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THE TRUCE OF GOD
_A Tale of the Eleventh Century_
By
George Henry Miles
With an Introduction By
John C. Reville, S.J., Ph.D.
New York
Joseph F. Wagner, Inc.
London: B. Herder
CONTENTS
CHAP.
I.
II.
III.
IV.
V.
VI.
VII.
VIII.
IX.
X.
INTRODUCTION
"The Truce of God" by our American novelist and dramatist, George Henry
Miles, is not only a romantic and interesting story, it recalls one of
the most striking achievements of the Middle Ages.
After the tide of barbarian invasion, Goths and Vandals, Heruli,
Burgundians and Franks had swept away the edifice of Roman civilization,
had it not been for the regenerating influence of Christianity, another
empire as cruel would have risen on the ruins of Rome. No other power
would then have ruled but the sword. The sword was king, and received
the worship of thousands. Now and then a ruler appeared like Theodoric,
Charlemagne, the Lombard Luitprand, who used the sword on the whole for
just and beneficent ends. And because these warrior kings, even in the
midst of their conquests, brought some of the blessings of peace to
their subject peoples, these peoples welcomed their sway. Peace was,
then as now, one of the world's needs.
Although the eighth, ninth and succeeding century were not without their
brighter sides and were not those totally Dark Ages they have been
represented by the enemies of the Church, nevertheless, seeds of evil
passions, which in spite of her endeavors the Church had been unable
completely to stifle, lingered in the hearts of those strong-limbed,
strong-passioned Teutonic races which had succeeded to the tasks and
responsibilities of pagan Rome. Those races did not have Rome's
organizing power. By force, it is true, in a great measure, but force
intelligently applied, but also by patience, by an instinct for justice
and for order, Rome had welded her vast empire into a coherent whole.
Rome really, and effectively ruled. She had authority, she had prestige,
she was respected and feared, until the fatal day when, for her vices
and tyranny, she began to be hated. That day her fate was sealed.
The Teutonic races lacked the power of organization. They were strong
and comparatively free from the vices of Rome; they had a rude sense of
justice. But that very sense and instinct for that one essential of
ordered life drove the individual to take the execution of the law and
of justice into his own hands and to claim his rights at the point of
the sword. The result can be easily imagined. The sword was never for a
long time thrust back into the scabbard. Incessant wars, not at the
bidding of the ruler, nor sanctioned by the voice of public authority or
for the public welfare, but for private ends, for revenge, for greed and
booty, were waged throughout the length and breadth of Europe.
The civil government, or the empty simulacrum that went under the name,
seemed powerless, for the simple reason that the strong arm of either a
Charlemagne or a Charles Martel too seldom appeared to check the
culprits, or because the civil government itself only added fuel to the
flame, by the encouragement it gave to license and violence by its own
evil example.
But society had to protect itself. Conscious of its danger, and that it
was doomed to destruction, if some remedy were not found, it evolved in
the tenth and the following century, not an absolutely efficacious
remedy, but one which enabled it to pass in comparative safety that
dangerous period and carried European civilization to the full glories
of the age of Dante, St. Louis and the Angel of the Schools. The remedy
was feudalism.
That institution has been misunderstood. It was called forth by special
needs, and when the conditions which it met in an almost providential
manner changed, it quietly passed away. But it rendered an important
and never-to-be forgotten service to war-torn Europe. Feudalism can
scarcely be called a complete and rounded system. For it was constantly
undergoing modification. It was not the same north as south of the
Loire. It was one thing on the west, and quite another on the east of
the Rhine. In general it was, as Stubbs described it ("Constitutional
History." Vol. 1, pp. 255, 256), "a regulated and fairly well graduated
method of jurisdiction, based on land tenure, in which every lord, king,
duke, earl or baron protected, judged, ruled, taxed the class next below
him; ... in which private war, private coinage and private prisons took
the place of the imperial institutions of power." Land, "the sacramental
tie" then, "of all relations," and not money, was the chief wealth of
those ages. For services rendered, therefore, fiefs or landed estates
were the reward. Feudalism thus rested on a contract entered into by the
nation represented by the king, which let out its lands to individuals
who paid the rent not only by doing military service, but by rendering
such services to the king as the king's courts might require. The bond
was frequently extremely loose, and it was hard then to say which of the
two was in reality the stronger, the feudal lord or the technically
lower, but sometimes in reality stronger, vassal.
The feudal lord was bound to support his vassal, and in return, had a
right to expect his help in the hour of danger. The feudal lord owed his
vassals justice, protection, shelter and refuge. If certain privileges,
claimed by the feudal lord, were onerous, the vassal was not without
some guarantee that he would be shown fair play; for it was evident that
unless in some way rights and obligations were fairly well balanced, and
there was a fair return for service rendered, the whole system would
soon crumble to pieces.
The "system," if it can be called one, was, as we have said, by no means
perfect, but it bridged the historic gap which stretches between the
fall of the Carolingian power and the full dawn of the Middle Ages. It
saved Europe from anarchy. Its blessings cannot be denied. It helped to
foster the love of independence, of self-government, of local
institutions, of communal and municipal freedom. The vassal that lived
under the shadows of the strong towers of a feudal lord did not look
much further beyond, to the king in his palace or in his courts of
justice, for protection. He found it closer at home. The vassal,
moreover, began to think of his own rights and privileges, to value them
and to ask that they be enforced. The idea of right and law, one of the
most deeply engraved in the Christian conscience in the Middle Ages,
grew and developed. The barons were the first to claim these rights;
gradually the whole nation imitated them. Even when they claimed them,
primarily for themselves, the whole nation participated sooner or later
in their blessings. The Barons of Runnymede were fighting the battles of
every ploughboy in England when they wrenched _Magna Charta_ from King
John.
Although many a feudal lord was a proud and hard-driving master, yet the
vassal and the serf knew that there were limits which his lord dared not
transgress; that the very spirit of his "caste", for such to a certain
extent was the social rank to which the feudal lord belonged, would not
tolerate any too flagrant a violation of his privileges. A bond of
united interests was found between feudal noble and his vassal. They
were found side by side in war; their larger interests were the same in
peace. Loyalty, honor, fidelity took deep root in the society which they
represented.
As the aristocracy of feudalism was founded, not on wealth or money, but
on land tenure, one of the most stable titles to prestige and authority
found in history, there was in the underlying concept of society in
those days a feeling of stability and permanency, which for a time made
feudalism, in spite of its flaws, a bulwark of order. It fostered even
a strong family spirit. Baron, count or earl, behind the thick ramparts
of his castle, lived a patriarchal life. He was, with his retainers and
men-at-arms, his chaplains, to watch over his spiritual needs, his wife
and children and vassals, dependent upon him for protection and safety,
impelled by every sense of honor, duty and chivalry to make them feel
that he was their sword and buckler. They were closely knit to him.
There was a patriarchal bond between them. Family spirit grew strong
and, under the teaching of the Church, it became pure.
Feudalism had its flaws. It was strictly an aristocratic institution. It
fostered the spirit of pride and bore harshly at times upon the serf and
the man of low degree. But its harsher features were softened by the
teachings of the Church. When it was at its height, voices of Popes like
Alexander III and of Doctors like St. Thomas Aquinas, were lifted to
proclaim the equality of all men in the sight of God. At the altar, serf
and master, count or cottier, knelt side by side. In the monasteries and
convents, the poor man's son might wear the Abbot's ring and in the
assemblies and councils of the realm, the poor clerk of former days,
might speak with all the authority of a Bishop to sway the destinies of
both Church and State.
One of the greatest evils of feudalism was that it fostered to excess
the warlike spirit. Of its very nature, the system was a complex one. It
gave rise to countless misunderstandings between the various grades of
its involved hierarchy. The opportunities and plausible pretexts for
misunderstandings, quarrels and war were many. A petty quarrel in
Burgundy, in Champagne, in the Berry in France, involved not only the
duke and count of these territories but almost every vassal or feudal
lord in the province. The same might be said of the German nobles in
Suabia, Thuringia and Franconia. Private wars were frequent, and though
the barbarism of the past ages had almost completely disappeared under
the teaching of the Gospel, these contests, as might be expected, were
both sanguinary and wasteful.
The Church fought manfully against these private wars. It took every
possible means to prevent them entirely. When in the nature of things,
it found it impossible to do away with them altogether, it tried to
mitigate their horrors, to limit their field of operation, to diminish
their savagery. If the kingly authority was flouted, save perhaps when a
sturdy ruler like William the Conqueror in England, or Hugh Capet in
France, showed that there was a man at the helm, who meant to rule and
was not afraid to quell rebellious earls and make them obey, there was
one power these mail-clad warriors respected. They respected the
Apostles Peter and Paul, they respected My Lord the Pope, and the
Bishops of France and Normandy and England who shared in their
authority. They flouted a king's edict, but none but hardened criminals
among them laughed at an episcopal or a Papal excommunication.
These rude men, and it places their rude age high in the scale of
civilization, respected religion. They lowered the sword before the
Cross. The Church had for the disobedient and the refractory one
terrible weapon, which she was loath to use, but which she occasionally
used with swift and tragic effect, the weapon of excommunication. Many a
modern historian or philosopher has smiled good-naturedly and in mild
contempt at this weapon used by the Church to frighten her children,
much as children are frightened by flaunting some horrid tale of ogre or
hobgoblin before them. Yet the student of history might profitably study
the use which the Church has made of such an instrument, and find in it
one of the most effective causes of social regeneration in the Middle
Ages.
The Church, in order to fight the military and armed excesses of
feudalism, employed many means. It is to her that we owe what is known
as the "Truce of God," or the enforced temporary suspension of
hostilities usually, from the sunset of each Wednesday to Monday
morning. Under pain of excommunication, during that interval, which at
several times was further extended so as to comprise the seasons of
Advent and Lent, and some of the major feasts, the sword might not be
drawn in private quarrel. From a decree of the Council of Elne, in the
South of France, we find that the "Truce of God," the "_Treuga Dei_" as
it was technically called, was in full honor and had reached the height
of its beneficent power in 1207. But long before, in the days when
Gregory VII was Pope, and William of Normandy had just won his English
crown, and Henry III ruled in Germany and Henry I in France, in the days
when feudalism was making its first attempts to bring order out of
chaos, several councils of the Church in France and in Normandy had
traced out the plan and the outlines of the "Truce of God." Earlier
even, at the Councils of Charroux (989), Narbonne (990), Le Puy and Anse
(990), severe penalties were pronounced against those who wantonly in
time of war destroyed the poor man's cattle or harried his fields, or
carried off his beasts of burden. "Leagues of Peace" were formed to
diminish the horrors of war, to protect the helpless, to enforce order.
The Council of Poitiers, where there is one of the earliest mentions of
these "Leagues of Peace," was held 1223 years ago. The Council of
Bourges in 1031 created a species of national militia to police the
rural districts and prevent war. Our ancestors believed in leagues with
"teeth in them." From France where the movement had its origin and
culminated at Elne (1207) in the full organization of the "Truce of
God," it spread eastward into Germany and Thuringia. The German duchies
and the Austrian marches submitted soon after to its humanitarian and
Christian code. In 1030, the Pope, the French and German princes united
their efforts for the development of the forerunners of the "Truce of
God," the conventions known as the "Peace of God." The Peace, the
earlier institution of the two, exempted from the evils of war,
churches, monasteries, clerics, children, pilgrims, husbandmen; the
cattle, the fields, the vineyards of the toiler; his instruments of
labor, his barns, his bakehouse, his milch cows, his goats and his fowl.
The Truce forbade war at certain "closed seasons." It gave angry
passions time to subside, and endeavored to discredit war by making
peace more desirable and its blessings more prolonged. It is probable
that the Council of Charroux already mentioned laid the germs of the
Truce. At the Council of Elne we see it fully organized. In 1139 the
Tenth General Council, the Second Lateran, gave in its eleventh Canon
its official approbation to what must be considered one of the most
beautiful institutions of the Middle Ages.
Under the guidance of our American author, George Henry Miles, we are
led back to the days of the eleventh century. He is an accurate and
picturesque chronicler of that iron, yet chivalrous age. If on the one
hand, we see the sinister figure of Henry IV of Germany, on the other we
find the austere but noble monk Hildebrand, who became Pope St. Gregory
VII. We hear the clash of swords drawn in private brawl and vendetta,
but see them put back into the scabbard at the sound of the church bells
that announce the beginning of the "Truce of God." The tale opens
beneath the arches of a Suabian forest, with Gilbert de Hers and Henry
de Stramen facing each other's swords as mortal foes; it closes with
Gilbert and Henry, now reconciled, kneeling at the tomb of the fair and
lovely Lady Margaret, their hates forgotten before the grave of
innocence and maidenly devotion, and learning from the hallowed memory
of the dead, the lesson of that forgiveness that makes us divine.
The American novelist, like the Italian Manzoni, teaches the lesson
inculcated in "The Betrothed" ("_I Promessi Sposi_"). It is a lesson
of forgiveness. It is noblest to forgive. Forgiveness is divine. Forgive
seventy times seventy times, again and again. In Manzoni's story, the
saintly Frederick Borromeo preaches and acts that sublime lesson in his
scene with the _Innominato_ with compelling eloquence. In "The Truce of
God," the Lady Margaret, the monk Omehr, the very woes of the Houses of
Hers and Stramen, the tragic madness of the unfortunate Bertha, the
blood shed in a senseless and passionate quarrel, the bells of the
sanctuary bidding the warring factions sheathe the sword, incessantly
proclaim the same duty. In writing his story, George Henry Miles was not
only painting for us a picture aglow with the life of olden times, but
pointing out in a masterly way, the historic rôle of the Church in
molding the manners of an entire generation.
The reader of "The Truce of God," in spite of the fact that the romance
seems to be sketched only in its broadest outlines, gets a distinct
knowledge of its chief actors. They live before his eyes. De Hers and
Stramen are not mere abstractions. They have the rugged, clear-cut
character, the sudden passions, the quick and at times dangerous and
savage impulses of the men of the eleventh century. In them the
barbarian has not yet been completely tamed. But neither has he been
given full rein. Somewhere in these hearts, there lurks a sentiment of
honor, of knighthood, which the Church of Christ has ennobled, and to
which the helpless and the innocent do not appeal in vain.
The American has caught this sentiment and plays upon it skillfully. His
setting is in keeping with his story. The wandering minstrel, the
turreted castle, the festive board, the high-vaulted hall with its oaken
rafters, the chase, the wide reaches of the forests of Franconia, the
beetling ramparts of old feudal castles by the Rhine or the lovely
shores of the Lake of Constance, the vineyards on the slopes of sunny
hills, the bannered squadrons, the din of battle, the crash of helm and
spear, are brought before us with dramatic power. Historic figures
appear on the scene. Close to the principal actors in the story, we see
the gallant Rodolph of Arles, Godefroi de Bouillon, Berchtold of
Carinthia, Hohenstaufen and Welf, acting their life drama at the council
board or on the field of battle. We see a woman and an old man, Mathilda
of Tuscany and Pope St. Gregory VII, slowly but surely building on the
foundations of a half-molded civilization the ramparts of the City of
God. "The Truce of God" is true to the requirements of the historical
romance. It summons before us a forgotten past, and makes it live. We
forget in the vitality and artistic grouping of the picture, in the
nobility of the author's purpose and the lasting moral effect of the
story, the occasional stiffness of the style. It is the style of the
refined scholar, perhaps also of the bookman and the too conscious
critic. Occasionally it lacks spontaneity, directness and naturalness.
It might unbend more and forget ceremony. But it is picturesque,
forcible, clear, and bears us along with its swing and dramatic
movement.
American Catholics must not forget the excellent work done by George
Henry Miles for the cause of Catholic literature, the more so as his
name is not infrequently omitted from many popular histories of American
literature. Yet the author of "The Truce of God" had mastered the story
teller's and the dramatist's art. "If there was ever a born
_littérateur_," writes Eugene L. Didier, in _The Catholic World_ for
May, 1881, "that man was George Henry Miles. His taste was pure,
exquisite and refined, his imagination was rich, vivid, and almost
oriental in its warmth." Moreover, he consecrated his life and his
talents to the cause of Catholic education, identifying himself for many
years with Mount St. Mary's College, Emmitsburg, Maryland, with whose
annals so much of the early history of the Catholic Church in the
United States, is closely linked.
The author of "The Truce of God" was born in Baltimore, July 31, 1824;
he died at Emmitsburg, July 23, 1872. In his twelfth year the lad
entered Mount St. Mary's College. Here he became a Catholic and had
afterwards the happiness of seeing his family follow him into the
Church. The studies at the "Mountain" in those days were still under the
magic and salutary spell of the venerable founder, Bishop Dubois, and
his followers. They were old fashioned, but they were solid, with the
classics of Greece and Rome, mathematics, philosophy and religion as
their foundation. They were eminently calculated to mold thinkers,
scholars and cultured Catholic gentlemen. They left a deep impression on
the young Marylander. After his graduation at the end of the scholastic
year, 1843, the law for a short while lured him away, to its digests,
its quiddits and quillets, abstracts and briefs. But it was putting
Pegasus in pound. Miles at a lawyer's task was as much out of place as
Edgar Allan Poe was when mounting guard as a cadet at West Point, or
Charles Lamb with a quill behind his ear balancing his ledger in India
House. The Mountain and the Muses lured him back to Emmitsburg, where a
short distance from the college gate, in the quiet retreat of
Thornbrook, he settled to his books and a professor's tasks at the
Mount. Close by were the lovely haunts of La Salette, Hillside, Loretto,
Tanglewood, Andorra, Mt. Carmel, every little cottage and garden,
eloquent, it has been said, of the faith and piety of the builders of
the Mount, who breathed the spirit that thus baptized them ("The Story
of the Mountain. Mount St. Mary's College and Seminary, Emmitsburg,
Maryland." By the Rev. E. McSweeny. Vol. II, p. 102). For its historic
associations, its panorama of hills, wooded slopes and fields, the spot
could scarcely be matched within the wide amphitheater of the hills of
Maryland.
To Emmitsburg, to his "boys", the young professor of English literature
gave his enthusiasm, his idealism, his love of all that was fair in art
and the world of books. His enthusiasm inspired them with a love of
artistic excellence, which, neither in his own work, nor in that of his
pupils would tolerate anything commonplace. Before coming to Thornbrook,
he had written "The Truce of God," first published as a serial in the
_United States Catholic Magazine_, established by John Murphy of
Baltimore, and which under the editorship of Bishop Martin John Spalding
and the Rev. Charles I. White achieved a national reputation. Two other
tales, "Loretto," and the "Governess," had also been published and were
extremely popular. Like "The Truce of God," they were of the purest
moral tone, elegant in diction, the work of a thorough literary
craftsman. In 1850, the American actor, Edwin Forrest, offered a prize
of $1,000.00 for the best drama written by an American. Miles easily
carried off the reward with his play "Mohammed." Rich with all the
colors of the East, glowing with the warmth and poetry of Arabian
romance and story, "Mohammed" was rather the work of a thinker and a
poet than of a master dramatist. It was never acted, Forrest himself
judging that it had not that ebb and flow of passion, nor that strong
presentation of character which of all things are so necessary for the
stage. Yet in other plays, notably in "_Señor Valiente_" and especially
in "_De Soto_," and "Mary's Birthday," Miles showed that in him the
dramatic note was not lacking, and in both he scored remarkable
successes.
From Baltimore, after he had left the pursuit of the law, and from
Thornbrook, close to the academic halls in which from 1859 he passed his
entire life, Miles seldom emerged into public notice. Twice he visited
Europe, his impressions of the second journey (1864) being recorded in
"Glimpses of Tuscany." In 1851 President Fillmore sent him on a
confidential mission to Madrid. That same year, John Howard Payne, the
loved singer of "Home, Sweet Home," was reinstated in his consulship of
Tunis. Like Miles, that wandering bard was a convert to the Catholic
Faith. But unlike Miles, he did not enter the Church until the very end
of his life, practically on his death bed. Catholics will be glad to
know that the song, "Home, Sweet Home," whose underlying melody Payne
caught from the lips of an Italian peasant girl, was written by one who,
after many strange wanderings, found "Home" at last in that Church which
is the mistress and inspirer of art. Like Payne, Miles captured the
fancy of his countrymen with one song, "Said the Rose," which at one
time was the most popular song in the United States. It has not the
depth and the melting tenderness of "Home, Sweet Home," but its quaint
fancy and melodious verse struck a responsive chord. In his "Inkerman,"
a stirring ballad, which every American boy of a former age knew by
heart, there was an echo of the "Lays of Ancient Rome," of the "Lays" of
Scott and Aytoun, while in the more ambitious "Christine" (1866), there
was the accent of the genuine poet, something that recalled the
"Christabel" of Coleridge. Miles had projected a series of studies on
the characters and plays of Shakespeare. Judging from two remaining
fragments, "Hamlet" and "Macbeth," the latter a mere outline, we regret
that the writer was not able to finish the task. To beauty of language
his study of "Hamlet" adds keen analytical powers and original views.
("An American Catholic Poet," _The Catholic World_. Vol. XXXIII, p. 145
ff.)
In the quiet churchyard on the slope of his beloved Mountain, in a
simple grave, over which the green hills of Maryland keep guard, not far
from the class-rooms and the chapel he loved, rest the mortal remains of
the author of "The Truce of God." It is not necessary to describe him.
Those who read this simple but romantic and stirring tale of the
eleventh century which he wrote three-quarters of a century ago, cannot
fail to catch the main features of the man. They will conclude that in
George Henry Miles, religion and art, the purest ideals of the Catholic
faith and the highest standards of culture and letters, are blended in
rare proportion.
JOHN C. REVILLE, S.J.,
_Editor-in-chief_.
THE TRUCE OF GOD
CHAPTER I
Of ancient deeds so long forgot;
Of feuds whose memory was not;
Of forests now laid waste and bare;
Of towers which harbor now the hare;
Of manners long since changed and gone;
Of chiefs who under their gray stone
So long had slept, that fickle fame
Hath blotted from her rolls their name.
SCOTT.
Reader! if your mind, harassed with the cares of a utilitarian age,
require an hour of recreation; if a legend of a far different and far
distant day have aught that can claim your sympathy or awaken your
attention; if the "Dark Ages" be to you Ages of Faith, or even lit with
the gray morning-light of civilization, come wander back with me beyond
the experimental revolution of the sixteenth century, to the time when
the Gothic temples of the living God were new.
It was the eleventh century: the sun shone as brightly then as now; ay,
and virtue too, though sympathy for a lustful tyrant has stamped the age
with infamy. Through an extensive forest in Suabia, as the old chronicle
from which I copy relates, a gallant youth was urging on, with voice and
rein, a steed that seemed as bold and fiery as his rider. The youth's
flashing eye, and the spear in his hand, told clearly enough that the
boar was before him. On he went, as if the forest were his element, now
bending low beneath the knotted bough, now swerving aside from the stern
old trunk which sturdily opposed his progress, and seemed to mock him as
he passed. On he went, as if danger were behind and safety before him;
as if he galloped to save his own life, not to risk it in taking a
boar's. An angry bark and a fearful howl rang in the distance, and the
hunter's bugle sounded a merry blast. On he went, faster than before,
and now as if he sought his mortal foe. The boar was at bay; monarch of
the wood, he had turned to defend his realm, and his white tusks were
soon red with the blood of the noble hounds who fearlessly disputed his
right. The youth leaped from his horse with the speed of thought. Bred
to the chase, the well-trained animal stood firm while his master
cautiously, but with the calmness of the victor of a hundred frays,
advanced against the bristling monster. Quitting the dogs for this new
assailant, the boar came madly on; the huntsman sank upon one knee, and
so true was his eye, and so firm his hand, that the heart of the savage
was cloven by the spear. The youth rose to his feet, dizzy from the
shock, and, springing nimbly upon the grim body of his prostrate victim,
his fine form swelling with the rapture of his recent triumph, brought
his horn to his lips, and again its notes went ringing merrily through
the woods.
Echoes, like fading memories, growing fainter and fainter as they
receded, gave the only response.
"Where can they be?" said the youth, "their steeds were fleet. Out of
sight and out of hearing! How completely I have beaten them."
He laughed triumphantly as he said this, and, sitting down upon the long
grass, began to caress an enormous hound that panted at his feet, as
unconcernedly as though the forest now contained nothing more formidable
than doves or lambs. His horse, thoroughly domesticated, strayed a
little from the dead boar, feeding as it went.
The youth took off his plumed bonnet, and, flinging back his long black
hair, fell into one of those light, smiling day-dreams which belong only
to the young and innocent. He built fifteen air-castles in as many
minutes. But at last he grew impatient; he sounded blast after blast;
still no answer came. The trees kept up their sleepy sigh, and the
sapless branches creaked, but no human voice, no human foot save his
own, broke the silence.
"Thou hast given me a goodly chase," exclaimed the youth, springing up
and addressing the boar, "and I shall wear this in remembrance of thee."
He drew his hunting-knife, and soon uprooted one of the monster's tusks.
Depositing the precious relic in a hunting pouch he wore at his side, he
mounted his horse, rather puzzled where to go.
"It is easier to get in this oaken field than to get out of it," said
our hunter, "but if the forest have an end, I'll find it. Now, my dear
loitering friends, we hunt each other."
Giving his horse the spur, and allowing the creature to choose its
course, he called on the lagging hounds, and dashed away as rapidly as
he had come. The wood was light as ever, and here and there sunbeam
lay, like a golden spear, along the ground yet the rich lustre of the
sky, wherever it was visible the hum of numberless insects, the fresh
flight of the awakened bird, and the freer and cooler breeze, warned the
youth that sunset was near. On went the noble steed, with steady step
and trembling nostril while his finely veined ears spoke so rapidly that
the rider could scarcely understand their language. They passed through
long lines of trees that opened into other lines, from one limited
horizon to another, yet all was green before and behind, to the right
and to the left, one interminable emerald. The light turned from a rich
gold to a golden red, and yet it played only on whispering leaves and on
the long grass at their feet. Still the youth felt no fear, but hummed
some old ballad, or drew a lively peal from his horn. He dismounted to
refresh himself at a spring that had nestled among some rocks, and was
murmuring there like a spoiled child. Having cared for the gallant
animal which had borne him so well, he stretched himself a moment upon
the green bank.
"Ha! what is that!" he exclaimed, bending forward to listen; "a
horseman? Let him come; friend or foe, I shall be glad to see him."
He was on his horse in a moment. As he turned to look behind, he saw a
gentleman, richly dressed, and admirably mounted, coming at full speed
from another quarter of the wood. The stranger was quite young, perhaps
a year or two older than our hunter, but certainly not over
twenty-three. The youth knit his brows as the horseman approached, and
eyed him keenly and sternly. When within a few yards of the spring, the
stranger dismounted and drew his sword. The youth did the same. His
handsome features were now distorted with anger and disdain, and it was
difficult to recognize in the fierce figure, that seemed the guardian
dragon of the fountain, the laughing boy who sat there so quietly a
moment before. The stranger appeared to return the bitter hatred.
"I have found you, Gilbert de Hers," he muttered; "your bugle has rung
your knell."
Gilbert replied but by a laugh of scorn, and the next instant their
swords gleamed in the air. But just as the two blades met with a sharp
clang, there came stealing through the wood the mellow sound of a
distant bell. It was like the voice of an angel forbidding strife. Those
soft, lingering notes seemed to have won a sweetness from the skies to
pour out upon the world, and, filling the space between field and cloud,
connected for a moment heaven and earth--for they wake in the heart of
man the same emotions more perfectly felt in paradise.
For many centuries after the destruction of the Roman Empire, when all
human institutions were swept away by the resistless torrent that poured
from the North, and the Church of God alone stood safe and firm, with
the rainbow of heaven around her, the stern warriors of Germany asserted
their rights, or redressed their wrongs with the sword, and scorned to
bow before the impotent decrees of a civil tribunal. A regular system of
private warfare gradually sprang up, which falsely led every man of
honor to revenge any real or fancied offence offered to any of his
kindred. The most deadly enmity frequently existed between neighboring
chiefs, and the bitter feeling was transmitted unimpaired from father to
son. The most dreadful consequences inevitably resulted from this fatal
installation of might in the outraged temple of justice. Until lately a
blind prejudice and a perverted history have charged this unfortunate
state of things to the pernicious influence of the Church of Rome. But
the wiser Protestants of the present day, considering it rather a poor
compliment to their faith to assign its birth to the sixteenth century,
are beginning to be awake to the powerful instrumentality of the
Christian Church in the regeneration of mankind, and the production of
modern civilization. Few, indeed, even with the light of history, can
form an adequate idea of the immensity of the task assigned to
Christianity in shedding light over the chaos that followed the
overthrow of Rome, in reducing it to order, and preparing the nicely
fitted elements of modern Europe.
The Catholic Church beheld, and bitterly deplored, the evils of private
warfare. Council after council fulminated its decrees against the
pernicious system; men were exhorted by the sacred relics of the Saints
to extinguish their animosities, and abstain from violence. But the
custom had taken deep root; for, in the language of a well-known
Protestant historian, "it flattered the pride of the nobles, and
gratified their favorite passions." But in the eleventh century the
Church had gained a partial victory over the dearest appetites of the
fiery Frank and the warlike Saxon. It was enacted, under pain of
excommunication, that private warfare should cease from the sunset of
Wednesday to the morning of Monday, and few were hardy enough to expose
themselves to the penalty. The respite from hostilities which followed
was called the "Truce of God."
It was not the musical voice of the bell that made Gilbert de Hers pause
on the very threshold of the struggle, and bite his lip until it grew
white; but the sweet-toned bell announced the sunset of Wednesday. The
young men stood gazing at each other, as though some spell had
transformed them into stone. But the messenger of peace had stayed the
uplifted sword, and, sheathing their unstained weapons, they knelt upon
the green carpet beneath them, and put forth the same prayer to the same
God.
It is a sight that may well command the eyes of Angels, when, though
deaf to earthly laws and considerations, the angry heart, in the first
heat of its wild career, still stops obedient to the voice of religion.
Amid the dross of human frailty, the pure metal shines with the lustre
that surrounds the sinner in the morning of his conversion.
They rose almost together, and their faces, so lately flushed with
anger, were now calm and subdued.
"Farewell! Henry de Stramen," said Gilbert, as he leaped into the
saddle.
"Farewell!" replied his antagonist, and, almost side by side, they
proceeded in the direction of the bell.
A deadly feud was raging between the families of Hers and Stramen. It
had continued for more than twenty years, and now burned with unabated
fury. It originated in some dispute between Gilbert's father and the
Lord Robert de Stramen, Henry's uncle, which resulted in the death of
the latter. The Baron of Hers was charged with the murder, and, though
he persisted in declaring his innocence, Henry's impetuous father, the
Lord Sandrit de Stramen, swore over the dead body of his brother to take
a bitter revenge on the Baron of Hers and all his line. Henry de Stramen
had been nursed in the bitterest hostility to all who bore the name of
Hers, and the unrelenting persecution of the Lord Sandrit had made
Gilbert detest most cordially the house of Stramen. It was with mutual
hatred, then, that the two young men had met at the spring. They knew
each other well, for they had often fought hand to hand, with their
kinsmen and serfs around them. Now they were alone, and what a triumph
would be the victor's! but the bell, the Tell of peace, the
silver-tongued herald of the truce of God, had sheathed their weapons.
It could not have been without a severe struggle that the two mortal
foes rode quietly in the same direction, with but a few yards between
them. They were not half an hour in the saddle when they discovered the
spire of the church they were both in search of, rising gracefully above
the trees. As they emerged from the forest, they could see stretching
before them a broad expanse of hill and dale, wood and field. Scattered
here and there were the humble dwellings of the forester and husbandman,
and, from their midst, towering above them, like Jupiter among the
demigods, stately and stern rose the old castle of the house of Stramen.
The western sky was still bathed in light, and shared its glories with
the earth; airy clouds, ever changing their hues, sported, like
chameleons, on the horizon; the stream that wound around the castle
seemed sheeted with polished silver: the herds and flocks were all
still, and the voice of the birds was the only sound; and, amid this
beauty and repose, how lovely and majestic was that finely moulded
Gothic church!
Henry de Stramen tied his horse to a tree, and was soon lost in the
elegantly carved doorway. Gilbert paused a moment, and gazed upon the
open country before him with very mingled emotions. He had been there
before at the head of his clan to disturb the serenity which, in spite
of himself, was now softening his heart. He did not linger long, but led
his horse a little within the woods, and entered the church. The
gray-headed priest at the altar was solemnly chanting, from the
beautiful liturgy of the Church, as he knelt down on the hard aisle, and
the branching ceiling seemed to catch and repeat the notes. Through the
stained window, where was pictured in unfading colors many a scene
suggesting the goodness and mercy of God, and the blessed tidings of
salvation, came the fading light of day, softened and beautiful. It was
not merely the superior genius of the age that made the chapels and
cathedrals of the Ages of Faith so immensely superior to the creations
of the present day, but its piety too; that generous and pure devotion
which induced our ancestors to employ their best faculties and richest
treasures in preparing an abode as worthy as earth could make it of the
presence of the Son of God. Then the house of the minister was not more
splendid than his church, his sideboard not more valuable than the
altar.
Gilbert saw around him the hard, sunburnt features, the stalwart forms
he had marked in the desperate fray; he could touch the hands, now
clasped in prayer, that had been so often raised against him in anger.
Beside him knelt the maiden, with her brow all smooth and unfurrowed by
care, and the matron who, numbering more than double her years, had felt
more than treble her sorrows. The youth was deeply moved, as he gazed,
and thought he might have robbed that mother of her son, that wife of
her husband, that sister of a brother. Those gentle, melancholy beings
had never harmed him, and, perhaps, in a moment of passion, he had
deprived their existence of half its sweetness, and turned their smiles
to tears. It was with an aching, an humbled heart that he bowed his head
until it touched the cold floor, when the Lamb without spot was elevated
for the adoration of the faithful.
A hymn, befitting the occasion, had been intoned, and the priest had
left the altar, but those fervent men and women did not hurry from the
church as if grateful for permission to retire, but lingered to meditate
and pray.
Gilbert remained until all had gone save Henry de Stramen and a lady who
knelt beside him. They rose at length, and, passing so close to Gilbert
that he could distinctly see their faces, left him alone. He was in the
act of rising when the priest appeared, and beckoned him into the
sacristy.
"Remain here," the old man said, taking the youth by the hand.
"I must hurry home, Father," replied Gilbert; "my father will have no
peace, thinking the boar has killed me."
"Let him fret awhile; it is better he should lament you alive, than dead
by the serfs of Stramen."
"They dare not attack me!" exclaimed the youth; "they fear the Church
and my own arm too much for that!"
"Nay, peace!" rejoined the priest; "it is better not to expose them to
the temptation, or you to the danger."
The practicability of spending the night in security in the very teeth
of Stramen Castle had not occurred to Gilbert; he hesitated a second or
two, and then, as if all his plans and ideas had undergone a thorough
revolution, gracefully promised obedience.
"You are right, Father," he said; "and to speak truth, I am weary
enough. If you promise me protection to-night, I will gladly rest my
head wherever you place the pillow."
"Those who sleep with me," whispered his venerable adviser, "must
content themselves without a pillow. But I will promise you a safe
couch, though it is a hard one; the softest beds are not always the
freest from danger. In the mean time, tarry here until I have said some
prayers."
"But my horse," interposed Gilbert.
His companion rang a small bell. A benevolent-looking man, somewhat past
the prime of life, plainly dressed in a black cassock, answered the
call. The priest conversed awhile with him, in an undertone, and then,
ascertaining from Gilbert where his horse was, dismissed the attendant,
remarking that the animal should not suffer.
Motioning Gilbert to a chair, the priest entered the sanctuary. Instead
of sitting down, the young noble leaned against a lancet window which
commanded a view of the neighboring castle. He stood there looking idly
upon the darkening prospect, until the appearance of two persons riding
rapidly along the main road to the castle, aroused his attention. He
followed them eagerly with his eyes until they were completely lost in
the twilight. One of the riders was evidently a woman; but it would be
inquiring too minutely into Gilbert's thoughts to determine whether that
circumstance, or the proneness of youth to become interested in trifles,
excited his curiosity.
Night was fast approaching, and a light from the altar made itself felt
throughout the church. Still the priest knelt before the sacred
tabernacle, and Gilbert longed for his appearance. He grew impatient of
being alone, when a companion was so near at hand; the place was
strange, and there were no well-known objects to stand in the place of
friends, supplying by the thousand associations they conjure up, and
their mute appeals to memory, the absence of language.
The minutes wore heavily on; but at length the priest entered the
sacristy. Gilbert followed him out of the church to a very small house a
few paces off, within the shadow of the wood. The house, which was but
one story high, was divided into two rooms by a stone partition. In the
back room slept the pastor of the church, Father Omehr. The front room
contained a table and a bench. Father Omehr, for this was the name of
Gilbert's companion, struck a light and made the young man sit down upon
the bench, while he spread out upon the table some fruit and bread and
wine.
"Eat, my son," said the old man; "the wine is good and the bread is
quite fresh. These grapes are better than any in Hers."
Gilbert seemed inclined to dispute the last assertion; but the length
and vigor of his repast strongly confirmed the opinion expressed by his
host. The latter remained standing with his arms folded on his breast,
and regarded the youth with a smile, as he indulged the keen appetite
sharpened by the severe exercise of the day. The meal was eaten in
silence, save an occasional entreaty from Gilbert to his entertainer to
partake of his own cheer, and the refusal. The little lamp between them
shone upon two noble faces: in spite of the great disparity between
their ages, they were alike; not so much in feature as in the character
of the head.
The priest must have been near seventy. The top of his head was entirely
bald; yet the little hair left him, which grew behind in a semicircle,
from ear to ear, was only sprinkled with gray. He was tall and admirably
formed for strength and agility; and though his cheek was pale and
sunken, and his high broad forehead ploughed by many a heavy line, still
in his eye and lips and nose were visible the relics of a splendid
creation. There was an expression of great energy about his mouth; his
whole face indicated intelligence and benevolence; and it was the actual
possession of this energy, intellect, and virtue that made Father Omehr
a worthy descendant of the noble emissaries of Adrian, who, ever in the
rear of Charlemagne's armies, healed by the Cross the wounds inflicted
by the sword, and drove forever from the forests of Germany the gloomy
and accursed rites of Hesus and Taranis.
Gilbert de Hers was more than a fearless hunter and skilful soldier. He
had been carefully instructed by his confessor in the writings of the
Fathers--in logic, philosophy, and the classics; he had read the death
of Patroclus, and the episode of Nisus and Euryalus; he knew by heart
many of those beautiful hymns whose authors, in the spirit of Catholic
humility, had concealed their names. He was much beloved by all who knew
him and were permitted to love him. His charities were numerous and
unostentatious. Though scarcely twenty-one, his bearing, was bold and
manly; there was no disguise about his large black eyes; they spoke out
all his thoughts before his tongue could tell them. Apart from the great
beauty of his features, high thoughts had printed a language on his face
much more fascinating than mere regularity of feature. His very elegant
form did not promise extraordinary strength, yet he was as formidable to
his foes as welcome to his friends.
Gilbert rose at the conclusion of his rather protracted meal, and
declared he would remain seated no longer while his companion stood. The
priest carefully removed the remnants, after which he sat down upon the
bench, and obliged the youth to sit beside him.
"Now, my son," he said, "tell me what in the world has brought you here
alone?"
"No inclination of mine, my dear Father," replied Gilbert.
"Who has sent you then?"
"I am sent by chance," answered Gilbert, laughing. "Early this morning I
set out, with some twenty companions, in pursuit of a boar. I was better
mounted than they, and so was the boar, for he distanced them. When the
chase was at an end I found myself entirely alone, and could hear
nothing of my men. I did not know where I was; so I permitted my horse
to choose his own course, and by some accident he has brought me here."
Father Omehr listened attentively, and added, after a pause:
"It is well you came not yesterday. Did you meet any one in the wood?"
Gilbert felt the searching eye of his companion upon him, and related
with much embarrassment all that had happened at the spring.
"I knew he was in search of something to prey upon when he left me so
suddenly. That Henry de Stramen should thus pursue a boy!--fie! It is a
stain upon his manhood!"
Gilbert looked up in the speaker's face to ascertain if he were in
earnest.
"And but for that little bell, where should you be at this moment?"
"Here, Father, most likely!"
This was said so calmly and maliciously, that Father Omehr could not
repress a smile. But it quickly vanished, and left behind an expression
of deep sorrow.
"And must this fatal feud last forever?" was his passionate exclamation;
"are ye ever to revel in carnage, like the lion of the desert--and shall
the example of the Son of God inspire nothing but contempt for those who
imitate Him?"
The missionary buried his face in his hands, and Gilbert, abashed by the
solemn rebuke, kept a respectful silence.
"O Gilbert! Gilbert!" resumed the priest, lifting his tearful eyes from
the ground, "if your God submitted to insult and stripes and death to
save you, can you not patiently endure for His sake a few slight
injuries?"
"Our injuries are not slight," replied the youth, "nor is the vengeance
of the house of Stramen an idle threat. They have burned the houses of
our serfs, desolated our fields, butchered our kinsmen and dependants;
shall we not protect ourselves, even though our resistance makes their
blood run freely? They have accused my father of a crime of which he is
innocent, and have sought to visit upon him real chastisement for the
imaginary murder. Shall I stand still and tamely see them wreak their
most unrighteous wrath upon my guiltless parent's head?"
"I should be glad, my son, if you confined yourselves to mere
resistance; but how often have you inflicted, within sight of this very
door, the injuries of which you complain? Could you see what I see--the
orphan's piteous face, the widowed mother's tear of agony--blighted
hopes and unavailing regrets--you might pause in your fearful
retaliation!"
"They have brought it on themselves," said Gilbert, musing, "_they_ are
the aggressors."
"Alas! be not the means by which their sins are aggravated."
"You must address yourself to them!" returned the other.
"And have I not? Day and night I have reasoned, implored, prayed; I have
represented the folly, injustice, and impiety of their violence; I have
held out to them the anger of God and the maledictions of man; I have
employed art, eloquence, and reproof: but all in vain. Oh, what years of
misery has your quarrel cost me! Could I only live to see it healed; to
see you once more living like Christian men, employed in atoning for
your own sins, not in arrogantly chastising each other's faults; to see
the sword of discord broken, and peace and love and safety proclaiming
the Divine efficacy of our holy religion! We all have enough to do to
vanquish ourselves, and have little time to spare in subduing others,
unless we aid them in conquering their passions, and then we promote our
salvation: but your conquests only peril your eternal welfare."
Gilbert understood from this last remark that his companion had read
what was passing in his mind, and he contented himself by saying:
"Believe me, Father, I regret their obstinacy."
"You are young now," pursued his monitor; "but, trust me, when your old
limbs fail you, and your sight waxes dim, your angry deeds will rise
like spectres around you and haunt you to the tomb."
Gilbert attempted no reply, but listened with the air of one who
approved the advice, but despaired of ever profiting by it. After an
interval of meditation, Father Omehr arose and spread some soft fleeces
in the corner of the room.
"May you sleep soundly, my son," he said, "and beg of God grace to
moderate your angry passions. Your bed is not very soft, but it is in
your power to sanctify it, and then it will be better than the down
which muffles those who disdain or neglect to invoke the Divine
protection."
Gilbert knelt down and received the old man's blessing, who, wishing him
a good night, withdrew into his own apartment and closed the door.