in the reign of Edward the Confessor, who

expired as he was at table eating a mouthful of bread, which he

prayed might choke him if he had been guilty of the death of the

king's brother. Some doubt has been thrown upon the tale, but its

insertion in our early histories illustrates the superstitious regard

which was paid to this species of ordeal, and to the result of any

appeal to Heaven under circumstances which bore any resemblance to

its more solemn administration. The trial by ordeal in England fell

into disuse about the thirteenth century, but at an earlier period it

had disappeared in the judicial proceedings of most other European

nations. The extinction of the practice was owing, in a great

measure, to the more enlightened views of the subject which were

entertained by the clergy at the time. It is, however, to be

lamented, that, having been tolerated so long, the spirit of the

institution survived its formal practice: and still we occasionally

find persons impiously appealing to Heaven in proof of their

innocence, somewhat after the manner which prevailed in the middle

ages.

The writings of the fathers, and the decrees of councils, afford

abundant evidence that heathen festivals were condemned by the early

church. During the middle ages, instances are not wanting of their

being severely reprobated by the clergy. In a sermon by Eligius, a

bishop of the seventh century, there is a long and fervent

exhortation against all participation in heathen festivities, and

kindred practices.[5] And prohibitions by councils, to the same

effect, may be found as late as in the ninth century. Yet from the

passage we have cited from the epistle of Gregory, it is plain that a

principle of accommodation to pagan prejudices was sometimes adopted.

This principle, in some of its bearings, seems to have advanced,

rather than declined, in favour with the church, as time rolled on.

The old heathen festival of the calends of January, which, in its

pagan form, was long discountenanced by the church, appeared in the

twelfth century, if not earlier, as a sort of Christian festivity,

and bishops and archbishops engaged in Christmas sports, and even so

far forgot their episcopal dignity as to join in a game of ball.[6]

This festival afterwards became known as the Feast of Fools, and was

marked by profanities almost incredible. An abbot of fools was

elected, to whom the prelate of the diocese, if present, was

accustomed to pay homage. A mock bishop was also chosen, who was

carried to the house of the diocesan, where from the principal window

he pronounced a benediction on the neighbouring town. Mock sermons,

prayers, and other religious services, were connected with these

absurd proceedings, and the whole thing, from beginning to end, was

characterized by noise, disorder, folly, and impiety.

Still greater excesses afterwards arose, and Du Cange gives us the

rubric of what was called the Feast of Asses, as celebrated in the

cathedral of Rouen. It appears to have been a kind of drama in which

a number of characters were introduced, Jewish and pagan, each one in

turn repeating something in accordance with the part he assumed.

Balaam, sitting on an ass, seems to have been the hero of the piece,

and from this circumstance the feast derived its name. A young

person appeared in the character of an angel, with a drawn sword,

standing before the animal, and a dialogue ensued, founded on the

Scripture narrative. Another absurdity, somewhat of the same kind,

in commemoration of the flight into Egypt, prevailed in the churches

of the diocese of Beauvais, at least as early as the thirteenth

century.--A girl richly attired, with a child in her arms, was seated

on an ass, and solemnly conducted to the altar, where mass was said,

and the ceremony was concluded by the priest braying three times, to

which the people all yielded an asinine response, three times

repeated.[7] Who but must blush for the men calling themselves

Christian ministers, who could not only tolerate, but even engage, in

such impious fooleries? The rulers and teachers of the church in

such instances, so far from having raised the people in piety and

intelligence, had sunk down to the level of popular degradation. It

is said that the bishops endeavoured to abolish these absurdities by

ecclesiastical censures: but it was strange indeed, if they were

strenuously resolved on putting them down, that they should still

have permitted them to be performed within the walls of their own

cathedrals.

Some examples of the superstitious character of the period before us

have appeared in the preceding pages; but the shape which

superstition took in reference to the legends, relics, and miracles

of the saints, demand a distinct, though it must be a brief notice.

Indeed scores of volumes like the present might be filled with the

stories of the middle ages on these subjects. It is enough to dip

into one of the portly tomes of father D'Achery, and take from his

ample collection of mediæval documents a specimen of the tales

commonly believed. For example, read the following extract from a

sermon, by St. Theodore, upon the blessed apostle Bartholomew,

preached in the ninth century, not as, by any means, the most

marvellous story which might be selected, but as a sample at once of

the superstition of the times, and of the kind of instruction

imparted by the clergy to their people.

"The Saracens arrived, and seized and ravaged the island.[8] They

burst open the sepulchre of the apostle, and scattered his bones.

When they had departed, the saint appeared in a vision to a certain

Greek monk, belonging to his church, and said to him, 'Arise, collect

my scattered bones;' to which he replied, 'Why should we collect thy

bones, or pay thee any honour, since thou hast permitted us and this

people to be ravaged by the pagans, and hast afforded us no help?'

But he said, 'For many long years I besought the Lord on behalf of

this people, and, in answer to my prayers, he has preserved them; but

because their sins are multiplied, and their iniquity is so

increased, I am able to prevail no longer for their safety, and

therefore they perish. But arise, and collect my bones, as I have

said, and preserve them as I shall direct thee.' To whom the monk

rejoined, 'But how shall I be able to find them, since I know not

where they are scattered?' 'Go by night,' said the apostle, 'to

gather them up, and what thou shalt see shining like fire are my

bones.' Immediately he arose, and went to the place, and found the

bones as the apostle had said. Having collected them together, he

put them in a coffin, and departed, a friend being left to watch

them. Some vessels of Lombardy having come to the place in pursuit

of the Saracens, received the monks and the body of the saint on

board, and sailed away. The Saracens afterwards surrounded the ship,

in which the holy body of the apostle was conveyed, so that no hope

of escape remained, when suddenly a thick mist enveloped the ships of

the Saracens, so that they knew not where they were; and by this

means the vessel escaped. While pursuing their voyage, the divine

benignity of the apostle healed one of the sailors of a grievous

malady."[9]

Miracles, in the middle ages, lost their miraculous character by

their great frequency. "They became," as Jeremy Taylor observes, "a

daily extraordinary, a supernatural natural event, a perpetual

wonder, that is, a wonder and no wonder." They could, therefore, be

sometimes dispensed with, and we are informed that abbot Stephen, of

Liege, in the beginning of the eleventh century, prayed St. Wolbodo

to refrain from working any more miracles, on account of the

inconvenience which was felt by the brethren of the monastery, from

the number of sick persons who came to be healed by day and by

night![10] It should, however, be observed, that gross as was the

credulity of the middle ages, in reference to the miracles of their

saints, it scarcely surpasses the credulity of many of the fathers of

the Nicene period. Ambrose, Augustus, and Jerome may be matched to a

great extent, in this respect, with the legendary writers of a later

period. It has often been asked, Were these stories the result of

deliberate imposture, or the mere offspring of ignorance and

superstition? No doubt there is room, in many cases, for the

charitable interpretation so benevolently conceived and elegantly

expressed by sir James Mackintosh: "The illusions of sight, the

shades by which dreams sometimes fade into waking visions, the

disturbance of the frame from long abstinence, and from the

stimulants incautiously taken to relieve it, together with a

permanent state of mental excitement, sanctioned by the firm faith

which then prevailed in the frequent and ascertainable interpositions

of Divine power, are sufficient to relieve us from the necessity of

loading the teachers of our forefathers with a large share of

fraudulent contrivance, and unmingled fiction. The progress of a

tale of wonder, especially when aided by time or distance, from the

smallest beginning to a stupendous prodigy, is too generally known to

be more particularly called in aid of an attempt to enforce the

reasonableness of dealing charitably, not to say justly, with the

memory of those who diffused Christianity among ferocious

barbarians."[11] But while the benefit of such a charitable

construction may be extended to many instances of pretended miracles,

it cannot be denied that a large portion of them were the work of

fraud. Gregory of Tours, in the sixth century, candidly admits that

a certain miracle which he records had been ascribed, not to the

Divine power, but to the contrivance of the clergy. A writer of the

eleventh century relates a characteristic instance of a man who was

accustomed to dig up dead bodies, recently interred, and to dispose

of them as wonder-working relics. On one occasion, at the dedication

of a church, it was discovered, from conversation with the man

himself, that the relic which he had sold, and to which most

extraordinary virtues were ascribed, was a gross and flagrant

imposture; but still the clergy, though convinced of the fraud, went

on with the rites of consecration, and solemnly placed the pretended

relic among the other precious treasures of the shrine.[12] It may

also be remarked, that the actions of one saint are often ascribed to

another, and whole legions are repeated with only the change of a

name.[13] With facts of this description before us, we are

compelled, though with deep pain, to believe that deliberate

imposture was often practised in reference to relics and miracles.

The disposition of the people to believe in these absurdities shows,

that superstition must have been the very element of their being.

Their appetite for incredible stories was truly voracious. Still it

might be hoped, that though the mind was degraded by such a credulous

temper, vice would, in some measure, be held in check, by a belief m

the close and miraculous intercourse which the departed saints kept

up with the dwellers upon earth. But these spiritual beings, instead

of having ascribed to them such a character of inflexible hatred to

all transgression, as would make it impossible for any but the

virtuous, or sincerely penitent, to obtain their favour, were

represented as taking under their patronage the worst of sinners,

upon the easy condition of their presenting some offering to the

church, or of their even uttering a simple prayer. Among the popular

legends of those days, there are stories of the Virgin Mary having

interceded with her Divine Son, for the salvation of a dissolute

monk, who had died without confession; and of her having, to the no

small surprise of the executioner, kept alive on the gallows, for two

days, a favourite thief, who addressed his usual prayer to her while

the rope was round his neck.[14]

[1] Bede, Ecc. Hist. lib. i. 30.

[2] See an able article on the Popular Mythology of the Middle Ages,

Quarterly Review, vol. xxii. p. 356.

[3] Com. Laws of England, vol. iv. c. 27.

[4] Fosbrock's Antiquities, Art. "Ordeal."

[5] D'Achery, Spic. tom. ii. 87.

[6] Du Cange, in v. Kalendæ.

[7] Du Cange, v. Festum.

[8] One of the Lipari islands.

[9] D'Achery, Spic. tom. ii. 126.

[10] Mabill. Ann. lib. liv. No. 101. See Giesler, Text Book of

Ecclesiastical History, vol. ii. 124.

[11] History of England, vol. i. p. 55.

[12] Glaber Radulph, iv. c. 3. Giesler, Text Book of Ecclesiastical

History, ii. 124.

[13] Ibid. Giesler gives examples.

[14] Hallam gives these and other stories more fully. Middle Ages,

c. ix. p. 1.

SECTION III.

MORALS.

At an early period in the middle ages bishops might be seen wearing

the helmet and buckler, and leading troops to the field of battle.

This resulted from their holding lands of the king, as his vassals,

upon condition of their performing military service. Charlemagne

attempted to reform the church, and perceiving the incompatibility of

martial pursuits with the clerical character and functions, released

the prelates in his dominion from the duty of serving in person, if

they sent their vassals into the field. In one of his capitularies,

A.D. 769, he prohibited their carrying arms, their engaging in war,

or even in the chase, as occupations unbecoming the servants of God.

But the regulation had little effect, for after his time, as well as

before, instances are found of bishops being armed, and killed in

battle, or taken prisoners of war. Charlemagne himself, though

forbidding the clergy to use military weapons, regarded them as

proper instruments of promoting religion, when they were employed by

others, nor did he object to the display of a decidedly martial

spirit in the exhortations of churchmen. Previous to his expedition

against the Saracens in Spain, he summoned the clergy to his

counsels, and addressed them in the following manner: "Noble men, we

have suffered much for Christ, in order to extend the Catholic

church, and subdue the Saracens. Notwithstanding, our sufferings for

him are not a thousandth part so great as his sufferings for us, who,

that he might deliver us from the devil, poured out his precious

blood...... Since then he suffered so much that he might deliver us

from the punishment of hell, and the power of the devil, and since he

has promised to us a place in glory, we ought to extend the Christian

faith and confound the pagans: wherefore, we propose, by his

assistance, to enter Spain, which has greatly troubled us, and, if

possible, to take Narbonne." Leo, the pope of Rome, afterwards

addressed Charlemagne's army in the following strain: "You should

know for certain, that, if any of you fall in battle, you shall

receive an incorruptible and eternal crown. Let every one confess

his sins, and thus we shall be secure of conquering our foes, and in

life, and in death, we may expect a reward. With great boldness and

cheerfulness we ought to enter on the expedition, and valiantly

subdue them. And we, who occupy the place of St. Peter, by the power

which is given to us, confer on you the pardon of all your sins."[1]

We see here much of the same spirit as that which animated the

crusaders of a later period. It was supposed that the sword was the

proper instrument for subduing the enemies of Christ. Those who

considered that their priestly vocation forbade them to use it

themselves, encouraged and enforced its employment by others, and, in

their addresses, breathed a ferocious and martial temper, strangely

at variance with the mind of Him who said to his rash disciple, of

whom a line of military pontiffs, military in spirit, if not in act,

were the proud pretended successors: "Put up again thy sword into its

place; for all they that take the sword shall perish with the sword."

From what has been already stated, some conclusion may be drawn

respecting the morals of the middle ages. The impostures which were

frequently countenanced and even practised by the clergy, and the

palpable falsehoods which were propagated by them in the legendary

tales of the saints, evince a most deplorable disregard of truth, the

very first of virtues. There is scarcely anything that strikes the

reader more forcibly, on looking into the records of this dark

period, than the general moral obtuseness of feeling which prevailed

relative to the guilt of practising deception and telling lies.

Connected with this disregard of truth was an equal disregard of the

principles of justice. Complaints were made, as early as the sixth

century, of bishops who had appropriated to their own use endowments

conferred on the church, and who were guilty of various acts of

injustice and oppression. Instances of unjust conduct abound in the

annals of monkish historians, and sometimes acts of shameful perfidy

are recorded, as if they were by no means immoral. In the history of

Ramsey Abbey, there is related a strange anecdote of a bishop who

made a Danish nobleman drunk, that he might cheat him out of an

estate--an exploit which the ecclesiastical historian records with

much approbation.[2] In further illustration of the want of truth

and justice, on the part of many of the clergy, may be noticed the

notorious prevalence of simony, that evil with which the famous

Hildebrand so vigorously grappled. It is not in its spiritual

character, as a sin of most heinous magnitude against the Head of the

church, that we notice it now, but as a crime against the laws of

society. Ecclesiastical benefices were in fact social trusts--trusts

to be employed for the good of mankind; and, therefore, when they

were made mere matters of bargain and sale, an entire disregard to

public rights was openly proclaimed. But the heaviest element of

social guilt in the sin of simony, is to be found in the practice of

perjury which it invariably involved. Ecclesiastical law severely

condemned simony, and looking at the law we might imagine that the

practice was never tolerated; but looking only at the practice so

common among churchmen, and so little checked, except now and then by

some bold reformer, we might suppose no law against it was in

existence.

There are also abundant proofs of a general laxity of morals among

the clergy of the dark ages. It is difficult to convey a correct

impression on this subject. A style of sweeping declamation upon the

vices of the clergy, through the space of about eight or nine

centuries, is very often adopted: but it cannot be justly supposed

that licentiousness prevailed equally in all places, and at all

times, during that period. Here the clouds of moral gloom are of a

deeper--there, of a lighter, shade: while it must be acknowledged, as

will be shown more particularly hereafter, that some gleams of virtue

occasionally relieve the darkness. Immediately after the barbaric

invasion, the morals of the clergy in Europe seem to have been very

low. Charlemagne certainly endeavoured to raise them throughout his

wide dominions, and, perhaps, with some success. But, in the ninth

century, some facts of a most revolting nature are disclosed. In the

canons of a council held A.D. 888, the bishops complain of the

numerous instances of vice among the clergy, which had come to their

knowledge, and go on to state that they had heard of certain priests

who were guilty of incest.[3] A bishop of Italy, in the tenth

century, after complaining in the strongest terms of the vices of the

age, laments that the clergy were deeply tainted with them.[4] In

the eleventh and twelfth centuries, efforts were made, by zealous

churchmen, to reform the moral habits of their brethren, but they

seem to have been attended with little success. Of the manners of

the clergy during the _twelfth_ century some most lively sketches are

supplied in the letters of Peter of Blois, an English ecclesiastic,

who was by no means tolerant of the vices of his fellow clerks. "I

was dean of the church of Wolverhampton," says this honest writer,

"which is in the diocese of Chester, but not under the jurisdiction

of any one, except the archbishop of Canterbury, and the king. For

by very ancient custom, which with many is reckoned as a right, the

kings of England have always presented to that deanery. The dean

gave the prebends, and instituted to them. As the clergy belonging

to this church were wholly undisciplined, like the Welsh and Scots,

(qu. Irish?) such a dissoluteness of life had crept in on them, that

their vices tended to produce contempt for God, destruction of souls,

infamy to the clergy, and derision and mockery in the people. In

Scripture language, their base deeds were sung in the highways of

Gath, and 'in the streets of Ascalon.' I frequently reminded them of

the words of Hesca, 'Though thou, Israel, play the harlot, let not

Judah offend.' But they fornicated openly and publicly, proclaimed

their sin like Sodom, and regardless of popular infamy, married the

one the other's daughter or niece; and so close was the tie of

relationship among them, that no one could dissolve their bonds of

iniquity. They were like the scales of Behemoth, one of which joins

the other, and the breath of life does not pass through them.

Moreover the earth cries against them, and the heavens proclaim their

iniquities. I took the greatest pains to cut off the poisonous

branches of vice among them, but it would have been easier to turn

wolves into sheep, or beasts into men; for the Ethiopian will not

change his skin, nor the leopard his spots. As often as I could

collect any of them in the church, that I might have an opportunity

of holding some conference with them, they shut their ears like the

adder; and like the mountains of Gilboa, on which no dew nor rain

descends, they were deaf to all wholesome advice, and careless about

their own dangers. They rushed headlong, like stallions, to every

vice. I did all in my power to correct them, and with all possible

kindness, for their conduct gave me constant grief at the heart. But

'they hated him who stopped them in the gate, and abominated him who

spoke health to them.' I betook myself to prayer; I spoke groaning

in the bitterness of my heart; and, that fat might not be wanting to

the sacrifice, I seasoned my groaning with tears. The king and the

archbishop wrote them tremendous letters. I assured them most

positively that the pope would take away their place and nation, and

that they should be turned out of house and home. But the more they

were threatened the more obstinate they were; the more they were

exhorted, the more contemptuous did they grow. They were few in

number, but their iniquities made them a multitude; the generations

of vipers were multiplied. From the seed of Canaan came forth an

evil and provoking race, sons of Belial, wicked children. They

wished to possess the sanctuary of God as an inheritance, and

therefore, when a canon died, and any respectable man was appointed,

the nephew, or son, of the deceased, claimed that which is the Lord's

patrimony as his. He then betook himself to the woods, joined the

robbers and banditti who plunder by fire and the sword, and fell on

the new canon so as to destroy him. When I saw that these insensible

men were drawing near to the grave; and that I could produce no

impression on them, I desired to be cut off entirely from men whose

vices did not end with the end of life."[5]

In the gross immoralities of the clergy of the middle ages, which

form a standing theme of lamentation with so many of the councils and

writers of the period, are seen the result of forced celibacy. While

the censors of ecclesiastical morals maintained that unnatural

system, it was vain for them to be ever struggling with its

inevitable consequences--it was useless with one hand to apply any

medicines for the cure of a disease to which with the other they were

continually administering the most feverish stimulants.

The clerical character being too generally what we have now

described, the moral condition of the laity may be inferred. While

so many of the priests were regardless of justice, truth, and purity,

it would be unreasonable to look for much virtue among the people.

There was a general regard paid to the forms of religion, but there

was shown as general a disregard of its principles and spirit.

Hallowed rites were associated with immoral practices; deeds of

injustice and cruelty were prefaced by acts of devotion; the vilest

characters breathed forth their aspirations to the Deity, and the

virgin; and multitudes were punctilious in their observance of the

ritual of the church, who were totally ignorant of the truths and

duties of Christianity. This forms a state of society the most

fearful. It was the condition of the Jews in the time of Isaiah, and

the language of God to them, by the mouth of the prophet, applied

with equal force to a large number of the religionists of the middle

ages: "To what purpose is the multitude of your sacrifices unto me?

saith the Lord: I am full of the burnt offerings of rams, and the fat

of fed beasts: and I delight not in the blood of bullocks, or of

lambs, or of he goats. Bring no more vain oblations; incense is an

abomination unto me; the new moons and sabbaths, the calling of

assemblies, I cannot away with: it is iniquity, even the solemn

meeting. Your new moons and your appointed feasts my soul hateth;

they are a trouble unto me; I am weary to bear them."

We have given the dark side of the picture: we must now, for a

moment, glance at sentiments, and traits of character, of another

order. Throughout the middle ages, traces of these may be found.

Indeed the very strong terms in which the vices of an age are

reprobated, by a contemporary author, evince on his part a better

state of moral feeling. There are sermons extant, belonging to those

times, which, among much that is superstitious and unscriptural,

contain some excellent moral and religious maxims. One preacher of

the seventh century has not, generally, had justice done him.

Maclaine, Robertson, and other authors, have given a few sentences,

extracted from different parts of a sermon by Eligius, bishop of

Noyes, whence it would appear as if he had taught the people that

nothing else was necessary to make a man a Christian than that he

should go to church, present offerings to God, and repeat the creed

and the Lord's prayer. That Eligius did not clearly understand the

way of salvation by faith in the Divine Redeemer, is clear enough to

any one who will peruse his discourse contained in D'Achery's

Spicelegium; but justice also demands the statement, that this

sermon, so often cited, but so little read, certainly inculcates a

vast deal more than mere ceremonial religion, and contains many

passages which are full of good sense and correct moral feeling.

Indeed, in the very paragraph which precedes that from which garbled

extracts have been taken, the bishop remarks: "It will not profit

you, beloved, to receive the Christian name, if you do not cultivate

Christian practice. Christian profession avails a man only when he

preserves in his mind, and exemplifies in his conduct, the precepts

of Christ; that is, who does not steal, nor bear false witness, nor

tell falsehoods, nor commit adultery, nor hate any man, but loves all

even as himself; who does not render evil to his enemies, but rather

prays for them; who does not excite strife, but on the contrary

promotes peace. For these things Christ hath commanded in the

gospel, saying, 'Thou shalt do no murder,' etc., Matt. xix. 18, 19."

The sermon is lamentably defective as it regards an exposition of the

way in which a sinner is to obtain acceptance with God; no clear view

is given of the work of Christ as the medium of our pardon, and of

the work of the Spirit as the fountain of holiness; but it certainly

is not wanting in moral exhortations, nor in a forcible statement of

many important scriptural truths.[6]

Benevolence, at least so far as it consisted in almsgiving and

kindness to the poor, was the cardinal virtue commended in many of

the sermons, and exemplified in some of the lives of the saints of

the dark ages. We may fairly conclude that the ecclesiastics were,

in this respect, friends to the lower classes of society, and often

relieved the wants of the indigent, and soothed the minds of the

sorrowing. The value of such influence, during ages of disorder and

violence, when a stern and almost savage spirit pervaded the upper

classes of society, cannot be too highly appreciated. The spirit of

kindness nurtured by many in the bosom of the church, produced an

improvement in the condition of domestic slaves, and the gradual,

but, at length, total extinction of slavery itself. Slaves who

belonged to monasteries, or ecclesiastics, were in far better

circumstances than those who were in the possession of laymen. Their

sufferings under a stern master, are sometimes bewailed by the

writers of the day, who allude to them under the touching appellation

of those "whom Christ had redeemed at a rich price." Gregory the

Great, in the sixth century, set a noble example of manumission, in

granting liberty to a number of his own slaves, whom he described as

free by nature, but placed by unjust law, under the yoke of bondage.

Manumission was a religious ceremony. The person to be set free held

a lighted torch in his hand, and was led round the altar; he then

laid hold upon its horns, when the formulary of liberation was

solemnly repeated.[7] Several charters of manumission, avowedly

proceeding from religious motives, are cited by antiquarian writers.

Slowly did the great curse of slavery yield to the influence of

Christian principles; but its eventual extinction is to be ascribed

solely to that spirit of humanity and justice, which Christianity

alone could kindle.

Examples of individual purity and benevolence might be adduced, in

contrast with the wide-spreading corruption already noticed. The

lives of the saints, though pervaded by a thick cloud of

superstition, do, nevertheless, reveal some traits of moral

excellence. Christianity, in spite of the manifold corruptions which

had gathered around it, exerted a renewing power over the minds of

some. And it is very beautiful to catch, amidst the deep gloom of

that period, glimpses of sincere piety, however faint. In the

cloisters of the monastery, and in the more active scenes of

religious life, might be found spirits who were partakers of a better

nature than comes from earth. They had been born from above. They

could not escape injury from the tainted atmosphere which filled the

entire region around them. They often betrayed signs of feebleness,

the moral pulse was low and faint; but life continued, till, raised

above the unhealthy element they breathed, they entered those purer

regions to which they aspired, and there felt the quickening

influences of the presence of God, and were united to "the spirits of

just men made perfect."

Before closing this brief survey of the influence of the church on

the social condition of Europe, it will be proper to notice two

institutions--The right of sanctuary, and The truce of God--which had

their origin from that source, and which produced incalculably great

and beneficial effects in an age of oppression and violence. The

precincts of a church afforded refuge to the fugitive. Had laws been

firmly established and equitably administered, such a privilege would

have proved little else than a bounty upon crime, and such, at a

later period, it became: but at a time when the innocent were often

falsely accused, and the weak were generally oppressed, the place of

sanctuary, like the Jewish city of refuge, afforded a shelter to

those who, otherwise, would have been crushed by the hand of

injustice or revenge. Rushing through the thickets of the forest,

towards the church or the monastery, which stood in the bosom of the

valley, or on the brow of the hill, the victim of savage cruelty

rejoiced in the protection there afforded; and one can imagine him

lifting the huge knocker of the gate, of which a specimen remains to

this day on the door of Durham cathedral, and, with a palpitating

heart, entering the portal under the conviction of perfect safety.

There can be no doubt that this right was often abused; but still it

may be fairly concluded, that, in many instances, it yielded

protection to those who deserved it. The other custom we mentioned,

The truce of God, was of unquestionable and still more decided

advantage. The prelates of the middle ages often endeavoured to

repress those private feuds which were among the most prevalent evils

of the time. They availed themselves of seasons of public calamity

to prevail upon the barons, who were ever waging war with each other,

to form treaties of peace. But, at length, they were able to

establish a permanent law, which secured a periodical and frequent

interval of quietude in those troublous times. It was enacted in

Aquitain, A.D. 1041, that from vespers on Wednesday evening, till the

hour of dawn on Monday morning, no one should dare to assault his

enemy without incurring the dreaded penalty of excommunication.[8]

The law was soon afterwards extended to other countries; and in

England, also, it was observed--the time of the truce being altered

to the Ember days, Advent, Lent, the vigils and festivals of Christ,

the virgin Mary, the apostles, and all saints, and every Sunday,

reckoning from the hour of nine on Saturday evening to the dawn of

light on Monday morning.[9] This was a welcome boon, and many would

anxiously anticipate, and joyfully hail, the appointed time of

vespers, when the authority of the church threw around them a defence

more impregnable than the walls of a castle, and they could lie down

and sleep in peace.

[1] Gesta, Caroli Magni, Florence, 1823, p. 37.

[2] Hallam, Middle Ages, chap. ix. 1.

[3] Mansi, xviii. 67, 177. Quoted in Giesler, ii. 112.

[4] Ratherii, Itinerarium. D'Achery, Spic. i. 381.

[5] We have adopted the vigorous translation of this letter in the

Quarterly Review, vol. lviii. 437.

[6] D'Achery, Spic. tom. ii. 87.

[7] Robertson's View of the State of Europe, Note xx.

[8] Glab. Radulph Giesler, ii. 118.

[9] Lingard, Hist. of England, i. 472.

SECTION IV.

LITERATURE AND ART.

Next to the moral condition of mankind, their intellectual state is

the most interesting subject of inquiry. The dark ages form a kind

of parenthesis in the history of the human mind in Europe. A long

and brilliant period of intellectual cultivation and energy preceded

them; and an era, in many respects, of still higher attainment and of

richer promise has followed. The night which comes between two such

days seems very gloomy, yet is there much truth in the observation,

"that there was always a faint twilight, like that auspicious gleam,

which, in a summer's night, fills up the interval between the setting

and the rising sun."[1] Nor should it be forgotten, that before the

commencement of the mediæval period, there had been a great decline

in sound learning; and that the nations of Europe, whose ignorance we

deplore, were, for the most part, the descendants not of the classic

nations of antiquity, but of the rude barbarians of the north.

Whatever measure of intellectual cultivation may have relieved the

prevailing darkness, it emanated from the church. To men of the

ecclesiastical profession we are indebted for the preservation of

ancient literature; and they were almost the only authors who wrote

during the period. The church afforded an asylum for the studious;

and, in those times, quiet and reflective minds would naturally seek

refuge in its bosom. It is difficult, even after much inquiry, to

form a definite and accurate idea of the literary aspect of Europe in

the dark ages; and next to impossible to convey, in the short space

which we can here allot to it, a correct impression of the result of

such inquiries. The seventh century may be fixed on as the nadir of

the human mind.[2] Faint traces of the spirit of literature cheer

the subsequent space of five hundred years, after which a very

considerable revival of learning took place. General remarks as to

the state of literature in Europe, daring the whole of this period,

are likely to mislead, because the state of one country and of one

century materially differed from another. The spirit of literature

may be said to have migrated from land to land; now visiting the

shores of Ireland and England, then passing over to France and

Germany, and touching upon Italy, till there, in its classic form, it

found a congenial home. Ireland and England were, probably, much in

advance of their contemporaries, in the seventh and eighth centuries,

but afterwards declined. France revived in the ninth, and went on

progressing during the following ages; and, towards the latter part

of the tenth century, Germany possessed many learned churchmen. In

Italy, signs of improvement are perceptible in the eleventh century,

but classical literature did not flourish there till the fifteenth.

A considerable number of books were written during the very darkest

periods of the middle ages. They treat of various subjects connected

with theology and the church. Several of the authors were evidently

studious men, and were, for the time in which they lived, extensively

acquainted with books. It should also be stated, that they were

certainly not so ignorant of Scripture, so far as the letter of it

was concerned, as is generally supposed. In looking over the writers

of the middle ages, down to the monkish chroniclers and legendary

tale-tellers, the reader finds frequent use made of Scripture

language; the application of it, however, shows, in a great number of

instances, a deplorable ignorance of its proper sense, and but little

sympathy with its true spirit. "It is the most striking circumstance

in the literary annals of the dark ages, that they seem to us still

more deficient in native, than in acquired ability. The mere

ignorance of letters has sometimes been a little exaggerated, and

admits of certain qualifications; but a tameness and mediocrity, a

servile habit of merely compiling from others, runs through the

writers of these centuries. It is not only that much was lost, but

that there was nothing to compensate for it, nothing of original

genius in the province of imagination: and but two extraordinary men,

Scotus Erigena and Gerbert, may be said to stand out from the crowd

is literature and philosophy."[3]

What might be the average state of the clergy, in reference to the

possession of knowledge, during the middle ages, is an interesting

question, but one, like many others, difficult to answer. There can

be no doubt that many ecclesiastics could not write, but it appears

that ability to read, at least the service books, was a common

attainment. Notices of extreme ignorance, in some countries, at

certain times, may be found; for instance, king Alfred complains, in

his day, that there were very few on the south side of the Humber,

and none on the south side of the Thames, who could translate the

Latin service into English; and Ratherius, bishop of Verona, in the

tenth century, laments that he had found many clergy in his diocese

who did not know (_sapere_) the apostles' creed.[4] But, perhaps, it

would be unfair to take these as decisive proofs of the ignorance of

the clergy in general, during the dark ages. The state of things

assuredly was mournful enough, without adding to them any imaginary

aggravations.

Ecclesiastics were the only instructors in those days; but there is

no evidence of their having shown much zeal in the enlightenment of

the mass of the people. It is true there were schools connected with

monasteries and cathedrals, but these institutions were for the

education of such persons as were intended for the service of the

church. The chief promoters of learning among the laity, to any

great extent, were Charlemagne and Alfred, who brought to their

assistance the more enlightened men of their times. Parish schools

were established by the bishop of Orleans, upon whom Charlemagne

placed much dependence in carrying out his liberal views, and, in

these schools, education was gratuitously provided for such children

as their parents might choose to send.[5] Alfred also greatly

exerted himself to extend the benefits of education over his own

country: most of the noble, and many of the inferior orders, were

placed under the care of masters, who taught them not only to read in

Latin and Saxon books, but also to write.[6] Such facts, however,

constitute the exception, rather than the rule, respecting the

cultivation of the minds of laymen. Undoubtedly the higher as well

as the lower classes were immersed in the deepest shades of

ignorance; pursuits conducive to the improvement of their physical

strength being, as a matter of course, in such an age, much more

highly valued than those which tended to increase intellectual

vigour. "For many centuries, to sum up the account of ignorance in a

word, it was rare for a layman, of whatever rank, to know how to sign

his name. Their charters, till the use of seals became general, were

subscribed with the mark of the cross. Still more extraordinary was

it to find one who had any tincture of learning. Even admitting

every indistinct commendation of a monkish biographer, (with whom a

knowledge of church music would pass for literature,) we could make

out a very short list of scholars. None, certainly, were more

distinguished as such than Charlemagne and Alfred. But the former,

unless we reject a very plain testimony, was incapable of writing,

and Alfred found difficulty in making a translation from the pastoral

instruction of St. Gregory, on account of his imperfect knowledge of

Latin."[7]

The church did more for art than she did for literature. It is in

the nature of Christianity, even when imperfectly understood, or

greatly corrupted, to produce an influence friendly to civilisation,

and its attendant comforts, and thereby to foster the growth of the

useful arts, of which the changes wrought in the barbaric nations,

during the early part of the mediæval period, by the introduction of

Christianity among them, are striking proofs: and in addition to

this, it must be acknowledged that the innovations which, by that

time, had been made upon the simplicity of gospel worship, operated

in the same direction. The advantage, however, which thus accrued to

the artistic civilisation of society, will be deemed, by Christian

minds, a poor compensation for the mischief done to the interests of

religion, and the souls of men, by the corruption of the service of

God.

The study of architecture was a pursuit to which many of the clergy

early devoted themselves; and though the ecclesiastical structures,

from the seventh to the twelfth century, were far inferior to those

which were afterwards reared, they were undoubtedly much superior to

the generality of buildings of the period to which they belonged.

The edifices reared by our Saxon fathers, in this island, before the

arrival of the missionaries from Rome, were extremely humble; but the

latter soon introduced a taste for structures of a higher order.

Places of worship, rudely constructed of oaken planks, and covered

with thatch, were succeeded by churches of polished masonry, with

lofty towers, glazed windows, and roofs sheeted with lead. But

convenience and taste, such as might have comported with the

simplicity of Christian worship, did not suffice; the magnificence of

Romish decorations and ceremonies found their way into the Saxon

sanctuary. Pictures were brought from Rome by Augustin and Benedict,

and placed in churches: a stimulus certainly was thus given to the

art of painting. Images, crucifixes, and lamps of precious

materials, and elaborate workmanship, were also introduced, and the

manufacture of these afforded employ and encouragement to the

goldsmith. The making of church bells was another important branch

of industry; and the costly robes worn by the priests put the arts of

weaving, embroidery, and dyeing in requisition. Splendid service

books were also used; and for the production of these it was

necessary to cultivate the art of ornamental writing, gilding, and

setting precious stones. Servants skilled in these various

employments might be found in the establishments of ecclesiastical

dignitaries, and among the inmates of monasteries: nor did the clergy

themselves deem it any degradation to practise the useful and elegant

arts. The performance of mass led to the cultivation of a taste for

music. Beside the harp and different kinds of wind instruments, such

as the flute and horn, early mention is made of the organ, an

instrument of which Bede gives a minute description: and attention

seems to have been paid to music regarded as a science. The gentle

and soothing influence of harmonious sounds will scarcely fail to be

recognised as having been a civilizing power upon the minds of many a

rude inhabitant of the British isles; and, in a little melody which

has floated down to us from those distant times, we find express

mention of the effect produced upon Canute the Great, who as he was

approaching Ely in his boat, with his queen and courtiers, heard the

music of the monks at their devotions, and was so affected that he

told the rowers to pause, that he might listen to the sounds which

were wafted by the breeze from the church, which stood on the rock

before him.[8] Some of the hymns sung in those days were very

beautiful; and to those who understood them, they conveyed sentiments

adapted to elevate the tone of moral and religious feeling, by

directing the heart to the source of all piety and virtue. Such was

the following hymn, chanted in many a monastery at the hour of

prime:--

"Now that the sun is gleaming bright

Implore we, bending low.

That He, the uncreated light,

May guide us as we go.

No sinful word, nor deed of wrong,

Nor thoughts that idly rove,

But simple truth be on our tongue,

And in our hearts be love.

And while the hours in order flow,

O Christ, securely fence

Our gates, beleaguer'd by the foe,

The gate of every sense.

And grant that to thine honour, Lord,

Our daily toil may tend,

That we begin it at thy word,

And in thy favour end."[9]

In bringing to a close this rapid survey of the influence of the

church, during the middle ages, upon the manners, morals, literature,

and arts of society, we cannot suppress the remark, which, however,

must be obvious to every one, who at all thinks upon the subject,

that the decided benefits emanating from this source, proceeded from

so much of the genuine spirit of Christianity as still remained

within its bosom, while benefits of but a doubtful, or imperfect

kind, and evils, some of them most flagrant in their nature, were the

fruit of institutions which men had officiously planted around the

temple of God. Nor, when attempting to estimate the social good and

evil thus produced, should we forget to think of the far larger

amount of good, with no attendant evil, which might have been

produced had Christianity been preserved in her purity, and her

heaven-born energies been fully developed and directed to the

improvement of mankind. Assuredly the church failed to perform her

mission; and the benefits she actually conferred on society were but

scanty and imperfect specimens of those rich and clustered blessings,

which, if faithful to her Lord, she would have been enabled

plentifully to scatter over all the nations of the world. It affords

matter for curious speculation to inquire, what might have been the

course of European history if Christianity had continued uncorrupt

from the beginning, and the church had maintained her purity.

Perhaps the progress of decay in the Roman empire might have been

arrested, and the spirit of a new and righteous civilisation might

have been infused into the commonwealth: or, if that had not been the

case, yet the destiny of the nations, into which that colossal power

was broken up, might have been one of far more rapid and decided

advancement than it has proved to be. Much of the social conflict

and confusion of the middle ages, perhaps, might have been prevented,

and the human mind preserved from its deep and long degradation. The

course of civilisation, instead of being like the troubled mountain

stream, dashing, roaring, foaming, and eddying on its way, might

rather have resembled the deep broad river, flowing calmly and

steadily on, and reflecting from its glassy surface the hues of

heaven.

[1] Harris, Phil. Enq.

[2] See Hallam, Introd. to Lit. of Europe, vol. i.

[3] Hallam, Introd. to Lit. of Europe, vol. i. 11.

[4] D'Achery, Spic. i. 381.

[5] Mansi, tom. xiii. p. 993. Giesler, ii. 34.

[6] Sharon Turner, Anglo-Saxons, vol. iii. 14.

[7] Hallam, Middle Ages, chap. ix. p. 1.

[8] Sharon Turner Anglo-Saxons, vol. iii. 279.

[9] Translation from Quarterly Rev. No. 118, p. 324.

CHAPTER III.

THE MONASTERY.

Monachism was so closely interwoven with the church system of the

middle ages, that it may be thought a review of its history and

tendencies should have been included in the former chapter: but it

exerted so much influence peculiar to itself, and presents so many

illustrations of the state of mediæval society, as to claim distinct

consideration.

SECTION I.

RISE OF MONACHISM.

Monachism did not spring from pure Christianity, but was engrafted

upon the system, after it had been grievously corrupted. It is

evidently one of the great offshoots of that ascetic principle which

is indigenous in human nature, and of which the developments may be

traced in the Jewish Essenes, the Greek Cynics, the Alexandrian

Platonists, the British Druids, and the Eastern Brahmins.

The practice of a monastic life, in its connexion with the church,

commenced in Egypt, in the third century. The storms of persecution

drove many into the deserts, where they sought to carry out the

ascetic principles, which, even at that time, were so strongly

advocated by Cyprian and others. The spirit of self-righteousness,

which had led to the pharisaism of the Jews, and had produced no

little of pharisaism among Christians, doubtless helped on the

result; to which, perhaps, the contemplative habits of the east, the

preference of quietude to activity, and the notion, that the height

of religious excellence consists in the absorption of the mind by

spiritual meditation, in some measure contributed. The founders of

monachism were, in fact, hermits, who sought the cavern and the den,

the ruins of sepulchres, and the dreariest spots of the desert, as

scenes favourable to piety and communion with Heaven. That they were

ignorant, deluded, and superstitious, is apparent enough; but it

would be uncharitable, and contrary to historical evidence, to deny

the sincerity and earnest devotion of many of these anchorets. They

were men who felt the corruption of their nature, who realized the

presence and agency of fallen spirits, and who sought to subdue the

one, and to conquer the other, by their self-mortification. The

desert was to them a place of awful silence, and sublime solitude,

but no place of repose and peace, for there they were ever striving

to crucify the flesh, and were hourly struggling with the powers of

darkness. Gleams of noble feeling dart from amidst the darkness of

their gross superstition; and, while we deplore the course they all

pursued, we cannot but perceive the sublimity of the purpose by which

many of them were animated. The first of the anchorets, whose name

was Paul, has been immortalized by Jerome, who, in his inimitable

biography of that singular person, affords a characteristic specimen

of the absurd superstition and credulity, or something worse, which

then overflowed the church, mingled with those elevated sentiments

which, in many happy instances, were still cherished and expressed.

The eloquent father relates the most absurd stories respecting his

hero, telling us, that he was met by a hippocentaur--a being half

horse and half man--who begged him to intercede with Christ for his

salvation; that a raven, who brought him half a loaf every day,

brought him a whole loaf on the occasion of St. Antony's visit; that

Paul was seen ascending to heaven amidst bands of angels and

prophets, and that two lions were sent to dig his grave, who, when

they had finished their task, crouched at the feet of the saint, and

sought, and received, his blessing. Yet this monstrous fable

concludes with the following magnificent passage. "Perhaps at the

close of this little book, some who are ignorant of his

inheritance--who adorn their houses with marble, and cover their

estates with elegant villas--may ask, Why were all these wanting to

this poor aged man? You drink out of a cup of gems; he was content

with one which nature supplied, the hollow of his own hands. You

clothe yourself in embroidered tunics; he was clothed in a garb such

as your slaves would not wear. But on the other hand, to this poor

man paradise was opened; for you, rich men, perdition is prepared.

He, though naked, was clothed in the robe of Christ; you, clothed in

fine linen, lack that better raiment. Paul, covered with a little

dust, is about to rise to glory; you, slumbering under marble

sepulchres, shall be consumed with all your possessions. Spare

yourselves, I beseech you, spare the wealth you love. Why should you

wrap your dead in gilded robes? Why should your vain pride linger

among your mourning and your tears? Will not the bodies of the rich

decay unless they be folded in silk? I intreat you who read these

things, that you would be mindful of Jerome a sinner, who, if the

Lord wrong give him the choice, would much rather have Paul's humble

clothing with his merits, than the purple robe of kings with their

punishment."[1]

This production, by Jerome, strikes us as being a type of the early

system of monkery; a mass of superstition, illumined here and there

by noble sentiments, while these very sentiments are themselves

tinctured by fearful errors. The allusion to the naked soul being

clothed in the robe of Christ is very beautiful, and accords with the

apostle Paul's sentiment in his Epistle to the Philippians, where he

exhibits the ground of his own personal hope--that ground on which

every true Christian rests exclusively--"Yea doubtless, and I count

all things but loss for the excellency of the knowledge of Christ

Jesus my Lord: for whom I have suffered the loss of all things, and

do count them but dung, that I may win Christ, and be found in him,

not having mine own righteousness, which is of the law, but that

which is through the faith of Christ, the righteousness which is of

God by faith." Resting there--building on that blessed foundation,

"Jerome a sinner" would be safe; but instead of alluding to that as

his only ground of hope, he speaks of "the merits" of his departed

friend. That was the robe "better than the purple of kings" in which

he would fain be wrapped. He seems to forget the Divine and perfect

garment he had before mentioned, in his admiration and desire of the

human, imperfect, and tattered robe of the poor hermit's

righteousness. Such was the theology of the day, so ruinous to

souls, either substituting the merit of man for the merit of the

Redeemer, or endeavouring to unite them; such was the pestilential

heresy that was ravaging the church; such was the principle which lay

at the foundation of the monkish system; and such is the sentiment

which, in the present day, as in former times, fastens on the minds

of many, distracting their thoughts, bewildering their attention, and

cheating them out of the safety and peace they would secure by a

simple reliance on "the Lamb of God, which taketh away the sin of the

world;" for "neither is there salvation in any other: for there is

none other name under heaven given among men, whereby we must be

saved."

Monks were a different class of ascetics. They were men not living

in solitude, but associated together under certain laws, yet keeping

aloof from the world, and practising great self-denial. Antony was

the founder of monastic establishments in Egypt, whence they rapidly

spread over every part of Christendom. Athanasius introduced them

into the west, where, at first, they seem to have been unpopular; and

Martin of Tours was the founder of them in Gaul. But these

establishments were so agreeable to the spiritual pride of some, the

indolence of others, and the misguided piety of many more, that they

soon multiplied, and became crowded with inmates; so that no less

than two thousand of the fraternity in Gaul followed to the grave the

remains of their zealous patron the famous St. Martin.

The discipline of the western monks was less severe than that of

their brethren in the east, a change produced perhaps partly by the

greater severity of the climate, and partly from regard to popular

feeling. Nor did they cultivate the industrious habits of the

Egyptian recluses. Even St. Antony spent a life of labour, and he is

described by his biographer as diligently employed in basket-making:

but complaints were early made of the monks in Gaul, that they

neglected the useful arts, and, with the exception of the younger

brethren, restricted themselves to the exercises of devotion.

In the early part of the fifth century, there arose an individual who

created a great and a permanent change in the monastic life, by

reducing the institute into a regular and defined system. This was

Benedict, the founder of the first monastic _order_ properly so

called. Marvellous are the stories related of this celebrated monk.

He is said to have been frequently buffeted by Satan, who sometimes

appeared with horns and hoofs, and sometimes in the form of a

blackbird. The miracles the saint performed were more than usually

numerous even in that miraculous age; and so strong and inherent was

the devotional temperament of his mind, that he is described as

having sung psalms before he was born! But some account of the rules

of his institute will be more to our present purpose, as they

constituted the basis of all the monastic institutions of the middle

ages, and will therefore introduce us to an acquaintance with the

social life of an immense class of persons for many centuries.

After describing four classes of monks, the Cœnobites, Anchorets,

Saraibaites, and Gyrovagi--the last two of whom seem to have been

licentious and idle vagabonds--he states that his rule was intended

for the first class, the Cœnobites, who, while they secluded

themselves from the society of the world, lived together in

monasteries, under the government of an abbot. The qualifications

for this high office are specified, and the person selected to fill

it, is charged to instruct the community by his life as well as his

counsels, and to treat the brethren, who were to look up to him as to

a father, in a spirit of paternal kindness and impartiality. He had

power to admonish offenders, and even to punish the refractory with

stripes. The whole fraternity were to form a chapter, or council,

with whom he was to consult on the business of the monastery; but he

was left, after deliberation, to form his own judgment, to which the

whole brotherhood were bound to submit. Obedience was the cardinal

virtue of monks, with which silence and humility were closely

connected. Benedict details the order of the church service which

the brethren were to observe, and appoints the canonical hours,

lauds, prime, tierce, sexts, nones, vespers, and complines. Every

ten monks were placed under a dean, (_decanus_,) who was to sleep

with them in their dormitories. Delinquents were to be punished

according to the guilt of their offence, by separation from their

brethren, the infliction of stripes, or total expulsion. The

possessions of the monastery were common property, and no one was to

call anything his own. The brethren were required to serve in the

kitchen and refectory, from which nothing but sickness could exempt

them; they were allowed, as a reward, an extra draught of wine, and a

piece of bread. Dinner, in general, was at sexts, (twelve,) but on

fast days at nones, (three,) when it was the only meal. The sick

monks were treated with special kindness, and were allowed meat and

wine; but those who were in health were only provided with cooked

vegetables and fruit; the abbot, however, seemed to have a

discretionary power in such matters. Edifying books were to be read

to the assembled brethren after supper, or even-song on fast days.

He particularly inculcates the duty of manual labour, observing that

"idleness is injurious to the mind;" and he also enjoins upon the

monks the practice of reading, for which, however, they could have

little time after spending so many hours in devotion and labour. The

rites of hospitality were to be liberally maintained, and the abbot's

table was to be open for the reception of guests, who were to be

welcomed with the kiss of peace, but not till after prayer had been

offered. The abbot was to appoint the dress of the fraternity, and

each brother was to have two tunics, cowls, and scapularies, the best

being reserved for wear when they went from home. When travelling,

they wore breeches, but, at other times, their gown was to suffice.

A blanket, quilt, and pillow was allotted to each brother, and the

abbot was frequently to search under the beds to see whether a monk

had concealed anything which he had not received from the convent.

Severe were the terms of entrance--four or five days was the

applicant to bear the rebuffs of the porter; and then to be received

in the room appointed for the guests, where some aged brother was to

explain to him the most rigorous parts of the monastic discipline,

when, if he were willing to submit to them, he was received into the

class of novices, upon trial for twelve months, after which, if

obedient and willing to give up all he had, he was to be fully

admitted into the order. A solemn profession was made, his secular

garments were placed in the wardrobe, his vow was considered

irrevocable, and the bond he subscribed, or signed with the cross,

was laid up among the archives of the monastery, as the pledge of

obedience for ever.

Strange monks who visited a monastery were to be kindly entertained,

so long as they chose to remain in obedience, but the abbot was not

to receive the member of any other known monastery without letters of

dismission. The brethren were to take precedence according to their

seniority in the convent: but all were to be obedient to the abbot;

not even going out, without seeking his permission and prayers. To

these regulations, respecting the order of the society, are appended

a number of short moral and religious maxims, breathing a pure,

benevolent, and devout spirit.[2]

St. Benedict was a reformer, and the rule he instituted was

undoubtedly a great improvement upon the monastic habits of earlier

times. Its success was great beyond expectation, for, being approved

by popes and councils, it was, in process of time, adopted as the

universal system of the west. The reader, no doubt, in perusing

these rules, has caught some glimpses of the monastic life, and has

pictured to himself the habits of the brotherhood: and now, to assist

him in his imaginings, to give a local habitation and a name to the

picture he may form, let us open the chronicle of a monastery in the

eighth century, and take a peep at one of the structures within which

communities of this kind were gathered.

The monastery of Centule, after having fallen into decay, was

restored by Angilbert. He repaired the buildings, "and employed

skilful artificers in wood, stone, glass, and marble." The emperor,

who cherished a special regard for Angilbert, and who desired to see

the abbey magnificently rebuilt, directed that marble columns from

the city of Rome should be conveyed to Centule for the adornment of

the edifice. During the progress of the works, an accident

occurred--one of the columns fell, and was broken in two; but, early

in the morning, when the workmen came to the spot, they found, to

their surprise, the broken pillar restored, and placed erect; for,

according to the historian, an angel had been there, and united the

broken parts, and left the impress of his hand upon the marble, where

the pieces were joined! The monastery is described as triangular;[3]

it contained three churches, which were united to each other by three

walls. The largest of the churches was dedicated to St. Richard, the

founder of the abbey, and had two towers, one at the east, and the

other at the west end. The next in size was consecrated to the

virgin Mary; and the third, which was the least, was set apart to the

honour of St. Benedict, who established the order. The monastery was

arranged according to his rules, so that every useful art and

necessary employment might be carried on within the circuit of the

walls: the church had numerous altars, which were abundantly enriched

with relics--some of the virgin Mary's milk, and a portion of St.

Peter's beard, occupying a very conspicuous place in the precious

inventory. A long enumeration follows of vases, crosses, crowns,

lamps, chalices, etc.; of gold and silver, adorned with gems, beside

a vast number of splendid vestments: the monkish chronicler adding,

at the close, that there were many more ornaments and useful things,

in lead, glass, and marble, which it would be tedious to enumerate.

It was ordained that there should be, at least, three hundred monks

supported in this abbey; and one hundred boys, to be fed and clothed

like the brethren, who were to arrange them in three choirs, that

they might assist in singing, and in playing on instruments; each of

the three churches having a choir appropriated to itself, so that, in

canonical hours, they might be all employed at the same time in

religious worship.[4]

But we must leave all this, to trace the bearings of monachism on the

interests of society.

[1] Vita Pauli.

[2] Regula Benedieti. Hospinian de origine et progressu Monachatus,

etc. p. 116. A good sketch of the Benedictine rules is given in

Quarterly Review, vol. xxiii. 59

[3] Monasteries were generally quadrangular.

[4] D'Achery, Spic. tom. ii. 303.

SECTION II.

MONASTIC LIFE AND MANNERS.

On looking at the social influence of monachism, one of the first

things which strikes us, is, the effect which it was calculated to

produce upon the mind of the fraternity; who, after the order had

spread, formed no small portion of the population of Europe. Strict

conformity to the rules of St. Benedict, and obedience to the

superior of the convent, formed the beau ideal of the monk. Implicit

submission, moral and religious, was yielded to a fellow man. The

more abject this submission, the more meritorious it was deemed. St.

Columbanus, who has been described as "the most remarkable character

of his age,"[1] stretched the principle of obedience so far, in his

penitential discipline, as to lay down the following rules: that any

monk who did not sign with a cross the spoon with which he ate, or

who struck the table with his knife, or who should cough at the

beginning of a psalm, should receive the punishment of six lashes.[2]

The way in which submission to a superior was sometimes expressed, by

the monkish fraternity, is amusing enough. We read of one of these

worthies, who, when his superior, an illiterate man, stopped him as

he was reading a Latin sentence, and bade him pronounce the _e_ in

_dŏcēre_ short, he at once gave up the right pronunciation:

knowing, it is remarked, that to disobey his abbot,

who commanded him in Christ's name, was a greater sin than to adopt a

false quantity.[3] And this very monk was no other than the

celebrated Lanfranc, afterwards archbishop of Canterbury. This

picture of the prostration of the human understanding to the vows of

monastic obedience is truly humiliating; and, in many cases, there

can be no doubt that the minds of the monks were decidedly enfeebled

by the discipline they observed. Monasteries soon became, but too

generally, most corrupt establishments, which the energy and zeal of

the more devout of the order in vain attempted to reform. There is

sufficient evidence running through the whole history of the middle

ages, of the moral evils of the system. While an extreme party often

appeared doing their utmost to tighten the cords of discipline, and

rushing to the most ridiculous excesses of monkish severity; another

party, more numerous, was never wanting, who practically relaxed the

bonds of their order, and indulged in various irregularities. Nor

were the scenes of monastic seclusion quite so peaceful as the

romantic imagination is wont to picture, or the vows of obedience

quite so binding as would appear from the theory of the system

established by Benedict: for, if we are to believe the testimony of

those times, it not seldom happened that one fraternity quarrelled

with another; that monasteries were scenes of confusion; that monk

fell out with monk; that the brotherhood rebelled against their

superior, and that some discontented member turned fugitive, fairly

escaped from the convent, and sought refuge in another establishment,

in consequence of which a warm correspondence took place between the

dishonoured abbot and some neighbouring prior who had taken the

runaway under his patronage. Some were dissatisfied because

discipline was too lax; some rebelled because it was too strict; and

some did just as they liked, because there was no discipline at all.

The effect of all this vice, disorder, and misrule, upon society,

could not fail to be pernicious. The influence of such men who,

while they set themselves up as models of sanctity and obedience,

thus violated their vows, fostered the practice of all sorts of evil

among the people at large. Historians have, therefore, justly laid

at the door of these institutions, thus grossly corrupted, the blame

of much of that social depravity which darkened the middle ages.

According to the strict interpretation of the rule of St. Benedict,

the monks were by no means to accumulate secular wealth: but a more

liberal construction was generally put on the terms of the institute,

so that the monasteries grew richer in this world's goods than in

spiritual fame. A correspondence on this point, which arose in the

twelfth century between Bernard, of Clairvaux, and Peter the

Venerable, of Clugni, has been preserved, from which we find that the

monks of Clugni were charged with violating the rules of the order by

holding estates. "What will you reply," it is asked, "respecting the

secular possessions which you hold, just like secular persons? For

towns, villages, peasants, slaves, and handmaids, and what is more,

the revenue of tolls and taxes, and property of that description, you

receive indifferently, and retain unlawfully; and when you are

attacked, you are not scrupulous about the means of defence.

Contrary to all monastic law, ecclesiastics conduct secular causes,

and turn advocates--and thus in heart return to Egypt."[4] This is a

specimen of the disputes which sometimes arose among the monastic

orders; and it proves, what none can deny, that the monasteries,

whether in violation of the Benedictine rules or not, grew rich. One

cannot look over a few of the old monastic histories without finding

numerous allusions to their wealthy endowments. Immense tracts of

lands, numbers of villages, farms, gardens, slaves of both sexes, are

found registered in the inventory of their possessions. In later

days the wealth of monasteries became enormously great, so that, in

the twelfth century, the territorial property of the church, of which

the larger part was vested in monasteries, amounted to nearly

one-half of all England, and, in some countries, to a still larger

proportion.[5] Much of this property was freely bestowed by the

wealthy, with a view to secure thereby the salvation of their souls:

but the brotherhood are charged with not being very particular as to

the means they employed for the aggrandizement of their order; and

are said even to have prostituted "their knowledge of writing to the

purpose of forging charters in their own favour, which might easily

impose upon an ignorant age, since it has required a peculiar science

to detect them in modern times."[6]

But though there be evidence enough of monkish worldliness, avarice,

and rapacity, in a multitude of instances, it must not be supposed

that these societies, powerful as they were, had it all their own

way. It is common for persons to think of the monks as having all

lived in the midst of abundance, enjoying their possessions in

perfect security, their spiritual authority encircling their domains

as with a wall of fire. But this is a mistake. Many and sad are the

lamentations poured out by monkish chroniclers over the spoliation of

their property. Princes and barons were very far from always

standing in awe of prelates and abbots: convents were often plundered

without mercy, and if the church had spoiled the laity, the laity

retaliated with vengeance. "The poverty and distress of the

convents, and their want of the necessaries of life, was another

feature of ancient society which we little expect. To find Anselm

writing to archbishop Lanfranc, and telling him, that oatmeal and

beans had been so dear, for a long time, that the great monastery of

Bee was in the depths of difficulty, and that, dreadful as the last

year's sufferings had been, the next would be worse; to find the

archbishop assisting them with twenty pounds, and to hear moving

complaints of the distress occasioned to the monks by the town toll,

which was rigorously exacted, even on the pot-herbs which composed

their scanty _cuisine_, would certainly be quite new matter to most

readers."[7] Yet there can be no doubt that these instances were the

exceptions, and not the illustrations of the rule; proofs of the

wealth of monasteries in general being abundant, and seasons of

calamity and depression, of which we find complaints, being only

temporary, and owing to accidental circumstances.

[1] Rome under the Popes, vol. ii. 245.

[2] Man. Bibl. tom, xii. 6

[3] Maitland's Dark Ages, 178.

[4] Max. Bibl. pat. xxii. p. 841.

[5] Hallam, Middle Ages, chap. vii.

[6] Ibid. "A monk of the Abbey of St. Medard, being on his

death-bed, confessed, with great contrition and repentance, that he

had forged numerous bills of exemption, in favour of various

monasteries."--_Palgrave's Proofs and Illustrations_, etc., ccxi.

[7] Quarterly Review, vol. lviii. p. 424.

SECTION III.

MONKISH EMPLOYMENTS.

Manual labour was strongly recommended by Benedict, and, from the

first establishment of his order, the monks engaged themselves in

tilling the soil. It is difficult to form an idea of the deplorable

state of agriculture in Europe, for some centuries after the invasion

of the barbarians upon the south. The change which has since been

wrought in the appearance of towns, in the state of trade, and in the

general character of political and social institutions, is scarcely

greater than the change which has been produced in the aspect of

nature. Many an immense tract of country now smiling with

cornfields, meadows, gardens, and vineyards, was, in the middle ages,

a miserable morass, or a straggling forest, haunted by the wolf, and

unvisited by man. In the first attempts to transform the desert into

"a fruitful field," we find the monks most active. In the early

charters granted to monasteries, frequent mention is made of

extensive districts, uncultivated and barren, made over to them as

their property, which, by their labour, they turned to profitable

account. Wild and inaccessible forests were cleared for the site of

a new convent; and the monkish historian, as he recorded the fact,

exclaimed, "How goodly are thy tents, O Jacob, and thy tabernacles, O

Israel! In the place where dragons lay shall there be reeds and

rushes." Some of the most pleasing parts of the monastic annals are

those in which an account is given of the change produced in the face

of the country, by the enclosure of land around the monastery. There

is some interest felt in looking on the following picture:--"The

place," says the biographer of Eligius, in describing an abbey which

he built, "the place is so fertile and so pleasant, that when any

person walks there among the orchards of fruit, and the gardens of

flowers, he is ready to burst forth into the exclamation, 'How goodly

are thy tents, O Jacob, and thy tabernacles, O Israel! like shady

woods, like cedars near the waters, and as gardens by the river'--of

such, Solomon says, 'the habitations of the just are blessed.' ....

It is surrounded by an enclosure, not of stone, but consisting of a

foss and bridge, about a mile and a quarter in circuit; on one side

guarded by a beautiful river, from which there rises a lofty hill,

crowned with wood, and rocks towering to a great height. The inner

space is filled with fruit-bearing trees of various kinds, where the

mind is cheered, and may fancy itself surrounded by the delightful

scenes of Paradise."[1]

The buildings which rose in these cultivated spots, were the work of

monks. They were the architects and masons of the day; and whatever

signs of strength or beauty might be displayed in the structure of

the convent, the cathedral, or the church, was the fruit of their

labour, or their genius. For example, two distinguished monks in

England, Bennet and Wilfred, are described by our historians as being

possessed of much architectural skill. The churches of Weremouth and

Jarrow were erected by the former; the cathedral of York was repaired

and beautified, and that of Ripon entirely built by the latter. We

are told that the masonry was nicely polished, that rows of columns

supported the roof, and that porticoes adorned each of the principal

entrances. The monastery of Hexham was the last and most admired of

his works. "The height and length of the walls, the beautiful polish

of the stones, the number of the columns and porticoes, and the

spiral windings which led to the top of each tower, have exercised

the descriptive powers of Eddius, who, after two journeys to the

apostolic see, boldly pronounced that there existed not on this side

the Alps a church to be compared with that of Hexham."[2] When

reading such descriptions, we must remember that they belong to an

age of comparative ignorance and barbarism, and that, therefore, the

buildings so much extolled would probably excite but little, if any,

admiration now; yet, doubtless, they did evince some buddings of that

architectural taste which was afterwards developed in great

perfection. It may not be uninteresting to add a notice or two of

the Saxon method of building. The foundations of Medhamsted were

laid with stones, each of which was drawn by eight yoke of oxen.

Those of Croyland were composed of piles of oak, and alder between,

which were compressed with great quantities of dry earth. At Ramsey

the stones for the foundation were beaten down with rammers; a

windlass was employed to raise the stones to the top of the wall.

The ceilings were generally framed with oak. Vaulted roofs of stone

forming a triumph of architectural skill which they rarely attempted,

and which they were unable perfectly to accomplish; and it should be

stated, that it was only in rare instances, and in particular

situations, that buildings were of stone at all--wood was commonly

employed.

Allusion has already been made to the decorations of the monasteries

and churches, and to the works of art employed in religious

ceremonies; there were further proofs of monkish skill.

An ingenious work of art, intended to represent the solar system, was

possessed by the monks of Croyland, and destroyed by the fire which

consumed the abbey, in 1091. It was a table composed of different

metals. The planet Saturn was of copper, Jupiter of gold, Mars of

iron, Mercury of amber, Venus of tin, the Moon of silver, and the

solar orb of brass. It is described by the monkish chronicler,

Ingulf, as charming the eyes, and instructing the mind, by its

precious materials, its brilliant colours, and its exquisite

workmanship. This scientific instrument, however, was not the work

of the monks themselves, but a present to the abbot of Croyland, by

the king of France. Yet it seems that similar tables were not

uncommon in England; and these, no doubt, were the handyworks of the

monastic brethren, who alone understood scientific matters. Another

proof of mechanical skill, not so well known, is to be found in an

anecdote of St. Bernard and his friends. Weakened by his

austerities, he retired to his cell, where he could not be persuaded

to have a fire, but there were some who were more solicitous than

himself to promote his comfort, and they contrived to introduce hot

air into the apartment, through the stone floor under his bed.[3]

There was a touch of good feeling, as well as of skilful contrivance,

exhibited by these friends of the old abbot; whence it appears, that

warming rooms by hot air is no modern invention, and that the

reverence felt for genius and piety, and a desire to promote the

comfort of those we love, are not peculiar to any age or country.

Further light is thrown upon monkish employments in a letter written

by Peter the Venerable, a friend and correspondent of the

above-mentioned St. Bernard. After exhorting his friends to study

and write, he says, "If, however, from its injuring your sight, or

from its wearisome sameness, you cannot, or will not be content, with

one manual employment, make a variety of other handy works. Make

combs for combing and cleaning the heads of the brethren; with

skilful hand and well-instructed foot, turn needle-cases; hollow out

vessels for wine, such as they call _justitiœ_, or others like

them, or try to put them together. And if there are any marshy

places near, weave mats (an ancient monastic employment) on which you

may always, or frequently sleep, may bedew with daily, or frequent

tears, and wear out with frequent genuflexion before God; or, as St.

Jerome says, weave little baskets with flags, or make them of wicker.

Filling up all the time of your blessed life with these and similar

works of holy purpose, you will leave no room for your adversaries to

intrude into your heart, or into your cell, but that when God has

filled all with his virtues, there shall be no room for the devil,

none for sloth, none for the other vices."[4] They were truly odd

employments which the abbot prescribed; yet, it is to be feared, that

many of the brotherhood were far from being always so well employed;

certainly, the latter part of the advice is very good, and, though

written by a man in the dark ages, is not unworthy of consideration

in these enlightened times.

There was, in many monasteries, a room specially devoted to

employment of the highest value. This was the _scriptorium_, or

writing-room. After the twelfth century, small cells, only capable

of accommodating a single person, were used by the monastic scribes;

but, at an earlier period, one large apartment was appropriated to

their use.

"Meanwhile, along the cloister's painted side

The monks, each bending low upon his book,

With head on hand reclined, their studies plied,

Forbid to parley, or in front to look;

Lengthways their regulated seats they took.

The strutting prior gazed, with pompous mien,

And wakeful tongue prepared with prompt rebuke;

If monk asleep in sheltering hood were seen,

He wary often peep'd beneath that russet screen.

"Hard by, against the window's adverse light,

Where desks were wont in length of row to stand,

The gown'd artificers inclined to write,

The pen of silver glisten'd in their hand;

Some on their fingers rhyming Latin scann'd,

Some textile gold from halls unwinding drew,

And on strain'd velvet stately portraits plann'd;

Here arms, there faces shone, in embryo view,

At last to glittering life the total figures grew."

The last stanza describes the business carried on in the scriptorium,

and may help the reader, the next time he visits the ruins of an old

monastery, and sees among the mouldering remains, the traces of such

an apartment, to picture to himself the scene which enlivened that

spot when the abbey walls, now covered with moss, appeared in all

their stately pride. Deep silence, as the above description

indicates, was observed by the monks, when carrying on their studies

and their writing; and, to prevent its being broken, they were

required to adopt a whimsical system of communication with each other

respecting anything they wanted. "Of course there was a sign for a

book. For a book, in general, they were to extend their hand, and

move it, as if turning over the leaf of a book. The general sign

being made, another was added to distinguish the sort of book wanted;

and there were distinct signs for the Missal, the Gospels, the

Epistolary, the Psalter, the Rule, and so on; but to distinguish a

book written by a heathen, the monk was to scratch his ear like a

dog."[5]

From catalogues of monastic libraries preserved in D'Achery's

Spicelegium, it may be concluded that it was considered a large

collection, when an abbey possessed from two to three hundred

volumes. The rich abbey of Centule had such a collection, in the

ninth century.[6] The mention of a library like this will give to

some readers the idea of books having been more common in the dark

ages than they had supposed; for there can be no doubt that the

scarcity of books, at that period, has been somewhat exaggerated; but

still, even a library of this extent, in a wealthy abbey, does not

say much in proof of a large multiplication of manuscripts, and of

great diligence on the part of monastic transcribers. The process of

copying was, as every one must admit, tedious and expensive; but the

Romans, the Egyptians, and the Saracens, had to contend with the same

difficulties, yet their libraries were some of them prodigiously

large. Seven hundred thousand volumes, it was calculated, were in

the famous library of Alexandria: but that was beyond all parallel.

The library of Pergamus, however, amounted to 200,000 volumes.

Doubtless, many of the books of the ancients were small, for Ovid

speaks of his fifteen books of Metamorphoses as forming an equal

number of volumes;[7] yet, allowing for this, some of the libraries

of antiquity must have been very extensive. Nor were very

considerable libraries at all uncommon, in the houses of men of

literary taste, before the fall of Rome. The libraries of the

Saracens were also extremely large. That of the Fatimites consisted

of 100,000 manuscripts; and that of the Ommiades, in Spain, amounted

to 600,000. It would be unfair to place large public libraries, or

the private collections of princes, in comparison with the library of

a monastery; but still, when we see how the difficulty of multiplying

books by the pen has been overcome in many instances, and when we

look at the vast numbers of persons in Europe, during so many

centuries, devoted to the monastic profession, their literary labours

do not appear to have been very great.

Instances of the high prices given for books in the middle ages have

been often quoted. Mabillon relates that the countess of Anjou paid

to the bishop of Halberstadt, for a copy of the Homilies of Haimon,

two hundred sheep, a modius of wheat, and the same of rye and millet,

beside four pounds in money, and some marten skins.[8] It would be

very unreasonable to take an instance like this as a sample of the

value of mere manuscripts at that time. Volumes were often most

splendidly illuminated and adorned, and this was probably one of the

most costly kind. For instance, in the catalogue of books in the

library of Centule, already referred to, we find mention made of an

illuminated volume of the Gospels, bound in plates of gold and

silver, and richly adorned with precious stones.[9] Facts, of the

order just cited, are not to be deemed so much proofs of the scarcity

of books, as of the extreme value of certain volumes, arising from

the precious materials of which they were composed, and the labour

bestowed upon illuminating and adorning them. Still, books plainly

written, and without ornament, must have been far from numerous, and

therefore very valuable; as is evident from the catalogues of

monastic libraries, which were almost the only collections having any

pretension to that name.

It will not be uninteresting to the reader to be informed what were

the kinds of books which these libraries contained. In the abbey of

Centule, we find Homer, Cicero, Josephus, Pliny, Socrates, Sozomen,

Theodoret, Philo, Eusebius, Origen, Augustin, Jerome, Gregory,

Isidore, Hilary, Chrysostom, Cassiodorus, Fulgentius, Bede, beside

several authors of lesser note, together with a number of service

books. After enumerating these works, the writer of the chronicle

speaks of them as the aliment of celestial life, feeding the soul

with sweetness, so that, in Centule, the saying was fulfilled, "Love

the study of books, and you will not love the practice of vice."[10]

Few of the classical writers are found in these catalogues; for, in

general, during the former part of the middle ages, no attention was

paid to the study of them, even by those who made pretensions to

literary taste and acquirements, though a few writers may be found,

even at that period, who discover some acquaintance with them; but,

at a subsequent era, a taste for classical studies revived, and,

after the eleventh century, a large number of transcripts from

classic authors were made by the monks of the Benedictine order.

Yet, as we are indebted to the western monasteries for the

preservation of the Latin classics, it is quite plain that there must

have been throughout the middle ages, in some or other of them,

enough of value set upon these works to induce the monks to copy them.

But the most interesting part of the catalogue is, that which relates

to the Scriptures. At the commencement of the list of books we find,

"One entire Bible, containing seventy-two books, in one volume; also,

a Bible divided into fourteen volumes;" and then the Commentaries of

Jerome on many of the books of Scripture. In other catalogues, also,

parts of the Bible, and even the whole of it, may be found included.

A whole copy of the Scriptures, however, was rare, but detached

portions of the sacred volume were much less so. In a list of

monastic treasures, belonging to the abbey of Fontenelle, the

following item occurs. "The four Evangelists, on purple vellum,

which Augesius (the abbot) ordered to be written in the Roman letter,

of which he completed Matthew, Luke, and John, but death coming,

(_interveniente morte ejusdem_,) the rest remained imperfect." There

is something touching in this simple record of the abbot's purpose

thus cut off by the stroke of mortality, reminding us all of the

possibility of our being taken away in the midst of plans more

characteristic of modern times, but which, nevertheless, may be not

so worthy of our spiritual and immortal nature.

Of course it will be understood that the Bibles, and parts of Bibles

found in the monasteries of the west, were not written in the

original languages, but were copies of the Latin version. To the

Greek monasteries we owe the preservation of Grecian literature. The

convents, which covered, with picturesque beauty, the sides of Mount

Athos, were the chief scenes of these learned labours. Not only were

the manuscripts of the Iliad of Homer copied within sight of the very

sea once traversed by the black and hollow ships which he describes,

but the epistles of Paul were also transcribed on the shores of the

same waters, over which he sailed on his errands of Divine mercy.

The multiplying of manuscripts and the collecting of books, whether

sacred or profane, during these times of ignorance, were owing no

doubt to the taste for learning which was cherished by a few, who had

influence sufficient to engage others in the manual departments of

literary occupation. Such men as Bede, Alcuin, and Raban Maurus,

were enthusiastic lovers of books, and would do everything in their

power to imbue others with the same feeling. They are distinguished

names, shining out as stars of peculiar brilliancy during that season

of gloom; but there were other men, whose names are preserved only in

the obscure records of monasteries, long since dissolved, who seem to

have been most diligent students. An amusing instance of a love for

reading, occurs in the records of the abbey of St. Benignus, in the

eleventh century. "The abbot Halinard," says the writer, "was so

fond of reading that, even on a journey, he often carried a little

book in his hand, and refreshed his mind by perusing it on

horseback."[11] An abbot riding on horseback, with a book in his

hand, would certainly be no fitting type of the generality of

ecclesiastics at that time; all the more honour, then, to him and

others like-minded, for their strong literary predilections. They

were persons who finely exemplified "the pursuit of knowledge under

difficulties," and we, in the present day, may derive, from their

simple histories, a stimulus to renewed ardour and perseverance in

the cultivation of the mind: for if they, with all their

disadvantages, thus laboured to furnish themselves with knowledge,

how much more ought we, in these times, to do so, when the means of

literary acquisition are so widely diffused.

The benevolence of the church has been already noticed. In

monasteries especially was this virtue displayed. If we are to

believe what is said in the Chronicle of the Abbey of Centule, the

brotherhood there actually impoverished themselves, and brought the

establishment into a very critical position by their extreme

liberality and simple-heartedness; but admitting, as perhaps the

reader will be inclined to do, that it is quite possible the

generosity of the brethren is a trifle overrated, and that, even when

some deduction is made from the statement, the case of Centule was

not a common one; yet it must be confessed that there is sufficient

evidence extant to induce a belief that benevolence was not an

uncommon virtue in these fraternities. Peculiar kindness was shown

in monasteries to travellers who sought their hospitality; and it was

the injunction of Benedict to his followers, that they should prefer

to render service to the poor brethren of Christ rather than to pay

attention to the wealthy sons of this world. The _xenodochium_, or

guest-house, within the precincts of each monastery, stood open to

receive all visitors who came, as well as to yield support to a

certain number of paupers; and though such an institution was liable

to great abuse, and this system of relief altogether was open to

objection, yet, doubtless, it supplied desirable assistance to many

of the aged, the sick, and the weary--offered a useful place of

sojourn to the traveller, who found no inns to go to, as in modern

times, and proceeded from a kind and generous spirit, which appears

peculiarly beautiful in those days of violence and semi-barbarism.

But, in seasons of famine, which were not uncommon, the monks often

displayed more than usual liberality. It is related of an abbot of

St. Albans, in the eleventh century, that, in a time of great

scarcity, he not only emptied his granaries, but parted with many of

the valuables of the church to supply food for his starving

neighbours; and that, when expostulated with, by some of his

brethren, for parting with possessions consecrated to the service of

God, he replied, that living temples were more valuable than material

edifices, and that to support the former was more important than to

decorate the latter.[12]

[1] D'Achery, Spic. tom. ii. 83.

[2] Lingard's Anglo-Saxons, vol. i. p. 201.

[3] Maitland's Dark Ages, p. 406.

[4] Quoted in Maitland's Dark Ages, p. 453.

[5] Maitland's Dark Ages, p. 403. Du Cange, Glossary, voce _Signum_.

[6] "The volumes," says the chronicler, "amount to 256, but some of

these volumes contains several manuscripts, so that if we were to

number these separately they would exceed 500."--_D'Achery, Spic._

ii. 311.

[7] Ovid. i. 29.

[8] Benedict An., lib. lxi., No. 6.

[9] D'Achery, Spic. tom. ii. p. 306.

[10] D'Achery, Spic. vol. ii.

[11] D'Achery, Spic., tom. ii. p. 392.

[12] Matt. Paris, Lingard's Anglo-Saxon Antiq. vol. i. p. 214.

SECTION IV.

EFFECTS OF MONASTIC INSTITUTIONS ON SOCIETY.

But we must not extend these illustrations of monastic life and

influence. Enough has been said to show that the effect of these

institutions on society was of a mixed character. They were

fountains both of good and evil. Their effect on society at large,

would mainly depend upon the effect which they produced on their

members: and that effect would be greatly modified by the peculiar

character and temperament of each individual.

Their natural influence upon idle and sensually-minded men was to

cherish their indolence and depravity, and to lead to that vice and

dissoluteness which, unless we are to disbelieve the strongest

evidence, did really characterise the inmates of many an abbey. To

the man of ambition and energy the scenes of the cloister, though

apparently separated from the world, presented no unsuitable sphere

for the exercise of qualities which fitted him to take a leading part

in the political affairs of the nation;--for a monastery of some

three or four hundred brethren, (in certain cases it contained many

more,) with, their gradations of rank, their forms of government,

their legislative power in the chapter-house, their judicial

proceedings, and their different employments, formed a little world

which was a type of the greater world, with its intrigues,

controversies, conflicts, and struggles after place, power, and

influence;--hence, from these retreats there came forth many a

churchman animated by a spirit, and possessing policy and tact, which

prepared him to take a leading part in the transactions of the day,

and even to lay his hand on the helm of affairs, and to guide the

vessel of the state for good or evil. As it regards persons of a

studious turn, the monastery was a sort of college, where, in

quietude, and with the best assistance which the age supplied, they

could train and improve their minds, and write for the instruction of

their brethren. And as it respects men of a mechanical genius, or of

artistic taste, there were employments for them, suited to their

predilections, and adapted to call forth their industry and skill.

Individuals of a contemplative cast, and of devout habits, it cannot

be doubted, found aliment for their piety in the better parts of the

services of the church--in some of those beautiful hymns sung at

vespers, or the hour of prime, which cannot be read, in these days,

but with the deepest pleasure--in certain writings of the

fathers--and in those scenes of nature's loveliness which lay

outspread around the convent walls, reminding the beholder of their

Creator's power and goodness. And further, in the case of men of a

benevolent disposition, with hearts open to the appeals of distress,

the monastery might furnish them with the means of supplying relief

to the suffering sons and daughters of humanity, and might give some

scope, though limited, to the exemplification of the active virtues.

With regard to some of the beneficial, as well as some of the evil

effects of the monastic institute, it is to be observed that they

arose from innovations made upon the original system. If any contend

that the profligacy of monks arose from the corruption of monastic

discipline, and is not to be charged upon the system, as it proceeded

from its founder, they must also admit that the literature of the

monks, and whatever they accomplished as architects, and artists, and

men of taste, equally arose in a departure from the strict rules of

monastic order, and cannot, therefore, be regarded as fruits of the

original institute. That an attention to literature, in its secular

branches, and the cultivation of art, in its highest forms, was not

provided for in the letter, nay, was out of harmony with the spirit

of the rules of St. Benedict, must be apparent to every one who looks

at that code of discipline; and, moreover, that these things were

blamed by monastic reformers in the middle ages, and by those who, in

the spirit of monachism, aspired to ascetic perfection, is evident

from a glance at their history and writings.

We have said nothing respecting nunneries. "Their rules were formed,

for the most part, upon those which bound the monks. Like the monks,

they lived from common funds, and used a common dormitory, table, and

wardrobe; the same religious services exercised their piety; and

habitual temperance and occasional fasting were enjoined with the

same severity. Manual labour was no less rigidly enforced; but

instead of the agricultural toils imposed upon their 'brethren,' to

them were committed the easier tasks of the needle, or the distaff.

By duties so numerous, by occupations admitting so great variety,

they beguiled the tediousness of the day and the dulness of monastic

seclusion."[1] The sister of St. Benedict is said to have been the

founder of the Benedictine order of nuns, who soon became so

numerous, that, in the city of Rome, under the pontificate of Gregory

the Great, there were no less than three thousand of these

"_ancillœ Dei_," "hand-maids of God." In the ninth century, they

had risen to such an elevation of rank and power, that it became

necessary to repress the pretended right of the abbesses to

consecrate and ordain, and perform other sacerdotal functions.[2]

"The establishment of female recluses followed very closely the

numerous diversities of the monastic scheme, and imitated the names

of the male institutions, where they could not adopt their practice,

or even their profession. An order of Canonesses Regular was

founded, or, at least, presented with a rule, by the council of Aix

la Chapelle, in A.D. 813. And we read, in later times, of a

community of noble young ladies, who were associated under a very

easy discipline, and unrestrained by any vow of celibacy, under the

title of Canonesses Secular. But these last pretenders to religious

seclusion were, on more than one occasion, discountenanced by the

authorities of the church."[3]

The taking the veil was a ceremony in harmony with the ascetic spirit

of the institute, and the scene within the convent chapel, as the

priestly voice pronounced the accustomed formula in the ears of the

novice,--"Behold, daughter, and consider; forget thine own people,

and thy father's house, that the King may desire thy beauty,"--seemed

to indicate a complete abandonment of the world; but there is

abundant evidence that a secular temper, and a love of earthly

vanities, often followed the recluse to her cell, however she might

attempt to conceal it beneath the foldings of her veil. The worldly,

the ambitious, the sensual, the devout, the literary, the benevolent,

might be found within the walls of the nunnery, as within the walls

of the monastery; and the influence of the institute upon its

professors in the one case, as in the other, and through them upon

society in general, would vary accordingly.

Such is an outline of the character and effects of monasticism--a

principle which constituted a leading element in what has been termed

"the mediæval system." It is worthy of a deeper consideration, and

of a more philosophical and Christian method of inquiry into its

nature and results than it has commonly received. It sprung out of

mistaken views of the human mind and of the Christian religion, and

was wholly opposed to the latter in spirit and practice. It is

deeply affecting to think of the many earnest and pious men who were

misled by such a system, and who vainly sought by its artificial

expedients that deliverance from the power of sin, which can be

obtained only by faith in the Redeemer, by contemplating Divine

truth, by prayer for the Holy Spirit, and by the discharge of the

manifold duties of social life. Yet does the record of this great

mistake, with all the evils which followed it, furnish us with a most

important and invaluable lesson. "From the very nature of man, and

of the Divine government on earth, when man is left to try all his

inventions, the age of monasticism must, in all probability, one day

have come. And had it not come when it did, we might now have been

dreaming in the depths of its midnight. We may be grateful, then, as

well as solemn, while contemplating the mistakes and consequent gloom

of the past, and may thus become the more forbearing in the sweeping

judgments we are apt to form of those who, with no bad intention, and

in an age of but little light, and less experience, were left to lead

the way in untried paths, which have since conducted to results so

appalling and unforeseen."[4] The failure of the monastic system to

yield to the aspirant after holiness and peace the help he needs,

should warn us against adopting any human devices for the

accomplishment of an end so infinitely important, and induce us to

cleave to the simple methods prescribed in the Bible--belief of the

truth, self-watchfulness, and prayer.

Unsound in principle, the system yielded, as might be expected, a

harvest of mischief, not only to pure and noble minds whom it misled,

but to other minds whose indolence and vice it nourished, while to

mankind at large, it exhibited, in many an instance, a most unlovely

spectacle of religious pretensions allied with irreligious practice;

and, at the same time, poured over the mass of society the contagion

of a pernicious example. Yet, during an age of barbarism, it

preserved the seeds of taste and art--during an age of misrule, it

afforded a shelter for the oppressed--during an age of ignorance, it

kept alive some germs of learning--and during an age of cruel

selfishness it illumined the world by some kindly gleams of

benevolence. By an overruling Power it was made to serve some useful

purposes, for many centuries after its establishment; but when its

corruption had reached its height, and the better results it had once

produced were neither felt nor needed, because a new state of things

in the civilised world had come, it was smitten by the hand of

Providence, and left to wither. In the control exerted over it for

good, and in its destruction to such an extent, when it only produced

evil, we see the wise and mighty hand of Providence, and are

constrained to exclaim--"This also cometh from the Lord of hosts,

which is wonderful in counsel, and excellent in working."

[1] Waddington's History of the Church, p. 398.

[2] Wellington's History of the Church, p. 400.

[3] Ibid.

[4] Bibliotheca Sacra, vol. i. p. 312.

CHAPTER IV.

THE FEUDAL CASTLE.

Feudalism is a leading fact in the history of the middle ages. It is

characteristic of the social condition of Europe at that time. We

cannot at all understand the state of things which then prevailed,

unless we have a distinct conception of feudalism. It was a system

which wrought most extensively and vigorously. It produced an

immense effect in the hour of its zenith; it created an influence

which lingered long after its decline, and which has not yet spent

all its force.

We shall attempt to trace the rise and progress of feudalism out of

the mingled elements of Roman and barbarian society.

SECTION I.

RISE OF FEUDALISM.

When the northern warriors subdued Europe, they divided the lands in

the conquered territories between the vanquished and themselves, not

forgetting, however, to retain in most cases the lion's share. The

Vandals seized upon all the best lands in Africa. The Visigoths and

Burgundians, who settled in Spain and Gaul, took two-thirds of the

territorial property; but the Lombards, who descended upon Italy,

more moderate in their desires, were content with a third part of the

produce of the soil.

In the distribution of land among the victorious Franks, unequal

shares were received by different parties, according to their rank or

merit; but the chief, or leader of the army, had not the power of

supreme disposal, and did not, as some seem to suppose, divide among

his followers the conquered lands, to be held on condition of their

rendering him service. Too proud a spirit of independence reigned

among those fierce warriors to admit of any such arrangement. Each

soldier felt his individual importance, and, when an enemy was

subdued, looked for the share of the spoil that might fall to him,

not as a gift from his leader, but as his own indefeasible right.

Nay, he watched with the greatest jealousy the claims of his

sovereign, of which a proof is given in the following well-known

story. Clovis, king of the Franks, when plundering a church at

Soissons of its rich utensils, appropriated to himself a splendid

vase, over and above what fell to his share; but one of his soldiers,

dashing it in pieces with his battle-axe, exclaimed, "You shall have

nothing here but what falls to you by lot." The existence of a

spirit like this was quite inconsistent with the supposition, that

the leaders of the army established themselves at once, as the

paramount lords of the soil, in the countries they conquered, and

divided it among their followers, as among so many beneficiaries, who

were bound to render service in return. The property acquired in the

first instance by the followers, as well as the chief, was

_allodial_, that is, independent--absolute. It was, to all intents

and purposes a freehold, burdened with no other obligation than the

duty of the owner to appear in defence of the commonwealth.

But though the barbarian kings were not the sovereign lords of the

whole soil, yet they received a much larger share than any of their

officers. Fiscal lands, or royal demesnes, were appropriated to them

for their own use, and for the maintenance of their proper dignity.

These were, in many cases, granted to their favourites, to be held

under certain conditions. It is said that no obligations of military

service were expressly annexed to these grants; but there cannot be

the shadow of a doubt that some substantial return of that kind was

expected from the persons thus favoured by their chieftain. Indeed,

a positive proof that such was the case, is found in the fact, that

under Charlemagne, the possessors of these estates were required to

take the field in person, while the holders of allodial property were

only required to furnish soldiers, at the rate of one for every three

farms.

These estates thus bestowed by the barbarian kings were called

BENEFICES, and were the germs of the _feuds_, or fiefs, which

constituted the foundation, and which gave the name to the feudal

system. Much antiquarian research has been expended on the origin

both of the arrangement and the name. We are inclined to believe

that the parent principles are to be found in the _emphyteusis_ of

the Romans, and the _comitatus_ of the Germans. The word

_emphyteusis_ signifies engrafting or planting, and was applied to

property granted for cultivation. The property of the estate was

vested in one party, and the usufruct in a second, who held it on

condition of certain payments, and retained the use of it so long as

the stipulated rent was paid. The relation between the parties seems

to have been something more than the common one between landlord and

tenant, even when the latter is secured in possession by the covenant

of a lease, for a term of years. It approaches nearer to a copyhold

tenure. In this arrangement, we see the prototype of the feudal lord

and his tenant, permanently holding lands upon condition of rendering

some acknowledgment of dependence. The _comitatus_ of the Germans

was different from this. The word signifies a band of retainers who

accompanied their chief in war. The union was voluntarily formed,

but, when once formed, it was deemed disgraceful to break it. The

favour of these martial adherents was gained or preserved by presents

of horses and arms, and by rude and profuse hospitality. In this

custom, we have a further prototype of the lord; this warlike band

were attached to his person, shared in his quarrels, and fought under

his banner; and, as the ground of their services, received from him

certain benefits, chiefly the possession and use of landed estates.

Sir Francis Palgrave is of opinion that the word _fief_ is a

contraction of _fitef_, which he further supposes to be a colloquial

abbreviation of _emphyteusis_, usually pronounced _emphytefsis_.

"The essential and fundamental principle of a territorial fief, or

feud," he observes, "is, that the land is held by a limited or

conditional estate, the property being in the lord, the usufruct in

the tenant."[1] And other antiquarians have derived the term vassal

from the German _gesell_, which signifies a subordinate associate, or

helper. The feudal principles and usages certainly sprung from the

intermingling of Roman and Gothic society, amidst the convulsions of

the fifth and the following centuries; and it is therefore by no

means unreasonable to look for the seeds of them among the

institutions of both parties.

Some have maintained that the benefices granted, in the way

described, were originally revocable by the lord at pleasure, and

that it was not till some time afterwards that an hereditary interest

was possessed by the tenant; but Mr. Hallam, whose learning and

judgment in such matters are equally admirable, questions this, and

believes that hereditary fiefs obtained in many instances, from the

beginning. Subinfeudation, or the parcelling out a territory to a

number of under-tenants, was an early result, proceeding from the

possession of hereditary benefices. Traces of this practice are

found in the times of Pepin, king of France; they are more numerous

under Charlemagne; and in later times they are so general as to prove

that the custom was nearly universal. Thus two classes of fiefs

arose--the _royal_, or principal fiefs, held immediately from the

crown; and the _arrière_, or subordinate fiefs, which were dependent

upon the nobility. The parties who had received their fiefs from the

king swore allegiance to him as their lord; and they, in their turn,

exacted a similar oath of fidelity from their own tenants.

Still, only some part of the property of a country was held on the

feudal tenure; a considerable part remained allodial, or free. But

what guarantee had the proprietor for quiet possession? A number of

small landholders found themselves surrounded by mighty chieftains,

whose estates were extensive, and whose power was increased by the

number of vassals they gathered about them through the practice of

subinfeudation. In an age when the spirit of justice was scarcely

known--when law furnished no shield of protection--the freeholder was

constantly exposed to the oppression of his haughty neighbours. If

some feudal baron cast his eye upon the field of the allodialist, as

Ahab did on Naboth's vineyard, it was in vain for the proprietor to

resist. It was better to yield it up to him at once, as a feudal

estate, and to occupy it as a fief incident to certain services, than

to have it taken away altogether, or even subjected to depredation

and pillage. Beside, in seasons of anarchy and war, when foreign

enemies invaded a kingdom, or rapacious lords issued from their

castles to gather a harvest of spoil, the possessor of an independent

estate felt that if he would keep what he had, it would be better for

him to put himself and his estate under the wing of feudalism, and

thus secure the only kind of protection which the times afforded.

The incipient forms of the feudal relation arose at a very early

period; but to suppose that what is called the "feudal system"

existed then, is a great mistake. The state of things, designated by

that appellation, did not reach its definite form, nor did its

ramifications branch out to their full extent, till the tenth

century. In France, feudalism had the deepest root, and arrived

earliest at maturity; but during the ninth century, even there, we

see it but gradually rising amidst the storms of anarchy which ensued

upon the dissolution of the empire founded by Charlemagne. Feudalism

was not, as some seem to imagine, a system introduced, at once, by

the barbarian invaders, wherever they established their sway, but a

form of social existence and power, which, though its parentage may

be partly attributed to the German tribes, was also indebted, for its

being, to causes which came into operation after the settlement of

the northern warriors in their conquered territories; and, when it

had attained its full vigour, it was very unlike anything which had

been ever before seen either by themselves or others.

[1] Proofs and Illustrations of the Origin of Eng. Commonwealth, vol.

i. p. 208.