The Project Gutenberg eBook of Glimpses of the Dark Ages, by Anonymous

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.

CHAPTER I.

THE FALL OF ROME.

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.

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.

[7] Gibbon gives a full view of the state of Roman society, ch. xxxi. of his "Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire."

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.

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.

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.

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]

[2] See an able article on the Popular Mythology of the Middle Ages, Quarterly Review, vol. xxii. p. 356.

[10] Mabill. Ann. lib. liv. No. 101. See Giesler, Text Book of Ecclesiastical History, vol. ii. 124.

[12] Glaber Radulph, iv. c. 3. Giesler, Text Book of Ecclesiastical History, ii. 124.

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.

[5] We have adopted the vigorous translation of this letter in the Quarterly Review, vol. lviii. 437.

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.

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.

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.

[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

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.

[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.

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]

[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.

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."

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.

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.

Feudalism, as already intimated, reached its height in France, where we find it in its palmy pride, during the tenth and eleventh centuries. Had we travelled through the country at that time, we should have been especially struck with the vast number of castles scattered over the land. Within them were concentrated the elements of strength. Feudal owners were the captains, rulers, and magistrates of the age. These important personages might be divided into two classes, according to the nature of the fiefs which they held. The holders of royal fiefs formed the first class, the holders of arrière, or subordinate fiefs, formed the second class. The former comprised dukes, marquises, counts; the latter included those of the lesser barons, who were denominated châtelains, as having a right to occupy fortified houses. The latter class of nobles were dependent on the former, and stood to them in the relation of vassals; they again, in their turn, had a number of dependents, subject to their authority, and owing them military service. Each of these nobles was a sovereign in his own domain, the fountain of law, polity, and order. His superior lord did not interfere with him in his internal rule, but simply required from him certain external feudal services. Sovereignty in France had sunk, at this time, to a very low ebb, and retained but a shadow of authority. The kings of that country were then little more than nobles, holding fiefs of their own, subject to no superior; over their own territories they had complete feudal power, like other lords, but beyond that, their authority was feeble. A tie of supremacy scarcely more than a name—a memento of the past, resulting from the original grant of benefices by the crown, alone remained.

The noble, or aristocratic class, was not limited by the rank of secondary barons, who had the privilege of establishing themselves in their own castles. There were other persons deemed to be possessors of noble or gentle blood. Every knightly dependent belonged to the privileged order. "The distinct class of nobility became coextensive with the feudal tenures. For the military tenant, however poor, was subject to no tribute, no prestation, but service in the field;—he was the companion of his lord in the sports and feasting of his castle—the peer of his court: he fought on horseback—he was clad in a coat of mail—while the commonalty, if summoned at all to war, came on foot, and with no armour of defence. Every possessor of a fief was a gentleman, though he owned but a few acres of land, and furnished his slender contribution towards the equipment of a knight."[1] Members of all these noble classes were eligible to hold offices of state; but none beside them had this privilege, except the clergy. These advantages being hereditary, all marriages between the noble and the plebeian class were forbidden. Thus an immense aristocracy was formed, having no sympathies with the lower classes. Such of the latter who retained the name of freemen were chiefly the inhabitants of towns; beside these, were a few scattered allodialists and rural tenants, subject to certain pecuniary payments. The inhabitants of towns, were least dependent, and suffered least from feudal oppression; freemen in the country were quite at the mercy of their powerful military neighbours. Next to these were the villeins, or cultivators of the land, who were attached to the soil, but yet were permitted to hold property of their own; and below them came the serfs, who were in a state of abject slavery. The power of the lord over them was so absolute, that, in the language of a feudal law-book,[2] "he might take all they had, alive or dead, and imprison them when he pleased, being accountable to none but God." In this degraded class, slavery existed, in a form quite as revolting as we ever find it in the worst days of the Roman republic; though, perhaps, the power of the master was less severely exercised by the feudal lord than by the ancient patrician.

Thus, then, all power, political and civil, centred in the feudal aristocracy. They only were lords of the soil, and rulers of the state; property, military command, judicial authority, were all vested in them. The "people" had no political existence. The popular element of society, as developed in the ancient world, as seen in the Roman commonwealth, had perished in the convulsions which succeeded the fall of the empire; and the popular element of modern society had not yet appeared. Aristocracy had little or nothing to struggle with, either above or below it. The principle reigned in all its power; it exerted an unchecked influence. Yet it was not the union of the noble class that gave them strength. The feudal lords of the same rank were independent of each other, and assumed isolated positions. Entrenched within his own fortress, each stood aloof from the rest; and when they did meet, it was not unfrequently front to front, as enemies in the field. They inherited and displayed much of that spirit of proud individual independence which had burned in the bosom of their German ancestors: each one relied upon himself rather than upon his order; and thus they greatly differed from the aristocracies of ancient and modern times; in all of which we see a principle of union at work—a measure of personal importance, derived from association with others of the same class, and a measure of individual strength and influence, derived from a feeling of common interest.

In the feudal aristocracy were included the higher orders in the church—the prelates, and the abbots of large monasteries. The fiefs they held rendered them to all intents feudal lords, and the spirit and practice of the system were displayed by them in whatever related to their territorial possessions. They swore fealty to the king as the lord paramount, and divided their estates among vassals on military tenures, while at the same time they claimed and exercised in their own territory the same sort of civil jurisdiction as belonged to the temporal barons. Their sovereign demanded that they should equip a certain number of men for his service in war; and hence it was customary for an abbot to choose some baron in the character of "advocate," to lead the vassals of the monastic fiefs to battle, and generally to protect the interests of the abbey.

Having presented this brief outline of the distinctions of feudal society, we shall attempt a sketch of the forms, relations, and usages of feudal life, as exhibited in France, during the period of their most striking exemplification.

Let us, then, suppose ourselves carried back, through the interval of some eight or nine centuries, to one of the provinces of France. Let the reader's imagination supply the place of those powers of enchantment whose existence was fully believed at the time of which we treat. We land in France in the eleventh century, and fancy ourselves walking on the banks of a river skirted by hills and woods. Yonder, on the summit of the rising ground, stands a stern looking castle, just catching the beams of the setting sun. It is a building of some considerable size, constructed of stone. The outer wall is flanked by towers, and a fosse, or ditch, runs round the enclosure, and communicates with the river. The chief entrance is through a gateway in the wall, guarded on each side by a tower, and spanned by a plain semicircular arch. On entering the gate, we observe the iron points of the immense portcullis ready to fall, in case of the fortress being attacked. On entering the castle-yard, the lofty keep stands before us, appropriated as the residence of the feudal owner and his family. It is the very type of stability, but has no pretensions to architectural taste and display. Safety, not elegance, is what the lord of this rough dwelling regards. Many of the apartments in the keep are small, and all are comfortless. The windows are mere loopholes, through which the light of heaven struggles for admission. The great hall is the chief room in the baronial residence, where, seated on the dais at the upper end, the lordly owner presides at the table of his family and household, and sometimes entertains his guests with banquets and festivities, in accordance with the character of the age. Rude, for the most part, is the furniture which even the best of the apartments contain, and when the nearest approach is made to magnificence, there is little of ease or comfort associated with it. Let us ascend the battlements of the tower, and look over the surrounding country, diversified by field and flood, all of which, far as the eye can reach, and far beyond, is subject to the owner of this castle. Gazing on the prospect, we at length perceive the gleaming of lances among the trees that skirt the road up to the barbican, or entrance of the fortress; a band of horsemen, some in plain mailed armour, ride up to the gate. It is the lord and his retinue, just returned from the sovereign's court, where he has been doing homage for his barony.

It was a scene of splendour, characteristic of the times, which he witnessed there. At two seasons of the year, Easter and Christmas, the French king holds his court, when he appears robed in his regal mantle, glittering with gold, and adorned with his richly-jewelled crown. These occasions are made choice of for a display of royal magnificence before the vast crowd of barons, prelates, and state officers. The monarch entertains them with feasts, and bestows on them rich suits of raiment, (livrées—liveries,) suited to their rank and the season of the year. The king sits at table with his court, and is waited on by the great officers of the household: other acts of condescension and liberality are performed. Gifts are bestowed upon the royal favourites; heralds are sent among the concourse gathered together by the pageantries of the occasion, to shout the well-known "largesse;" and hanaps (cups) full of silver are scattered among the people.[3]

From such a scene has yonder baron just returned, and there, by a significant ceremony, he has sealed the feudal compact with his sovereign as liege lord. He has been doing homage and swearing fealty. His head was uncovered, his belt was ungirt, his sword and his spurs laid aside, while, kneeling, he placed his clasped hands within those of his lord, and swore to serve him with life and limb, and worldly honour, faithfully and loyally for ever. This done, the monarch, on his part, accepted the baron as his vassal, promised to protect his property and his person, and then sealed the compact with a royal kiss. Connected with all this was the act of investiture, by which the baron became possessed of his lands; it consisted in the monarch's delivering to him some type of the property, such as a stone, or the branch of a tree. A relief, as it is called—a sum equal to one year's produce of the estate—was paid at the time of the investiture. He now enters on his lordship over the surrounding domain. As we have already intimated, it is very extensive. It contains several other castles, inhabited by the holders of arriere fiefs. Over all the inhabitants of that territory, he is the ruler. His authority is real, while that of the king over him is merely nominal. He is bound by no laws which his sovereign may make, unless he give his consent; and it is very probable that he will never attend any of the royal councils, and, therefore, will not be brought under any legal obligation to regard the statutes enacted. He is subject to no taxes whatever—feudal aids, like those which we shall presently notice, as payable to himself from his vassals, are all the pecuniary tributes which he owes to his prince. Military service is the chief thing which he is required to render. The sovereign has no power over the baron's territory, either legislative or judicial; and the provinces of France are in truth separate states, among which a loose sort of federative connexion exists, at the head of which the monarch appears possessed of nominal, rather than virtual sovereignty. There are, however, certain moral obligations which ran through all the grades of the feudal relation, which he is bound by honour to observe.

He is bound not to divulge any secret with which his lord intrusts him, nor to conceal from him the traitorous designs of his enemies, nor to injure his person or property, nor to violate the honour of any of his family. Breaches of fidelity, in these respects, are deemed acts of the highest treason. Moreover, he is under obligation to give up his horse to his lord, in case he is dismounted in battle—to fight by his side to the last, and to go into captivity as a hostage for him when taken prisoner.

We have seen that the baron is supreme lord over the whole of his own territory; all the minor barons, knights, and tenants of every description are his vassals. They hold their lands of him on feudal conditions. He renders them protection, and they return allegiance and service. Without going so far as one of the castles held by the subordinate nobles in his domain, let us look a little at the relation borne to him by a neighbouring tenant, who holds what is termed a knight's fee, or such an extent of land as is sufficient to maintain a man-at-arms as well as his horse. An old vassal of that class, who has long tenanted the little estate which lies on the bank of the river, at no great distance from the castle, has lately died, and the property now comes to the eldest son; for, whatever might be the original nature of fiefs, whether revocable at pleasure or not, they have long since become, not merely estates for life, but hereditary possessions. The young man cannot enter on the enjoyment of the paternal lands without doing homage to his lord, and receiving investiture at his hands. He therefore enters the baron's presence, and passes through a ceremony similar to that which was performed a little while ago, when the baron himself became the vassal of his sovereign. Connected with the proceeding is the payment of the relief, which in this case, as in the former, amounts to one year's produce of the land. He is now in full possession of his fief, and may go his way and inherit the paternal domain.

Other pecuniary payments, in the shape of aids, as they are called, may, under certain circumstances, be exacted from the tenant. Whenever the baron's daughter, whom we saw just now walking on the parapet of the castle, her half-drawn veil blown aside by the evening breeze, shall be married to the young count, whom she was watching as he kissed and waved his hand on his prancing steed, and then vanished among the trees—whenever the eldest son, the heir of his father's estates and honours, shall be made a knight—or whenever it shall happen that the baron himself is taken captive, and a ransom is demanded for his release, the tenant will be bound to contribute pecuniary aids to his lord, which aids appear to be unfixed in their amount, and to depend much on the arbitrary will of the exactor.

Soon a quarrel breaks out between the baron and another noble, and as there is no common jurisdiction to decide the matter, in these times, when the royal authority over its vassals has sunk into utter inefficiency, an appeal is made to arms. It is one of the savage but boasted rights of the barons, that they are at liberty thus to settle their disputes by the sword. The vassals must be armed to attend their lord to the field, and, therefore, the young knight must mount his horse and follow his feudal master to the scene of conflict. Forty days' service may be demanded from all who hold a knight's fee; but the law as to the distance to which they are bound to follow their lord, is by no means fixed: according to the usage, in some baronies, the vassal is not bound to go beyond the limits of the lordship; in other cases, he must follow wherever his superior may lead, provided it be not more than a day's journey from home. Upon the knights in this barony, we will suppose, it is obligatory to attend upon their suzerain to a much greater distance. The battle has been fought—the victory gained: and now the knight returns to his home, and suspends his shield and helmet in the paternal hall.

Ere long, he receives another summons, not to perform the service of a soldier, but to discharge the functions of a judge. It has been noticed already that the baron has a legislative and judicial authority over his own territories; but it is necessary that his knightly vassals, who are peers of his court, should attend to aid his councils, and to unite with him in the decision of such cases as may be submitted to his tribunal. The assembled vassals may be seen standing about that little mound of earth in the court-yard, which is the place of justice, and there our young knight mingles among them. By this baron's court is possessed the power of life and death—or la haute justice, as it is called—a prerogative not confined to barons of the highest class, but extended to all châtelains, or possessors of castles, and sometimes even to the inferior nobility; an odd distinction, however, is kept up among them, in the form of the instrument of death which they employ, for the baron's gallows may have three posts, or supporters, the châtelains but two, and the inferior lord only one.

In the present instance, the court is summoned to determine a case of disputed civil right between two tenants. It is difficult to decide the point: the defendant impugns the statement of the plaintiff, declares him perjured, and, throwing down his gage, appeals to the judgment of God, and claims trial by combat. This practice has succeeded the trial by ordeal, and is of the same absurd and cruel character; for the man who, perhaps, has already been deprived of his rights, is now in danger of being deprived of life. The privilege of making this appeal extends still further, and even were the case adjudged by the baron's court, the party who conceived he had suffered wrong, might call his judges into the field, and decide the question by the sword. The wager of battle just thrown down by the defendant is accepted by his adversary, and the day of combat is appointed by the baron. They are to meet on horseback, accoutred as knights, for they are of gentle blood—were they plebeians, they would be armed with club and target. They must fight till one party is slain or cries for mercy. In the latter case the person who gives in will lose his cause, and be further subject to a fine. Women, ecclesiastics, and men above sixty years of age, may employ champions to assert their cause in the field of combat; but should the proxy yield, he is liable to have his right hand cut off.

One of the tenants of the baron wishes to part with his lands to a stranger, in other words, to alienate his fief. The assent of his lord is requisite. He has received his fief, it is supposed, for reasons relating to himself and family, at least his heart and arm are bound to his superior, and his service is not to be changed for that of another, who might be unwilling or unable to render it. By the law of France, the lord is entitled, upon every alienation made by the tenant, either to redeem the fief, by paying the purchase-money, or to claim a certain part of the value, by way of fine upon the change of tenancy.

Another event occurs. An old vassal dies, and leaves no one to inherit his lands. What becomes of his estate? It is escheated, to use the legal phrase, that is, it reverts to the lord. He is the fountain whence property and power emanate, and the reservoir to which, under these circumstances, they return.

The fiefs now described are regular and military; but before we leave the baron's domains we must glance at another development of the feudal principle. Among the horsemen whom we saw accompanying the baron to the castle there were certain retainers, holding land upon conditions different from those which we have just enumerated: and there are others filling domestic offices in his household, who, on that tenure, hold certain estates. Among the former, are the baron's marshal and master of the horse, who, by filling such offices, secure possession of some of the neighbouring fields. Among the latter are his cup-bearer and steward, who swell his retinue on state occasions, and receive their reward in landed property. By keeping up this kind of pomp, the baron emulates the splendour of the sovereign. Mechanical arts, also, are carried on in the castle, (coining money, for instance, which is one of the baronial rights,) and the workmen engaged in such occupations, like the rest of the baron's dependents, are repaid for their skill and toil by receiving lands on condition of their rendering these useful services.

Feudalism has also extended its influence over other persons than warriors and domestics, and over other things than landed estates. The fisherman mooring his bark on yonder bank of the river, and throwing out his nets, is a vassal of the lord, and holds as a fief the right of fishing in the stream, for which he pays certain dues; and the woodman, whose axe resounds in the neighbouring forest, possesses the right of cutting down the trees, upon condition of rendering some feudal service. The system has entered the church, and the priest of the village pays to his ecclesiastical superior an acknowledgment for the revenues he receives from baptisms, marriages, and the churching of women. In fact, society is pervaded by the spirit of feudalism. The state, the church, every thing takes a feudal form.

Such was feudalism in France, and its leading features are to be traced in the state of things prevalent in other European countries—in Germany, Spain, Italy, and England. The modifications it received, in each of these countries, we have not space to describe; but a brief account of the form which it took in our own land ought not to be omitted.

It was transplanted hither from Normandy, by William the Conqueror. Some customs of a feudal character existed here among our Anglo-Saxon ancestry, but they were not moulded into a system. The strong arm of William bent the English constitution into the feudal shape; but, happily, it had an elasticity as great as that of his own bow, and at length regained its wonted liberty. He took care to employ feudalism so as to make it subservient, as much as possible, to the establishment of his own authority, and so as to avoid the evils by which it beset and limited the French monarchy. In France the barons were almost independent sovereigns, and the king had but little power, save in his own immediate domains. But when William divided the broad lands of England among his followers, he innovated upon the French system. In France, it was held as a doctrine, that an oath of allegiance was due from the vassal to his immediate lord, and to no other. But William, as sagacious in the cabinet as he was valorous in the field, required that all the land-owners of England, whether sub-tenants, or tenants in chief, should swear fealty to him as their sovereign. In England, then, the vassal was not exclusively dependent on his lord; he was dependent also on his prince; hence, allegiance was divided, and consequently the barons' power was lessened. The judicial institutions of England were also different from those of France. In the latter country, the baron was the chief justice in his own province, and all were bound to submit to his authority; but in England, besides the baron's court, there were the old Saxon county courts, where the freeholders and the barons were required to assist the sheriffs in the administration of justice; and, supreme over the whole, there was the king's court, (whose judges were afterwards made itinerant,) appointed to give sentence even among the barons, and to receive appeals from the courts below; so that all judicial power was gradually drawn from the Anglo-Norman barons, and grasped by the strong hand of royalty. It is further to be observed, that the largest fiefs under the English crown, were far inferior in extent to some held under the crown of France; and that, while the latter were compact, the former were scattered through several counties. The English baronies were consequently far more feeble than those on the other side the channel, and hence our feudal monarchy under the Normans and the first Plantagenets was in a much more palmy state than the feudal monarchy of our neighbours under the early princes of the house of Capet. Louis VI. and VII. had but the shadow of royalty; the Williams and the early Henries grasped a real sceptre. It may seem inconsistent with this that at the period in question the French monarch ruled without a parliament, while the Norman princes convoked the peers of the realm to aid them in conducting affairs; but this very difference, in fact, arose from the independence of the French and the subjection of the English crown vassals. The barons of France cared not to attend upon the king's council, since no law emanating thence could bind them without their personal consent; but the barons of England were constrained to attend upon the royal summons, for if they remained absent, they were still bound to obey any laws that might be made. Another characteristic of English feudalism remains to be noticed. In addition to the usual feudal incidents, such as reliefs, fines, alienations, and aids, two other customs, which probably had before existed in Normandy, prevailed in England. These were, certain claims connected with wardship and marriage. The lord of the fief was the guardian of the heir during his minority; he had the custody of his person and his lands, without rendering any account of the use made of the profits. In the case of a male, the guardianship continued till the minor arrived at the age of twenty-one; in the case of a female, it terminated at the age of fourteen, when the young lady could marry, and her husband do suit and service for her. But before she attained that age, her lord could offer her in marriage to whom he pleased, provided it was without disparagement or inequality of rank; and if she refused the alliance, she had to forfeit from her estate just so much as the person to whom her hand had been offered would have given for the match. The penalty was still more severe if she married without the baron's consent; for, in that case, a fine, equal to double what an alliance with her was valued at, was exacted by her ruthless sovereign. In addition to all this, the feudal lord in England extended his authority over the daughters of all his vassals, not allowing any of them to be married but on condition of the payment of a certain sum; so that marriages yielded him an abundant harvest of revenue.

These incidents were, obviously, oppressive to no small degree. They fell with especial weight on the immediate tenants of the crown; and so intolerable were the exactions of royalty, so rapacious and unjust was the whole of the regal administration, from William to John, that, at length, the system could be endured no longer; and though, singly, the English barons might be weak, united, they formed an effectual breakwater against the proud surges of monarchical oppression, and obtained the grand palladium of English liberty, the great charter. That venerable instrument materially modified the feudal demands, limiting reliefs to a certain sum, restraining the wastes committed by guardians in chivalry, forbidding the disparagement of female wards in matrimony, and securing widows from compulsory marriages. Beside these special provisions, in reference to feudal claims, the principles of our constitution which are there laid down, such as the habeas corpus, trial by jury, and the necessity of the people's consent to their own taxation, tended to modify the working of feudalism; in short, they struck at its vital principle, drained out its very life blood, and left it slowly to expire. The charter was admirably contrived; its principles were slowly developed. "Its effect," says Mackintosh, "was not altogether unlike the grand process by which nature employs snows and frosts to cover her delicate germs, and to hinder them from rising above the earth, till the atmosphere has acquired the mild and equal temperature which insures them against blights."

Feudalism is a system which has borne a conspicuous part in the civilisation of Europe. It has left a visible impression on the laws and habits of our own country. We find its remains, we feel its lingering power in various directions. The lawyer traces its influence on our jurisprudence; the statesman sees its impress on our constitution; the antiquary recognises its relics in many of our customs; and the philosopher detects its spirit as an element in the mass of society, which has not yet lost all its power. As the disintegrated portions of primary rocks may be discovered in recently formed strata—as fragments of ancient structures may be sometimes seen wrought up in buildings of modern date; so portions of the feudal system may be discovered in our present laws and institutions, and may be seen staring forth in the political and social fabric of the present day.

Certain evils often attributed to feudalism did not spring from it. For instance, slavery was not its offspring, nor indeed an integral part of it. The lord and the vassal were the parties who formed the feudal relationship; and though the latter was not a freeman, according to our views, he was not a slave, but had certain personal and social rights, which his lord was bound to respect and preserve. Slavery of an abject kind existed in Europe long before the feudal system appeared. It existed in the free republic of Rome; in Greece, too, the cradle of liberty; and while Athens knelt at the shrine of freedom, and poets, and philosophers, and orators, were her ministering priests, there were thousands of slaves within the narrow limits of Attica. The Germans had slaves; the Saxons had slaves—all Europe had slaves. Feudalism found slavery in existence, and attached it to itself. The system was not inimical to it, but it did not create the evil.

In relation to the social disorders of the middle ages, the insecurity of property, the personal dangers, the robberies and cruelties which prevailed, it may be remarked, that the feudal system, if it did not quench them, did not kindle them; and if, in some cases, it should appear that the system fanned them into greater violence, it also appears that, in other cases, it checked their operation. The state of society, at the commencement of the feudal era, was most deplorable. It was disorganized and dissolved. The Roman empire was shattered to pieces. Monarchy made some abortive attempts to mould the scattered fragments of the social fabric into form, but failed. The kingdom of Charlemagne shone like a meteor, and vanished. The church sunk in ignorance and corruption. The religious power almost entirely left it. The times were awful. Men's hearts failed them because of fear. The moral heavens blazed with strange portents, and many cried, "The end of all things is at hand." Amidst all this disorder, the feudal principle was developing itself; on this scene of social strife and misery it had to work; this was the theatre of its operation, the field of its career; and when it terminated its course, it certainly left Europe better than at the beginning.

Mr. Hallam has shown that feudalism accomplished two great political results. In Germany, it stood in the way of the ambitious designs of an Otho and a Barbarossa, and prevented the establishment of a great empire,—a powerful despotism, crushing the seeds of commerce and liberty, and retarding, perhaps for ages, the progress of civilisation. In France, it prevented the dismemberment of the monarchy, and its reduction into a number of petty and despotic sovereignties; for "who can doubt that some of the counts of France would have thrown off all connexion with the crown, if the slight dependence of vassalage had not been substituted for legitimate subjection to a sovereign?"

As to its moral influence, it cannot be denied that feudalism nurtured fidelity and gratitude. It also inspired a sense of honour—far different, indeed, from a sense of duty, especially as it exists in a Christian's mind, and having in it much of lofty pride—yet it may be justly observed, "Was it not much that such honour could be felt, and its dictates obeyed in so tumultuous an age?" "Everything is to be measured according to its times."[1] And further, there can be little doubt that, in the interior of the old castles, where the baron, or knight, during intervals of peace, had no society but his own family, domestic life and the condition of women were in some instances improved, contributing toward the inspiration of that lofty and pure affection, which has shed so beautiful an influence over modern civilisation. The soft charities of home thus sprung up, like myrtles, among the dark wild rocks of feudal society, relieving and adorning them with its snow-white blossoms.

At the same time, it generated and sustained many unhallowed and anti-social habits and principles, especially, war, injustice, and revenge. The records of the middle ages contain the expression of sentiments, and the history of deeds of the most unchristian and revolting character. The worst passions of the human mind are seen playing around the system, like lightning around the summit of one of its hoary castles at midnight. If flowers are growing at the base, there are weeds of deadly poison too. It must be allowed also, that, as, a political system, it was most defective; it left almost everything to the mercy of the ruler, made no provision for the rights of the governed, supplied no constitutional guarantee for social order, and might easily prove an engine of oppression and cruelty to those who were so disposed to employ it.

It could, of necessity, last but for a season, being a transition state of things. It evidently contained the elements of its own dissolution, and nurtured a spirit of resistance which was sure at length to destroy it. On the whole, it was a rough process of discipline, tending to social improvement: and the thoughtful and devout mind will recognise in it, a course of things somewhat analogous to what obtains in the government of nature, whereby the tempest purifies the atmosphere, and the snows of winter prepare for the bloom of spring.

CHAPTER V.

THE TOWN.

Cities and towns are the grand theatres of civilisation. Its elements, it is true, have their place and their influence amidst rural scenes, but they commonly appear there as the reflection of what obtains in city life. It is of great importance, then, to take a view of the social condition of the towns and cities of Europe at that period, in order to estimate aright the character of European civilisation.

The era of the general enfranchisement of boroughs, when the elements of modern civilisation came into vigorous play, is coincident with the close of the period over which the present survey extends—it marks the eleventh and twelfth centuries; and, therefore, the state of towns previous to that grand civic awakening, is what chiefly demands attention in the present chapter.

The remains of the Roman municipalities obviously present themselves, as forming the first division. Rome herself stands at the head of these. "We find a considerable obscurity spread over the internal history of Rome, during the long period from the recovery of Italy by Belisarius, to the end of the eleventh century. The popes appear to have possessed some measure of temporal power, even while the city was professedly governed by the exarchs of Ravenna, in the name of the eastern empire. This power became more extensive after her separation from Constantinople. It was, however, subordinate to the undeniable sovereignty of the new imperial family, who were supposed to enter upon all the rights of their predecessors. There was always an imperial officer, or prefect, in that city, to render criminal justice; an oath of allegiance to the emperor was taken by the people; and upon an irregular election of a pope, a circumstance by no means unusual, the emperors held themselves entitled to interpose. But the spirit, and even the institutions of Rome were republican. Amidst the darkness of the tenth century, which no contemporary historian dissipates, we faintly distinguish the awful names of senate, consuls, and tribunes, the domestic magistracy of Rome. These shadows of past glory strike us at first with surprise; but there is no improbability in the supposition that a city so renowned and populous, and so happily sheltered from the usurpation of the Lombards, might have preserved, or might afterwards establish a kind of municipal government which it would be natural to dignify with those august titles of antiquity."[1] There can be no doubt that through the whole period of the dark ages a lingering attachment was felt by the citizens of Rome to their ancient institutions—an attachment which local traditions of bygone glory, historical associations connected with the very soil on which they trod, and the mutilated yet magnificent remains of the ancient structures which graced the forum, could not but keep alive.

Some considerable degree of architectural splendour must have distinguished the papal city, at least from the time of Charlemagne. It is described by Eginhard, in a letter to Alcuin, the emperor's friend, as surrounded by walls, defended by three hundred and eighty-seven towers, and as presenting a very imposing appearance from the lofty castles erected by the nobles upon the hills, and along the Tiber. He especially dwells upon the ecclesiastical structures which adorned the city, consisting of colleges, monasteries, and churches; the latter of which, according to his account, were enriched with a variety of most costly ornaments, which must have made a very glittering and attractive show to the citizens and the pilgrims who frequented the various shrines. The architecture of the period was of the Roman kind, and the churches were formed upon the model of the ancient basilicas, or courts of justice. They were generally in the shape of a parallelogram, with aisles formed by rows of columns, and a choir enclosed by rails; the upper end of the building being in a circular form, in which was fixed the bishop's throne. Pillars and marbles, the spoils of the ancient city, contributed to increase the magnificence of these structures, which also contained sacred vessels and other articles of gold, silver, and precious stones. The palace of the Lateran, and other edifices, were of considerable magnificence, and reflected, though, perhaps, but dimly, some of the splendour and luxury of imperial times. The arts never perished in Italy. Architecture, sculpture, painting, and music always found some patronage in Rome, as the handmaids of her religious worship; though the taste and genius which they displayed were very low.

The habits of the upper classes in the city, and especially of the papal court, towards the latter part of the period we embrace, were doubtless as expensive and luxurious as prevailed in any part of Europe at that time, perhaps more so; but still we must not form our notions of them from the standard of luxury in the present day. At a time when the manufacture of linen had made but little progress, and articles of that material for clothing and for domestic use were little known; when monarchs were content to lie on beds of litter; when eating with forks was thought to be a species of most ridiculous refinement, and a comb of ivory, or bone, was deemed a rare and curious instrument—all of which was the case in the twelfth century—habits then esteemed luxurious must have been rude in comparison with those which now prevail.

The lower orders of Rome were, throughout the dark ages, in a state of deep social degradation, and must have experienced a very great degree of misery; for a sad catalogue of oppressions, tumults, outrages, robberies, and diseases, mark the history of the city for many centuries. The morals of all classes were most depraved; the nobles and highest ecclesiastics were generally corrupt and licentious; the character of many of the popes was vile in the extreme; and moral influences were shed over the population, by the men who called themselves the heads of the church, more pernicious than the deadly malaria that rose from the marshes round the city.

It has been already remarked, that in the Roman empire, at the time of its decline and fall, there were a number of cities formed upon the model of the parent municipality. When the Gothic nations passed the frontiers of the empire, and poured down upon these provinces, they swept over these cities, levelling their walls, plundering their treasures, and materially reducing their importance. They also diffused around them their own wild barbarian sentiments, infusing new elements of thought and feeling into the minds of men; but still the municipalities remained, for the most part, Roman in their form and spirit. The ancient magistrates gave place to new kinds of officers, such as dukes and counts, introduced by the conquerors; yet, in the documents of the middle ages, numerous instances may be found in which there is an evident regard for the official titles which belonged to the days of the empire.[2] Convocations of the senate, meetings of the curiæ, or Roman courts, for the administration of justice, and the laws of the imperial code, still obtained in the ancient towns; and the citizens of Metz, Cologne, and Treves, in the time of Charlemagne, proudly retained the remembrance, and carefully preserved the traces, of their Roman origin. The architecture of their churches and public buildings was on the Roman plan, and probably whatever branches of art remained beside, chiefly connected as they were with their religious worship, were cultivated according to the taste which prevailed in the mother city of Christendom.

The history of Roman towns, from the fifth to the tenth century, is, in general, a history of decline. They were wasted by war, and by the oppression of imperious lords. Their commercial spirit subsided, their resources diminished, and by the end of the time just mentioned they had reached their lowest point—the very nadir of civilisation. The Lombardic cities, however, did not suffer so much as the other municipalities in the empire. The barbarian influence there was not so strong, and they retained some wealth, commerce, and activity throughout the dark ages.

In the tenth century cities began to revive. Those in Lombardy, even in the ninth century, showed signs of returning prosperity. They rebuilt their walls, purchased or manufactured arms, addicted themselves more to commercial industry, and acquired some wealth; and, as a natural consequence of this, they felt the desirableness of self-government and self-defence. About the same time, the political institutions of the towns of Lombardy underwent a change. The bishops, in many instances, became counts or temporal governors of their sees. The citizens elected their own magistrates, subject to the approval of the bishops; the emperor—though not always without the consent of the people—appointing them to their sees, in consequence of the introduction of the feudal principle into the church, the prelates having become temporal lords and feudatories of the empire. The emperors also appointed commissioners or vicars for these towns, who there represented the imperial authority. The episcopal government in cities seems to have been favourable to the growing independence of the towns, the churchman, even if disposed, being by no means able to become so formidable an oppressor as the soldier, while the consent, at least, of the people, on his appointment, kept up a notion of their municipal importance. During, and after the war of investitures, when the cities of Italy took part in the quarrel between the emperor and the pope, some arraying themselves on one side and some on another, they received an impulse which quickened their desire for independence.

A considerable mist rests over the morning of Italian liberty. The history of the rise of her republican cities is extremely obscure. They seem to have silently grown up, and to have gradually appropriated to themselves the prerogatives of sovereignty. We discern an increasing spirit of activity and independence among the people—the assembling of the citizens, at the sound of the great bell, in the square, or market-place, of the town, for consultation—their election of consuls, who had the charge of justice at home, and of war abroad—and the organization of militias for self-defence. In the eleventh century "the militia of every city was divided into separate bodies, according to local partitions, each led by a gonfaloniere, or standard-bearer. They fought on foot, and assembled round the carroccio, a heavy car drawn by oxen, and covered with the flags and armorial bearings of the city. A high pole rose in the middle of the car, bearing the colours and a Christ, which seemed to bless the army, with both arms extended. A priest said daily mass at an altar placed in front of the car. The trumpeters of the community, seated on the back part, sounded the charge and the retreat. It was Heribert, archbishop of Milan, contemporary of Conrad, the Salic, who invented this car in imitation of the ark of alliance, and caused it to be adopted at Milan. All the free cities of Italy followed the example: this sacred car intrusted to the guardianship of the militia gave them weight and confidence." "It was from A.D. 900 to A.D. 1200, that the most prodigious works were undertaken and accomplished by the towns of Italy. They began by surrounding themselves with thick walls, ditches, towers, and counter-guards at the gates—immense works which a patriotism ready for every sacrifice could alone accomplish. The maritime towns, at the same time, constructed their ports, quays, canals, and custom-houses, which served also as vast magazines for commerce. Every city built public palaces for the signora, or municipal magistrates, and prisons, and constructed also temples, which, to this day, fill us with admiration by their grandeur and magnificence. These three regenerating centuries gave an impulse to architecture, which soon awakened the other fine arts."[1] Yet it must not be supposed that these renovated cities, in the early stages of their modern history, presented an unmingled scene of social advancement, prosperity, and happiness. Very far from it. In their struggles with the emperor of Germany for the establishment of their liberties, they endured sieges and sufferings the most heartrending; nor were they free from dissensions among themselves, and from acts of infamous oppression perpetrated by the strong upon the weak. While a city was fighting for its own liberties, it often invaded the rights of its neighbours; an implacable spirit strongly marked the private habits of the citizens; sufficient security for human life was not provided, the moral condition of the mass of the people was degraded; peace was made the prey of faction, and, in too many cases, the blossoms of freedom, which might have set into precious fruit, "went up as dust."

There were some Italian cities, especially Amalfi and Venice, which, in consequence of their dependence on the eastern emperors, their relations and intercourse with Constantinople, and their commercial activity, differed in their social condition from the cities of Lombardy. They were decidedly in advance of their neighbours—civilisation there made more rapid strides and reflected some tinge of orientalism. Amalfi shines with conspicuous lustre from the sixth to the twelfth century, when its glory was extinguished by the Norman king of the Sicilies. There can be no doubt that its commercial intercourse with Constantinople, where eastern luxury prevailed, in the middle ages, and the trade which it carried on with the Saracens, who were the chief cultivators of the arts and sciences during that period, tended to raise the city of Amalfi, as it relates to artistic civilisation, to a proud position. Some additional refinement might probably be imparted to it, by its close vicinity to Salerno, which was only seven miles distant, where learning was cultivated, and a school of medicine established—the first of the kind in Europe.

But the lustre of Amalfi is eclipsed by that of Venice, which, if at an earlier period she were inferior, at a later period vastly surpassed her rival in commercial greatness. Formed by bands of refugees who fled from the sword of Alaric and Attila to the lagoons, which spread at the extremity of the Adriatic gulf, this city of the waters rose till she became the ocean queen. For a hundred years, Venice consisted only of some scattered fishers' huts, like the nests of aquatic fowls, on the shifting sands, protected by slender fences of twisted osiers.[2] The population was supported by fishing, the making of salt, and some other humble manufactures; and probably the insignificance of the infant republic preserved her from the attacks of enemies, and from the oppression of the eastern emperors, to whom she owed subjection. Her earliest form of government was essentially democratic, for tribunes elected by the people ruled her affairs; but owing to the factions and jealousies which arose among them it was resolved, at the close of the seventh century, that one chief magistrate, called a doge, should be elected by the people, who should be invested with sovereign authority, and should choose inferior officers. Many were the civil commotions of Venice under this form of government; and out of about forty of her citizens who successively wore the ducal bonnet, nearly half were killed, deprived of sight, or banished. Yet, withal, Venice went on growing in importance, wealth, and power, and as we look upon her history, a sort of magical effect is produced, somewhat like a dissolving view. The huts on her lagoon became palaces; her humble boats, splendid argosies; her fishermen, princes; and her traffickers the honourable of the earth.

"And whence the talisman whereby she rose
Towering? It was found there in the barren sea.
Want led to enterprise; and far or near
Who met not the Venetian?"

In the tenth and eleventh centuries, Venice presented the picture of a rich and prosperous commercial city, though still far inferior to what she afterwards became. She could boast, even a century earlier, of the commencement of the famous church of St. Mark, with its five hundred columns of marble,—an edifice, built on the Byzantine model of architecture, and showing the influence of eastern example upon the opening taste of the Venetian people. Saracenic luxuries and arts also began to flow into Venice, and before the close of the period under review, she sent forth her fleets, which returned to the lagoons, after anchoring in the port of the Egyptian Caliph; and the Arabian maiden wove the rich sandal of silk and gold which arrayed her priests, when they prayed before the altar.[3] There might then be seen the brides of Venice with ostrich plumes, and "veils transparent as the gossamer, and jewelled chains in many a winding wreath, wreathing a gold brocade;" and her youthful sons "walking with modest dignity, folding their scarlet mantle," and her doge, gliding in a stately barge of gold, through the canals, while

"Old and young
Throng'd her three hundred bridges: the grave Turk
Turban'd, long vested; and the cozening Jew,
In yellow hat and threadbare gaberdine,
Hurrying along."[4]

Arms, silks, furs, fine linen, and other luxuries from the east, formed the staple commodities of the Venetian markets, and were supplied by her merchants to other parts of Italy. Indeed, almost all the commerce of Europe was carried on through the medium of Venice and Amalfi. But it should not be forgotten, that the amount of traffic there, at that period, compared with the commerce of modern times, must have been very limited, as neither these cities, nor any others in Europe, had any manufactures which they could exchange for the commodities of the east; and they were, therefore, limited to the export of their gold and silver in payment for their purchases. There was, indeed, another kind of traffic which these Venetians pursued, and it is, observes Hallam, "a humiliating proof of the degradation of Christendom, that they were reduced to purchase the luxuries of Asia, by supplying the slave-market of the Saracens. Their apology would, perhaps, have been that these were purchased of their heathen neighbours; but a slave-dealer was, probably, not very inquisitive as to the faith or origin of his victim." This abominable trade in human flesh and blood, must then, as ever, have brought a number of vices in its train, tending greatly to demoralize the Venetian merchants, so that, at an early period, the language of Scripture, in reference to Tyre, was applicable to Venice: "By the multitude of thy merchandise they have filled the midst of thee with violence, and thou hast sinned."

[4] Rogers' Italy. The poet thus describes the Costumes and luxury of the Venetians, in his beautiful tale of "The Brides of Venice," which belongs to the tenth century: perhaps the description more correctly applies to a somewhat later period.

But we must leave the Italian towns to look at the cities which sprang up in the northern parts of Europe. The Lombardic cities were Roman municipalities, keeping up a struggle for existence after the fall of the empire, and Venice and Amalfi were communities, which sprung up immediately upon that fall, imbibing some elements of Roman civilisation, intermingled with others of an oriental cast, derived from their dependence on the eastern emperors and their subsequent intercourse with the Saracens; but the cities to which attention is now to be directed, had their origin in feudal times; they arose amidst that state of disorder into which society was plunged by the inroads of the northern barbarians; they exhibited new developments of social life and manners; they derived their spirit of independence from the Gothic races who founded them; their progress was a struggle with their feudal lords, and their final establishment and prosperity secured the overthrow of the feudal system. The former were in a great measure but the reflection of ancient civilisation, the latter were the infant, but vigorous forms of modern civilisation. There we see the Roman city, here the German borough. The ancient Germans, according to Tacitus, had no cities. The people lived a wandering life, and when they settled anywhere for a time, they erected for themselves rude, detached, and scattered dwellings.[1] Long after the invasion of the south of Europe the Gothic tribes retained their uncitizenlike habits. "Till the reign of Charlemagne," observes Hallam, "there were no towns in Germany, except a few that had been erected on the Rhine and Danube by the Romans. A house with its stables and farm buildings, surrounded by a hedge, or inclosure, was called a court, or, as we find it in our law books, a curtilage—the toft, or homestead, of a more genuine English dialect. One of these, with the adjacent domain of arable fields and woods, had the name of a villa, or manse. Several manses composed a march, and several marches formed a pagus, or district. From these elements in the progress of population arose villages and towns." The character of these tofts, or homesteads, is well illustrated by a passage from Dr. Whitaker's History of Craven:—"A toft is a homestead in a village, so called from the small tufts of maple, elm, ash, and other wood, with which dwelling-houses were anciently overhung. Even now it is impossible to enter Craven without being struck with the isolated homesteads, surrounded by their little garths, and overhung with tufts of trees. These are the genuine tofts and crofts of our ancestors, with the substitution only of stone to the wooden crocks and thatched roofs of antiquity." The little towns which thus sprung up were subject of course to the feudal lord in whose domain they were situate; but, probably, the condition of their inhabitants was preferable to that of his dependents, who lived in the open country. Some small amount of manufacture and trade would necessarily arise in these infant communities, all of which doubtless had their weavers, smiths, and curriers, for the supply of garments and implements of husbandry to the rural labourers in the vicinity.[2]

Germs of civic communities also appeared, in many instances, under the immediate shadow of the feudal castle. Groups of serfs who tilled the neighbouring fields, and some few artisans who manufactured necessary articles for the household, gathered round the baronial abode, and formed a little village, out of which, in process of time, there arose a town of some importance. In a similar way, villages sprang up in the vicinity of convents; and no doubt, as Guizot has remarked, the progress of towns was considerably promoted by the right of sanctuary in churches. "Even before the boroughs were constituted, and before their force and ramparts enabled them to hold out an asylum to the wretched population of the fields, the protection which could be found in the church alone was sufficient to attract a great many fugitives into the towns. They came to shelter themselves, either in the church itself, or around the church; and they were not confined to men of the inferior class—serfs and boors—but were frequently men of consideration and wealth who had been proscribed. The chronicles of the epoch are full of such examples. We see men, formerly powerful, pursued by a neighbour yet more powerful, or by the king himself, abandoning their domains, carrying off all their movables, and flying to a town to put themselves under the protection of a church. These men became burgesses, and such refugees were, in my opinion, of some influence on the progress of towns, as they brought into them both wealth and the elements of a population superior to the bulk of the former inhabitants. Besides, is it not probable that, when anything like a considerable association had been formed in any quarter, men would flock to it, not only on account of the greater security afforded by it, but also from the mere spirit of sociability which is so natural to them."[3] Thus these towns became places of refuge; characters of all sorts, good and bad, those who fled from the oppressor, and those who sought to escape the avenger, were gathered together; and thus the rise of modern towns resembled the rise of ancient ones, and many a European city had an origin like that of Rome. "Many fled thither from the countries round about; those who had shed blood, and fled from the vengeance of the avenger of blood—those who were driven out from their own homes by their enemies, and even men of low degree who had run away from their lords. Thus the city became full of people."[4] Such was the commencement of the proud patrician families of Rome, and in like manner originated many a wealthy and noble family of merchants in modern times.

Till the ninth century, the people of Germany lived in open towns, or villages, under their feudal lords; but, at that period, the privilege of having walls began to be allowed. Hamburg was built, at that time, by Charlemagne, and was so distinguished; in the following century, a few more walled towns appeared on the banks of the Rhine and Danube, but their commerce was low and feeble. A charter was granted to Magdeburg, A.D. 940, "to build and fortify their city, and exercise municipal law therein;"[5] but the most northern parts of Germany could not boast of any towns till a later period. The first which was erected on the shores of the Baltic was Lubeck, which was founded, A.D. 1140, by Adolphus count of Holstein.[6]

In the Netherlands, the towns were in advance of those in Germany. In the tenth century, Thiel contained no less than fifty-five churches, from which it may be concluded that the population was very large. The people then had learned the art of draining their lands, and by the formation of dykes, they recovered from the waters extensive portions of territory. Habits of industry, union, and reciprocal justice were thus cherished, and the seeds of their subsequent commercial greatness sprang up in these Flemish communities. Their woollen manufactures, enabled them to trade with France, and thus to acquire considerable wealth, while their own population was clothed in good apparel.[7] Baldwin, count of Flanders, established annual fairs, or markets in the cities of his dominion, without demanding any tolls of the merchants who trafficked there. It was some time, however, before any of these towns could boast of much that was imposing in their appearance. The houses, in the ninth, century, were made of watlings of rods, or twigs plastered over with clay, and roofed with thatch, which, as trade advanced, gave way, no doubt, to habitations of a better order. But wood long remained the chief material in the construction of edifices, even of the superior order. As late as the eleventh century, buildings of stone were rare; and the parish church and the city bridges were commonly of timber.

The noble cathedral of Tournay, bearing evident traces of resemblance to the Byzantine architecture, is, however, a proof that, at an early period, there were edifices to be found in the Netherlands of great magnificence. It is interesting to look at these communities in their earlier history, located on the borders of vast forests, and in the midst of wide-spread marshes, contending with the difficulties of their situation, patiently laying the foundations of commercial greatness and renown, and teaching posterity what can be accomplished by earnest enterprising industry.

Some of the cities of the Netherlands were subject to episcopal jurisdiction, and the bishops of Liege, Utrecht, and Tournay, are distinguished in the annals of the middle ages; but other cities were subject to the counts of the province in which they were situate. Yet, at an early period, the shrewd people of that commercial country banded together for mutual protection and assistance, under the forms of guilds, or fraternities, which prepared for the municipal corporations of later times: and, in the case of the Frisons, or people of Friesland, they secured for themselves very considerable rights in the ninth century. These rights consisted in the freedom of every order of citizens, the possession of property, the privilege of trial by their own judges, a narrow limitation of military service, and an hereditary title to feudal estates, in direct line, on payment of certain dues. These rights formed the Magna Charta of the Frieslanders, and gave them a proud distinction among their neighbours.

With regard to the cities of France, Mr. Hallam remarks: "Every town, except within the royal domain, was subject to some lord. In episcopal cities, the bishop possessed a considerable authority, and in many there was a class of resident nobility. It is probable that the proportion of freemen was always greater than in the country; some sort of retail trade and even of manufacture, must have existed in the rudest of the middle ages; and, consequently, some little capital was required for their exercise. Nor is it so easy to oppress a collected body as the dispersed and dispirited cultivators of the soil: probably, therefore, the condition of the towns was, at all times, by far the more tolerable servitude, and they might enjoy several immunities by usage before the date of those charters which gave them sanction. In Provence, where the feudal star shone with a less powerful ray, the cities, though not independently governed, were more flourishing than the French. Marseilles, in the beginning of the twelfth age, was able to equip powerful navies, and to share in the wars of Genoa and Pisa against the Saracens of Sardinia."

If Paris is to be taken as a sample of the towns of France, before the twelfth century, they must have been in a deplorable condition of filth and wretchedness. The swine were accustomed to wallow in the streets of this metropolis, until a prince of the blood was thrown from his horse, in consequence of a sow running between the legs of the animal. To prevent the recurrence of such accidents, an order was issued to prohibit the swinish multitude from infesting the public thoroughfares of the city. But the monks of St. Antony remonstrated at this—the pigs of their monastery having had, from time immemorial, the privilege of frequenting, at liberty, every part of the towns, of feeding on such scraps and offal as they could find, and of reposing on the choice beds of mire which covered certain spots in the great highway. The monks were not to be resisted; and, at length, there was granted to the swine of their convent, the exclusive privilege of roaming about the Parisian streets without molestation, provided, only, that the said swine went forth on their peregrinations with bells tied about their necks.

The boroughs of our Anglo-Saxon fathers claim our notice. When the Romans conquered this island, they founded in different parts of the country their civitates, or cities. Twenty-eight of these are enumerated by Gildas, an historian of the sixth century, as existing in his time, which was about a hundred years after the Roman conquerors had relinquished their dominion in Britain. Beside these cities, the Romans formed a number of military stations, or strongholds. These cities and stations became Saxon towns, after the invasion of Britain by its new masters; the latter receiving the name of boroughs from the Latin burgus, which signifies a fortification. Other towns also sprang up in various directions, where local advantages invited a settlement of population; and long before the Norman conquest our island was thickly studded with townships of various sizes. It is very remarkable, that, with few exceptions, all the towns and villages of England appear to have existed from the Saxon times. Some of these towns, however, must have been extremely small, consisting of some few dwellings and other buildings, around the homestead of the Saxon lord, and not bearing any more resemblance to what they have since become, than some little hamlet bears to an important city.

"We must abandon," says sir Francis Palgrave, "any conjectures as to the government of the boroughs in the earlier periods. We must rest satisfied with the fact that, in the reign of the Confessor, the larger boroughs had assumed the form of communities, which, without much impropriety, may be described as territorial corporations. The legal character of the burgess arose from his possessions; it was a real right, arising from the qualifications which he held. The burgess was the owner of a tenement within the walls, and the possession might descend to his heirs, or be freely alienated to a stranger." The same writer considers that, in some instances, the possession of land imparted the right of judicature in the borough mote, or town assembly; but that while such persons were aldermen by tenure, there were other boroughs which possessed an elective magistracy. The nature of the Anglo-Saxon institutions has long been matter of dispute, and considerable doubt surrounds the interesting subject, which the most diligent and learned antiquaries are unable to dispel; but, so far as our municipal history is concerned, probably the twofold view of the organization of the Saxon towns suggested by sir F. Palgrave, is correct. The towns in which the tenure of land gave magisterial authority would most likely be the smaller ones, while elective magistrates would distinguish the larger communities. The following account by M. Thierry is, perhaps, accurate:—"The burgesses of London,[1] like those of most of the larger Anglo-Saxon towns, composed, under the designation of hause, a municipal corporation, which had the privilege of conducting the government of the city, and regulating its police. The presence of the king made no difference in its institutions, and the burgesses might, even without his permission, assemble and deliberate together on the internal administration of their city."[2] But this account, we apprehend, must be carefully restricted to the large towns of the Anglo-Saxons, or it will mislead the reader. Towns in general we cannot believe had attained to such power and independency. Still, even the existence of a few such towns, tending as they did to leaven the mass of the community with their own free sentiments, indicate the attainment of a no small degree of liberal civilisation by our Saxon ancestors.

Whether the Saxon burghs were represented in the witenagemote, or general assembly of the nation, is another question which has given rise to much controversy. On this point we are also inclined to follow sir Francis Palgrave. He considers that "the elected or virtual representatives of townships, or hundreds, constituted the multitude noticed as the people in the narratives describing the great councils, and other assemblies; for the share taken by the folk in the proceedings, forbids the conjecture that the bystanders were a mere disorderly crowd, brought together only as spectators, and destitute of any constitutional character." Yet he does not consider that they attended as mere deputies, chosen by popular election—but that they were the municipal authorities, who came by virtue of their office, or were sent to represent their brethren in the borough magistracy, who were unable themselves to attend; and he thinks that the expedient of authorizing a person not bearing office, to appear as a deputy on behalf of those who did, would be easily suggested, and would thus approximate to something like the modern system of parliamentary representation. All this seems feasible; but we are not warranted to conclude that there was anything fixed and definite in the modes of representing these boroughs; we should suppose that they were rather irregular, and were shaped by local, and even accidental circumstances.

As to the appearance, the classes of population, and the internal economy of the Saxon towns, we have more precise information. Almost all the buildings were of wood. Hence the complaint in King Edward's charter to Malmesbury Abbey, that the monasteries of the realm were to the sight "nothing but worm-eaten and rotten timbers and boards." Yet there were some edifices of stone at an early period; witness St. Wilfred's church, at Hexham, built A.D. 674, of which an elaborate account is preserved, written by prior Richard, in the twelfth century. The churches built of stone were probably of a simple form, resembling some of our oldest parish churches, with a nave and chancel, and sometimes side aisles. In cases where timber was employed, there was, perhaps, more of decoration. We read of glass windows in the monastery of Wearmouth, as early as the seventh century: but, as late as the time of Alfred, they must have been very uncommon; for, when the ingenious monarch tried to measure the time by burning candles, they so flared about in the wind, which came rushing through the lattices of the apartment, that he made horn lanterns to shelter them from the blast. Chimneys were luxuries unknown, the fires in the houses being made in the centre of the floor, over which there was generally an opening in the roof to allow the escape of smoke; and when the fire went out, or the family retired to rest, the place in which it was made was closed by a cover. What must have been the state of the highways in provincial towns, may be conjectured from the well-known fact that, in the eleventh century, the ground in Cheapside was so soft, that when the roof of Bow Church was blown off, four of the beams, each twenty-six feet long, were so deeply buried in the street, that little more than four feet of the timber remained above the surface.

The internal appearance of the Anglo-Saxon dwellings of the higher class, according to the researches of antiquaries, exhibited some advance in the cultivation of the arts. Let us enter one of them.—The walls are hung with silk, embroidered with gold, the work of Saxon maidens, who, like the damsels of Israel, produce "divers colours of needlework." Chairs and benches may be seen in the apartments, adorned with carvings of the heads and feet of lions, eagles, griffins. They are of wood, and some of them are adorned with precious metals. The tables are of a similar description. You see them spread with cloths for the approaching meal, and furnished with knives, spoons, drinking horns, cups, bowls, and dishes. Lamps, and other vessels of glass, though rare, are not unknown; and silver candelabra, and candlesticks of various descriptions, adorn the rooms. There are also lanterns of horn, and mirrors of silver. The Anglo-Saxon bedsteads resemble cribs, or cots, and are furnished with beds, pillows, bed-clothes, curtains, sheets, and coverlets of skin. The luxury of a warm bath, too, may be obtained. Stepping into the kitchen, you have ovens and boiling vessels, and yonder is a cook, dressing some meat. He is thrusting a stick, with a hook at the end, into a caldron, which stands on a four-legged trivet, within which the fire is made. The roast meat is brought up to the table by the servants, upon spits, the guests cutting off such portions as they please.[3]

The Anglo-Saxons are addicted to the pleasures of the table; and to their lasting dishonour be it said, "that excess in drinking is the common vice of all ranks of people, in which they spend whole nights and days, without intermission."[4] A number of men and women prepare the wine chamber, the minstrel sings his lay, the hall games follow, and the drinking cup goes round the festive circle.[5]

Let us walk through the streets of an Anglo-Saxon town of the largest class, and look at the different orders of the population. The greater number of persons we meet with are the Saxon ceorls, or churls. The Domesday-hook speaks of some who belonged to the class of ceorls as "liberi homines." Some of these are freemen: others, though they have personal rights, and are under the full protection of the laws, are notwithstanding bound to the soil on which they live and labour. They form a peculiar class of vassals, being under certain obligations to their lord, yet having a property in the land they till. These churls constitute the commonalty of the country, in distinction from the nobles, or eorls. The weregild, or compensation for murder, so common among the Germanic nations, who overthrew the Roman empire, and forming an index of the social position of different classes of the community, values the life of a ceorl at two hundred shillings, and that of an eorl at twelve hundred. These churls are labourers, artisans, and traders, of various descriptions; they wear a woollen tunic, descending to the knee, with a collar round their necks. The legs of some are naked; but most wear shoes. Certain of these passers-by wear bandages, or cross garters, commonly red or blue, above their ancles, and round the calf. From the shoulders of the better sort, you may also notice short cloaks, about the same length as the tunics. Their long hair, profuse beard, fair complexion, and light eyes, evince their Teutonic origin; while their countenance and bearing seem to proclaim that they belong to an intelligent and freeborn race. Yonder goes a Saxon eorl, alderman, or thane. He is of gentle blood, and has a place in the witenagemote, or national assembly: persons of his class are lords of townships, and are assessors in judgment with the bishop and the sheriff, in the well-known county courts, which form the palladium of Saxon justice. Just by him there walks one of the inferior nobility, or lesser thanes. The dress of these parties distinguishes them from the common multitude. The same in form, it is costlier in material and ornament. The tunic is of rich cloth, and embroidered on the border; the mantle is of silk, and lined with fur, with a large brooch fastening it round the neck. The women who are passing through the street wear a long garment with loose sleeves, over a kirtle, and their head-dress is made of a piece of serge, or silk, wrapped round the head and neck.

The clergy rank with the nobility; indeed, they form the highest order. Their office invests them with a dignity, which men in general revere. Even the world thane, as the nobleman is called, looks with respect upon the mass thane, or common priest, and treats him as an equal; while the greatest eorl gives precedence to the bishop. Men of this class may be easily recognised by the ecclesiastical garb.

We arrive at the house of a Saxon nobleman. Before us is the great hall, with a projecting porch, supported by pillars and arches. Folds of drapery are discerned through the opening, and lamps are seen suspended from the ceiling. On the one side of the hall is the chapel, with a curtain in front, withdrawn, and a lamp hanging near the door. On the roof of the building is a globe, surmounted by a cross. On the other side are various buildings appropriated to the domestics. The noble thane is now sitting in the open hall, surrounded by his family, and attended by a number of servants, armed with shields and spears; yet are they there for no warlike purpose, for he is engaged in acts of charity, giving alms to the poor, who throng around him in suppliant attitudes, and gratefully receive his generous offerings.

We now reach the county court, where the thanes are assembled to sit in judgment. Oaths of allegiance are here administered to freemen; inquiries are made into breaches of the peace, criminals are tried, and civil claims determined. The following is the record of a suit in the reign of Canute:—"It is made known by this writing, that in the shiregemot, county court, held at Agelnothes-stane, (Aylston, Herefordshire,) in the reign of Canute, there sat Athexton the bishop, and Raing the alderman, and Edwin his sone, and Leofwin, Wulfig's son, and Thurkil the white; and Tofig came there on the king's business: and there was Bryning the sheriff, and Athelweard of Frome, and Leofwin of Frome, and Goodrie of Stoke, and all the thanes of Herefordshire. Then came to the mote Edwin, son of Euneawne, and sues his mother for some lands, Weolintun and Cyrdeslea. Then the bishop asked, who would answer for his mother. Then answered Thurkil the white, and said that he would, if he knew the facts, which he did not. Then were seen in the mote three thanes that belonged to Feligly, (Fawley, five miles from Aylston,) Loefwin of Frome, Ægelwig the red, and Thinsig Stægthmans; and they went to her, and inquired what she had to say about the lands which her sone claimed. She said that she had no land which belonged to him, and fell into a noble passion against her son, and calling for Leofleda her kinswoman, the wife of Thurkil, thus spake to her before them:—'This is Leofleda, my kingswoman, to whom I give my lands, money, clothes, and whatever I posses after my life.' And this said, she spake thus to the thanes, 'Behave like thanks, and declare my message to all good men in the mode, and tell them to whom I have given my lands, and all my possessions, and nothing to my son;' and bade them be witnesses of this. And thus they did; rode to the mote, and told al the good men what she had enjoined them. Then Thurkil the white addressed the mote, and requested all the thanes to let his wife have the lands which her kinswoman had given her; and thus they did; and Thurkil rode to the church of St. Ethelbert, with the leave and witness of all the people, and had this inserted in a book in the church."

It need scarcely be observed that the document shows "the crude state of legal process and inquiry" at the time to which it relates, and "in the practical jurisprudence of our Saxon ancestors, even at the beginning of the eleventh century, we perceive no advance of civility and skill from the state of their own savage progenitors on the banks of the Elbe."[6] It is important to remark that the county court is the great constitutional judicature in all questions of civil right, and, unless justice be there denied, no appeal can be made to the royal tribunal.

Among the Anglo-Saxons the practice of "compurgation" obtains in criminal cases; the accused has the privilege of clearing his character, and establishing his innocence, by his own oath, supported by the oaths of a certain number of persons who can pledge themselves to the truth of his testimony.[7] Where he fails to obtain these compurgators he appeals to the ordeal, by the issue of which his cause is decided.

In walking through the Anglo-Saxon town we perceive some indications of trade. Artificers are at work; among whom the tanner, the blacksmith, and the carpenter are most distinguished and useful. But let us hasten to the market. Some encouragement is afforded to commerce by the laws of the country; by which it is enacted, that every merchant who has made three voyages over the sea, with a ship and cargo of his own, shall be elevated to the rank of a thane, or nobleman. That the principle of commerce is understood appears from the following conversation which we overhear between a merchant and his neighbour:

Merchant.—"I say that I am useful to the king, and to aldermen, and to the rich, and to all people. I ascend my ship with my merchandise, and sail over the sea-like places, and sell my things, and buy dear things, which are not produced in this land, and I bring them to you here with great danger over the sea: and sometimes I suffer shipwreck with the loss of all things, scarcely escaping myself."

Merchant.—"Skins, silks, costly gems, and gold; various garments, pigments, wine, oil, ivory, orichalcus, (perhaps brass,) copper, and tin, silver, glass, and such like."

Merchant.—"I will not, because what would my labour benefit me? I will sell them here dearer than I bought them there, that I may get some profit to feed me, my wife, and children."

But commercial dealings in this market are sadly fettered. Witness the following enactments: "If any of the people of Kent buy anything in the city of London, he must have two or three honest men, or the king's ports' reeve present at the bargain."—"Let none exchange one thing for another, except in the presence of the sheriff, the mass priest, the lord of the manor, or some other person of undoubted veracity. If they do otherwise they shall pay a fine of thirty shillings, besides forfeiting the goods so exchanged to the lord of the manor." These restrictions, which apply to the sale of all articles above the value of twenty pence, are evidently intended for the security of the revenue, to which a certain tax is paid on everything which is purchased at a price above that sum. We may add, that the market is held once a week. Sunday was once, in most towns, the market-day—and still is, in some—to suit the convenience of the people who then have leisure, and are congregated together in the town to attend on mass: but the clergy, who justly consider this a sad profanation, have long endeavoured to put a stop to the practice, and to shift the market to the Saturday; in which laudable design they have succeeded, in many places.

In our imaginary ramble through the Anglo-Saxon town, we have met with a number of slaves. They form the population below the ceorls. Slavery existed in England before the Saxon invasion, and has been perpetuated by the conquerors. Part of the conquered Britons were reduced to this degraded state by their new lords; and some freeborn Saxons have, on account of debt, want, crime, or inability to resist oppression, been drawn into this abject class of the population. The disenfranchisement of the free is attended by significant and disgraceful rites. The unhappy individual resigns his sword and lance, and receives the bill and goad; he then humbly kneels, and places his head under the hand of his master, as a sign of full submission. Slaves are common articles of traffic, and are publicly sold in the Anglo-Saxon markets. The importation of slaves from other countries is allowed, but the exportation of native slaves is forbidden; yet an illicit trade of the latter kind is carried on particularly at Bristol, where the Anglo-Saxons may be found selling to the Irish, not only their servants, but even their own children and other relatives.

Here we must close our notice of the towns in the dark ages, and, with it, our brief and imperfect review of the general social condition of Europe, during that period. It certainly was not the age of great cities. They did not flourish then; manufactures, commerce, the arts and habits of peaceful enterprise, all of which form the sinews of strength in civic communities, were in a feeble state. Towns did not take a leading part in the movement of society, and did not give expression to the spirit of the age, as they do in our day. In looking at the church, the monastery, and the feudal castle, it must be felt that there, not in the town, was to be found the presiding genius of the times. They were the chief social elements then at work; they belonged to the period; they inspired it, and gave a shape to its affairs; but towns, properly speaking, belong to other eras, to times before and after, and come in, during the age reviewed, merely as links uniting the forms of ancient and modern civilisation. Yet toward the end of the dark ages they are seen reviving, and beginning once more to play a conspicuous part on the stage of the world, giving obvious presages of what they have since become.

Abundant materials for reflection are presented to the reader, in the five short chapters which compose this little volume.

These sketches illustrate the plan of Divine Providence. Perhaps, in looking at the facts reviewed, the reader will be struck with the slow advance of human improvement, and with the permission and long continuance of so much that was apparently useless, and even pernicious in the institutions, habits, and spirit of society. Without touching upon the great problem of the ultimate cause of moral evil in the universe of God—which is a question not to be fathomed by the limited intellect of man—it may be observed, that the state of things which obtained in Europe, for so many centuries, is but analogous to what we find has taken place in the physical creation. In looking back upon the natural history of our world, we find that the operation of the Divine laws has been slow and gradual; that geological eras of long duration have occurred, in which much was going on that might seem useless, and even hurtful: we see, for example, that vast spaces of time were occupied by the growth of vegetation in wild and rank luxuriance, which apparently yielded no advantage, which was connected with a state of the atmosphere unfavourable to animal life, and which was, at length, submerged beneath the waters, probably by some terrific convulsions. But these slow and gradual changes have issued in the present beautiful and useful condition of the physical world, and these long periods of seeming useless, and even pernicious vegetation, were the eras of our coal formations, when those treasures were being prepared upon which modern comfort, modern art, and modern civilisation so much depend. In the institutions and events of the dark ages, there were being formed the elements of that civilisation which is now developing itself, and which will, under Christian influence and the blessing of God, doubtless, ultimately yield the highest benefits to man, in his present state of existence. But after all, it becomes us humbly and devoutly to admit that Divine providence is a scheme but imperfectly understood by the human mind, even when enlightened by the Holy Spirit; and such a mind is willing now to leave the dark recesses unexplored. "Lo, these are parts of his ways: but how little a portion is heard of him!" Here we have but his whisper word! the Almighty! we find Him not. But what we know not now, we shall know hereafter; and what a large measure of pure enjoyment will be afforded, in a future state of existence, to those who, through the atonement of our Divine Redeemer, and the sanctifying work of the Holy Spirit, shall attain to a blessed immortality, as they receive, in a manner of which we have now no conception, revelations of the mystery of providence; as they stand before His throne whose glory it will then be to unfold, as it is now his glory "to conceal a thing;" and as they discern the connexion of the whole history of mankind with the glorious economy of redeeming love.

[1] The population of London in the fourteenth century did not exceed 35,000. Mr. Hallam thinks that, at the time of the conquest, it was less. York contained about 10,000 inhabitants.

[7] Trial by jury has often been described as an Anglo-Saxon practice, for which we are indebted to the wisdom of Alfred. Without going into this disputed point we would refer the reader to an article in the Penny Cyclopædia, (Jury,) where he will find it discussed, and from which we quote the following extract:—"The trial by twelve compurgators, which was of canonical origin and was known to the Anglo-Saxons, and also to many foreign nations, resembled the trial by jury only in the number of persons sworn: and no conclusion can be drawn from this circumstance, as twelve was not only a common number throughout Europe for canonical and other purgations, but was the favourite number in every branch of the polity and jurisprudence of the Gothic nations."

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