II

We may now skip eleven hundred and thirty or forty years, which brings

us down to enlightened Christian times and the troubled days of King

Stephen of England. The augur has had his day and has been long ago

forgotten; the priest had fallen heir to his trade.

King Henry is dead; Stephen, that bold and outrageous person, comes

flying over from Normandy to steal the throne from Henry’s daughter. He

accomplished his crime, and Henry of Huntington, a priest of high

degree, mourns over it in his Chronicle. The Archbishop of Canterbury

consecrated Stephen: “wherefore the Lord visited the Archbishop with

the same judgment which he had inflicted upon him who struck Jeremiah

the great priest: he died within a year.”

Stephen’s was the greater offense, but Stephen could wait; not so the

Archbishop, apparently.

The kingdom was a prey to intestine wars; slaughter, fire, and rapine

spread ruin throughout the land; cries of distress, horror, and woe

rose in every quarter.

That was the result of Stephen’s crime. These unspeakable conditions

continued during nineteen years. Then Stephen died as comfortably as

any man ever did, and was honorably buried. It makes one pity the poor

Archbishop, and wish that he, too, could have been let off as

leniently. How did Henry of Huntington know that the Archbishop was

sent to his grave by judgment of God for consecrating Stephen? He does

not explain. Neither does he explain why Stephen was awarded a

pleasanter death than he was entitled to, while the aged King Henry,

his predecessor, who had ruled England thirty-five years to the

people’s strongly worded satisfaction, was condemned to close his life

in circumstances most distinctly unpleasant, inconvenient, and

disagreeable. His was probably the most uninspiring funeral that is set

down in history. There is not a detail about it that is attractive. It

seems to have been just the funeral for Stephen, and even at this

far-distant day it is matter of just regret that by an indiscretion the

wrong man got it.

Whenever God punishes a man, Henry of Huntington knows why it was done,

and tells us; and his pen is eloquent with admiration; but when a man

has earned punishment, and escapes, he does not explain. He is

evidently puzzled, but he does not say anything. I think it is often

apparent that he is pained by these discrepancies, but loyally tries

his best not to show it. When he cannot praise, he delivers himself of

a silence so marked that a suspicious person could mistake it for

suppressed criticism. However, he has plenty of opportunities to feel

contented with the way things go—his book is full of them.

King David of Scotland... under color of religion caused his followers

to deal most barbarously with the English. They ripped open women,

tossed children on the points of spears, butchered priests at the

altars, and, cutting off the heads from the images on crucifixes,

placed them on the bodies of the slain, while in exchange they fixed on

the crucifixes the heads of their victims. Wherever the Scots came,

there was the same scene of horror and cruelty: women shrieking, old

men lamenting, amid the groans of the dying and the despair of the

living.

But the English got the victory.

Then the chief of the men of Lothian fell, pierced by an arrow, and all

his followers were put to flight. For the Almighty was offended at them

and their strength was rent like a cobweb.

Offended at them for what? For committing those fearful butcheries? No,

for that was the common custom on both sides, and not open to

criticism. Then was it for doing the butcheries “under cover of

religion”? No, that was not it; religious feeling was often expressed

in that fervent way all through those old centuries. The truth is, He

was not offended at “them” at all; He was only offended at their king,

who had been false to an oath. Then why did not He put the punishment

upon the king instead of upon “them”? It is a difficult question. One

can see by the Chronicle that the “judgments” fell rather customarily

upon the wrong person, but Henry of Huntington does not explain why.

Here is one that went true; the chronicler’s satisfaction in it is not

hidden:

In the month of August, Providence displayed its justice in a

remarkable manner; for two of the nobles who had converted monasteries

into fortifications, expelling the monks, their sin being the same, met

with a similar punishment. Robert Marmion was one, Godfrey de

Mandeville the other. Robert Marmion, issuing forth against the enemy,

was slain under the walls of the monastery, being the only one who

fell, though he was surrounded by his troops. Dying excommunicated, he

became subject to death everlasting. In like manner Earl Godfrey was

singled out among his followers, and shot with an arrow by a common

foot-soldier. He made light of the wound, but he died of it in a few

days, under excommunication. See here the like judgment of God,

memorable through all ages!

This exaltation jars upon me; not because of the death of the men, for

they deserved that, but because it is death eternal, in white-hot fire

and flame. It makes my flesh crawl. I have not known more than three

men, or perhaps four, in my whole lifetime, whom I would rejoice to see

writhing in those fires for even a year, let alone forever. I believe I

would relent before the year was up, and get them out if I could. I

think that in the long run, if a man’s wife and babies, who had not

harmed me, should come crying and pleading, I couldn’t stand it; I know

I should forgive him and let him go, even if he had violated a

monastery. Henry of Huntington has been watching Godfrey and Marmion

for nearly seven hundred and fifty years, now, but I couldn’t do it, I

know I couldn’t. I am soft and gentle in my nature, and I should have

forgiven them seventy-and-seven times, long ago. And I think God has;

but this is only an opinion, and not authoritative, like Henry of

Huntington’s interpretations. I could learn to interpret, but I have

never tried; I get so little time.

All through his book Henry exhibits his familiarity with the intentions

of God, and with the reasons for his intentions. Sometimes—very often,

in fact—the act follows the intention after such a wide interval of

time that one wonders how Henry could fit one act out of a hundred to

one intention out of a hundred and get the thing right every time when

there was such abundant choice among acts and intentions. Sometimes a

man offends the Deity with a crime, and is punished for it thirty years

later; meantime he has committed a million other crimes: no matter,

Henry can pick out the one that brought the worms. Worms were generally

used in those days for the slaying of particularly wicked people. This

has gone out, now, but in old times it was a favorite. It always

indicated a case of “wrath.” For instance:

... the just God avenging Robert Fitzhilderbrand’s perfidy, a worm grew

in his vitals, which gradually gnawing its way through his intestines

fattened on the abandoned man till, tortured with excruciating

sufferings and venting himself in bitter moans, he was by a fitting

punishment brought to his end.—(P. 400.)

It was probably an alligator, but we cannot tell; we only know it was a

particular breed, and only used to convey wrath. Some authorities think

it was an ichthyosaurus, but there is much doubt.

However, one thing we do know; and that is that that worm had been due

years and years. Robert F. had violated a monastery once; he had

committed unprintable crimes since, and they had been permitted—under

disapproval—but the ravishment of the monastery had not been forgotten

nor forgiven, and the worm came at last.

Why were these reforms put off in this strange way? What was to be

gained by it? Did Henry of Huntington really know his facts, or was he

only guessing? Sometimes I am half persuaded that he is only a guesser,

and not a good one. The divine wisdom must surely be of the better

quality than he makes it out to be.

Five hundred years before Henry’s time some forecasts of the Lord’s

purposes were furnished by a pope, who perceived, by certain perfectly

trustworthy signs furnished by the Deity for the information of His

familiars, that the end of the world was

... about to come. But as this end of the world draws near many things

are at hand which have not before happened, as changes in the air,

terrible signs in the heavens, tempests out of the common order of the

seasons, wars, famines, pestilences, earthquakes in various places; all

which will not happen in our days, but after our days all will come to

pass.

Still, the end was so near that these signs were “sent before that we

may be careful for our souls and be found prepared to meet the

impending judgment.”

That was thirteen hundred years ago. This is really no improvement on

the work of the Roman augurs.