CHAPTER II.
THE CHURCH.
This was the leading element of civilisation, the most active power at work in society upon the dissolution of the Roman empire; and, indeed, throughout the whole of the dark ages, it exerted a pre-eminent share of influence on the social condition of Europe. The character of that influence will be unfolded in the present chapter.
SECTION I.
POLITICAL RELATIONS.
It will be proper for us to glance at the relation which the church sustained to the state during that period. The adoption of the Christian religion by Constantine, and his interference in ecclesiastical matters, completely altered the position of the church in this respect. From having been an independent spiritual community, it became a sort of chartered corporation, linked by manifold ties to the civil government. It acquired political influence, both in executing and making laws. During the barbaric period, that season of wild disorder which ensued upon the invasion of the Roman empire, and which extended from the fifth to the seventh century, the political influence of the church greatly increased. Bishops were invested with extraordinary powers. In the towns and cities where they resided, the general superintendence of public affairs was committed to their hands. The codes of Justinian empowered them to act in the management of city revenues, and in the oversight of the public works, such as the construction and the repairs of magazines, aqueducts, baths, harbours, bridges, and roads.
Other powers were given them, rather more in accordance with the clerical character. They were to interfere in the appointment of guardians over the young, in the protection of prisoners, insane persons, foundlings, stolen children, and oppressed women, in the general administration of justice, and in the public maintenance of morality and order.[1] Whatever opinion we may form respecting the discharge of civic functions by the ministers of Christianity, we are constrained to confess that here was an instance in which temporal authority might be most beneficially exercised. But if the temper of the clergy answered the description given by a writer of that period--and if that temper descended to their successors, the beneficial effect of the church's civil power was not very widely extended. "Is it likely that any should undertake the cause of the oppressed, when even the priests of the Lord do nothing,--the most of them either holding their peace, or if they speak, acting like the silent? So it is that the poor are plundered, widows groan, orphans are trampled upon, and many are driven to take refuge among the barbarians, seeking among the barbarians Roman humanity, because among the Romans they are not able to endure their barbarous inhumanity."[2]
Some abatement, perhaps, may be justly made from this sweeping censure: most probably, even in that degenerate age, cases were not wanting in which the benign spirit of Christianity prompted those who were invested with such extraordinary powers, to employ them for the relief of human suffering, the vindication of injured character, and the protection of the oppressed.
But it was not in the administration of municipal affairs alone, that the clergy were possessed of political power. They had no small share in making laws, as well as in executing them. This was especially the case in Spain. The laws of the Visigoths, instituted at the council of Toledo, were compiled by the bishops. Here the influence of the church was decidedly beneficial. Those laws exhibit traces of a philosophic and Christian spirit. "Amongst the barbarians, men were valued at a fixed rate, according to their situations; the barbarian, the Roman, the freeman, the vassal, were not estimated at the same sum: their lives were made matter of tariff. The principle of men being of equal value in the eyes of the law was established in the code of the Visigoths. With regard to the system of procedure, we find the oath of compurgatores and the judicial combat displaced for the proof by witnesses, and such a rational examination into facts as might be adopted in any civilized society. In a word, the whole Visigoth code bears a wise, systematic, and social character. We perceive in it the labours of that same clergy which held command in the councils of Toledo, and operated so powerfully on the government of the country."[3]
The judicial prerogatives and legislative influence of the bishops of the church, were backed by the extravagant veneration of the priestly office, so natural to such a state of society as that which prevailed at the commencement of the middle ages; and these causes combined to elevate the rulers of the church to the loftiest position in society. As an example of the power of the clergy, and of the precedence which they claimed for themselves, as well as of the social manners of the period, we may quote an anecdote of the famous Martin, bishop of Tours, in the fourth century, recorded in his life, by Sulpicius Severus. Dining once at the royal table, the emperor Maximus ordered the cup to be first offered to the bishop, expecting next to receive it himself. But the bishop handed it to a presbyter, who was sitting by him, as an indication that a priest took precedence of a prince. On another occasion, the empress waited on this celebrated ecclesiastic, in the capacity of a menial, preparing his food, bringing water for his hands, standing motionless by his side, in the attitude of a slave; presenting him with wine, reverently collecting the crumbs which fell from his table, and above all, in imitation of the woman in the gospel, bathing his feet with her tears, and wiping them with the hair of her head.[4] In the spirit thus displayed by this haughty prelate, the churchmen of that day maintained that the priesthood was above the crown, as much as heaven is nobler than the earth, and the soul than the body: and acting upon that principle, we find the bishops of France in the ninth century deposing Louis, the son of Charlemagne. An ecclesiastical council in the same kingdom afterwards adjudged his son Lothaire, unworthy of the crown, and conferred it on his brother, Charles the Bald. A subsequent council deposed him, when the pusillanimous monarch complained, "I ought not to have been deposed, or at least not before I had been judged by the bishops, who gave me royal authority: I have always submitted to their correction, and am ready to do so now."
But while this kind of power was altogether inconsistent with the ministerial character, and was often most tyrannically employed, it is some little relief to know, that the history of the middle ages can supply numerous instances of the beneficial exercise of clerical influence in checking the vices of the great, and curbing the injustice of monarchs. The church, too, sometimes interposed between nobles and princes at variance with each other, and prevented the shedding of blood; of which a pleasing instance occurs in the life of Theodore, archbishop of Canterbury, in the seventh century, who, just before his death, reconciled two Saxon kings on the eve of a sanguinary conflict, and thus closed his public acts by sheathing the sword of war.[5]
The bishops of Europe during the dark ages formed a civil as well as a spiritual aristocracy, controlling, to a great extent, the affairs of empires: but the bishop of one see climbed above all the rest, to the highest pinnacle of power, first obtaining a sort of limited monarchy, and then grasping at universal despotism. It comes not within the range of our present design to trace the steps by which the prelates of Rome attained their vast prerogatives;
"Were they not Mighty magicians? Theirs a wondrous spell, Where true and false were with infernal art Close interwoven: where together met Blessings and curses, threats and promises: And with the terrors of futurity Mingled whate'er enchants and fascinates, Music and painting, sculpture, rhetoric, And dazzling light, and darkness visible, And architectural pomp such as none else. What in his day the Syracusan sought, Another world to plant his engines on, They had, and having it, like gods, not men, They moved this world at pleasure."[6]
Several of the popes were men of political and far-seeing minds, and laid their plans in the spirit of profound statesmanship; but it is a mistake to suppose that they were all political calculators--some of them unintentionally contributed to rear the fabric of Roman despotism, and a number of circumstances, which were quite independent of pontifical control, concurred in producing the ultimate result. In the twelfth and thirteenth centuries reached the zenith of its pride and power, and presented a spectacle of despotic authority unparalleled in the history of the world.
The spiritual aspect of this despotism was the strangest of all. "We can, to a certain extent, imagine that, although evil may result from it, mankind may abandon to a visible authority the direction of their material interests and temporal destiny. We can understand the philosopher who, on being informed that his house was on fire, answered, 'Go and tell my wife. I have nothing to do with the affairs of the household.' But when the matter at issue is conscience, thought, the inward moral existence, for men to abdicate the government of themselves, and to give themselves up to a foreign sway, is an actual moral suicide, a servitude a hundred times more abject than can befall the body, or than that endured by the tethered serf."[7] One is terrified at the sight of the moral prostration of Europe for so long a period, and shrinks from the thought of the eternal state of millions thus enslaved, while an instinctive shudder agitates the soul at the bare conception of the acts of presumptuous insolence towards the King of Zion, committed by those who usurped his authority over the consciences of men.
But it is the social condition of Europe during the dark ages which forms our present subject, and therefore we must confine ourselves to the influence of the papacy as it bore in that direction. That influence was fearfully malign. Reducing, as it did, the souls of men to a state of spiritual slavery, robbing them of the birthright of moral inquiry, and interdicting the performance of the bounden duty of proving all things, and holding fast that which is good, it could not fail to cripple and weaken the human mind.
By gradually extending the jurisdiction of spiritual courts, and especially by the promulgation of the canon law in the twelfth century, the papacy encroached far and wide upon the civil rights of society, and placed at its mercy the lives and fortunes of mankind. The powerful body of lawyers who studied this code and practised in these courts, most of whom were ecclesiastics, would not fail with characteristic bigotry to defend every pretension or abuse to which the received standard of authority gave sanction.[8] The wars which the popes fomented with a view to their own aggrandizement; the family feuds which they stirred up, as in the case of the sons of Henry the Fourth of Germany, whom they excited to an almost parricidal revolt: and the shameless extortion which they practised, drawing from England alone, in a few years, by means of their agents, the enormous sum of fifteen millions sterling, are also serious items in the list of charges against Rome, and clearly show the baneful influence which it exerted in a social point of view. But, perhaps, the most striking example of the general fact before us, is to be found in those strange spectacles exhibited in Europe, towards the close of the dark ages, when nations were laid under an interdict. At such a time, all the people were excommunicated. The churches were closed, the eucharist was denied, the marriage service was refused, the sick man in vain applied for the ordinances of the church, and the dead remained unburied according to the rites of Christian sepulture. An invisible arm seemed to smite the land, and to pour on the population a bitter curse.[9]
Such were some of the social evils of the system: but it seems to be a law of Divine Providence that nothing in this world can be so bad but that it yields some advantage. The history of the papacy, perhaps, presents as few instances of beneficial effects as can be found in connexion with any system of government that ever existed; yet a gleam or two of light may be seen shining among the clouds of social evil with which it darkened the world. Nicholas the First, in the ninth century, employed his influence, on one occasion, as the defender of an injured queen: and Gregory the Seventh, in pushing his ambitious schemes, probably effected some moral reforms in society. Nor would we deny that the balance of papal favour happened sometimes to be on the side of popular rights and interests. A circumstance of permanent advantage to the interests of civilisation, may also be recognised in that system of intercommunication between the clergy of different parts of Europe, which arose out of the supremacy of the papal power, and which was one great means of circulating whatever knowledge of literature, or taste for the fine arts, might exist in the dark ages.
[1] Cod. Just. lib. i. tit. iv.
[2] Salvian, quoted in "Ancient Christianity," vol. ii. 52.
[3] Guizot, Civilisation of Europe, Lect. 3.
[4] Sulp. Sevenis, Dial. ii. 6.
[5] Bede, Ecc. Hist. 1. iv. 21.
[6] Rogers' Italy.
[7] Guizot, Hist. of Civ. Lect. 6.
[8] Hallam, Middle Ages, chap. vii.
[9] Ibid.
SECTION II.
SUPERSTITIONS.
The course which was pursued by the church in reference to the superstitions prevalent among the barbaric tribes whom it converted, or sought to convert, at least to a nominal Christianity, was the very opposite of that which the Scriptures prescribe. The Jews were forbidden to compromise the character of their religion by accommodating themselves to heathen practices; and an inspired apostle, indignant at the thought of amalgamating Christianity with paganism, exclaims, "What communion hath light with darkness? what concord hath Christ with Belial? or what part hath he that believeth with an infidel?"
The church of the middle ages proceeded on a different principle. "Idol temples," said Gregory the Great, in his epistle to the abbot Melitus on his mission to Britain, "Idol temples are not to be destroyed, but only the idols which are in them. Let the fanes be sprinkled with holy water, and the altars consecrated by relics. If these edifices be well built, it is desirable that they should be converted from the worship of demons to the use of the true God; for the people, seeing that their temples are not destroyed, will more easily overcome their prejudices, and acknowledge and adore the Almighty in the places where they have been wont to worship. And since they are accustomed to slay oxen in sacrifice to their gods, let this be turned into a Christian solemnity, so that on the day of dedicating a church, or on the festivals of the holy martyrs whose relics may be there preserved, booths of green boughs may be erected round these same churches and Christian rites be celebrated. Animals are no more to be offered in sacrifice to devils, but they are to be eaten by the people in gratitude and to the glory of God. By retaining these outward forms of rejoicing you will more easily bring them to participate in spiritual joys."[1] The result of such mistaken policy might have been foreseen; for this spirit of compliance is sure to deteriorate the system which it seeks to extend, and to confirm the prejudices which it seeks to overthrow. The issue of the process is ever the same. Pagans are not truly converted to Christianity, but the profession of Christianity itself is paganized.
There were also persons in the middle ages who in the same spirit adopted parts of pagan mythologies, and moulded fancies of their own according to the prevailing forms of popular superstition. Not only do we find the Italians borrowing their patron saints from the _dii presides_ and the _dii patrones_ of their pagan fathers, and, sometimes, transforming the statue of a heathen god into the image of a Christian saint, but we also find people, in other parts of Christendom, accommodating to their own use certain fables current among the barbaric nations. The Scandinavian mythology gives great prominence to the exploits of Odin: sometimes he is called Nikar, and appears as a destroying spirit raising storms on the Scandinavian lakes and rivers, and teasing the fishermen, by hanging up their boats on the summits of the fir-trees. This fabled deity appears in the hagiology of the middle ages under the name of St. Nicholas, the patron of sailors, supposed to have power over the storm and tempest. Mementoes of this superstition still remain in churches situate near the sea, and dedicated to this saint of the ocean, whom many a seaman still invokes, as he catches a glimpse of the distant church rising above the shore. Beside instances in which mythological fables were thus adopted, and, if we may use the term, thus Christianized, there are proofs of the spirit of pagan superstition having moulded the conceptions formed of invisible beings by the ecclesiastical teachers of the dark ages. Satan is commonly represented by them under forms which they could have borrowed only from such a source. The monster with horns and tail was evidently the creation of the fancy under the influence of legendary superstitions. One cannot help smiling at the grotesque scenes painted by the saints, in which the Spirit of Evil is introduced as the chief actor. He is said to have teased St. Gudula by blowing out her candle, on her way to church, at the hour of cock-crowing; but this story is surpassed by another related respecting the arch-enemy and St. Britius. "Once, whilst St. Martin was saying mass, St. Britius, whose name hath retained a place in the Protestant calendar, officiated as deacon, and behind the altar he espied the devil busily employed in writing down on a slip of parchment, as long as a proctor's bill, all the sins which the congregation were actually committing. Now St. Martin's congregation was anything but serious; they buzzed and giggled, and the men looked upwards, and the women did not look down, and were guilty of so many transgressions, that the devil soon filled one side of his parchment with short-hand notes from top to bottom, and was forced to turn it. This side was also soon covered with writing. The devil was now in sad perplexity; he could not stomach losing a sin, he could not trust his memory, and he had no more parchment about him. He therefore clenched one end of the scroll with his claws and took the other between his teeth, and pulled it as hard as he could, thinking that it would stretch. The unelastic material gave way and broke. He was not prepared for this, so his head flew back and bumped against the wall. St. Britius was wonderfully amused by the devil's disaster; he laughed heartily, and incurred the momentary displeasure of St. Martin, who did not at first see what was going forward. St. Britius explained, and St. Martin took care to _improve_ the accident for the edification of his hearers."[2]
Such fables respecting Satan are so similar to the tales abounding in the traditionary mythology of an early age, relative to wicked sprites, who are represented as combining in their character a strange medley of fun and malice, that it is impossible to mistake their origin. And it may be observed by the way, that such men as St. Martin, St. Benedict, and St. Gregory, who retail many an idle story of this sort, are surely not the men whom a wise and sober-minded Christian would think of choosing as the guides of his faith. But the tales just related are introduced here to show how the church leaned to pagan superstitions, and thus to illustrate the influence which it produced on society. Stories of this description, sanctioned by ecclesiastics, became current among the people, and formed the staple of conversation during the long winter evenings, as the sons and daughters of our distant forefathers gathered round the blazing hearth. They thus bring up before us the domestic scenes of those early times, and show the opinions and sentiments which would be sure to prevail in the popular mind. The church, instead of zealously setting itself to purify, as far as it could, the thoughts of men from the errors and follies which they had derived from paganism, in many cases accommodated itself to them, from motives of policy, or caught their spirit, from sheer sympathy; and thus helped to perpetuate habits of credulity, degrading to the mind, and superstitious feelings, injurious to the heart: the lingering remains of which may be found in many parts of Europe, and in some of the rural districts of our country, to the present hour.
The use of the ordeal is of great antiquity. Blackstone[3] notices obvious traces of it among both the ancient Greeks and Germans, but especially the latter. It was chiefly of two kinds, the fire ordeal, and the water ordeal: the former, which was confined to persons of high rank, consisted in carrying a piece of red-hot iron, or in walking barefoot upon red-hot ploughshares; the latter kind of ordeal, which was intended for the common people, consisted in plunging the arm up to the wrist, or the elbow, in boiling water, or in being thrown into a deep river, or pond.[4] If the person escaped unhurt from these perilous trials, it was supposed that the Divine Being had interposed for his safety, and he was pronounced innocent of the charge which had been brought against him. The pernicious nature of the custom, in reference to the welfare of society, is too evident to require remark; and Christianity shows itself to be the friend of man in discountenancing such practices. Under the influence of the principles of Christianity, some of the churchmen of the dark ages did condemn the use of the ordeal, but others, in the accommodating spirit already noticed, gave to it a decided sanction. In the sixth century, it was appealed to for the decision of theological questions; and after the ninth century, the clergy in general assumed its superintendence, probably from benevolent, though mistaken notions. A third kind of ordeal was engrafted upon one of the most solemn services of the church. The _corsned_, or morsel of execration, was either the sacramental wafer itself, or a piece of bread administered in connexion with the eucharist. A solemn prayer was offered that the bread might cause convulsions, if the person receiving it were guilty. The reader, perhaps, will remember the history of earl Godwin, in the reign of Edward the Confessor, who expired as he was at table eating a mouthful of bread, which he prayed might choke him if he had been guilty of the death of the king's brother. Some doubt has been thrown upon the tale, but its insertion in our early histories illustrates the superstitious regard which was paid to this species of ordeal, and to the result of any appeal to Heaven under circumstances which bore any resemblance to its more solemn administration. The trial by ordeal in England fell into disuse about the thirteenth century, but at an earlier period it had disappeared in the judicial proceedings of most other European nations. The extinction of the practice was owing, in a great measure, to the more enlightened views of the subject which were entertained by the clergy at the time. It is, however, to be lamented, that, having been tolerated so long, the spirit of the institution survived its formal practice: and still we occasionally find persons impiously appealing to Heaven in proof of their innocence, somewhat after the manner which prevailed in the middle ages.
The writings of the fathers, and the decrees of councils, afford abundant evidence that heathen festivals were condemned by the early church. During the middle ages, instances are not wanting of their being severely reprobated by the clergy. In a sermon by Eligius, a bishop of the seventh century, there is a long and fervent exhortation against all participation in heathen festivities, and kindred practices.[5] And prohibitions by councils, to the same effect, may be found as late as in the ninth century. Yet from the passage we have cited from the epistle of Gregory, it is plain that a principle of accommodation to pagan prejudices was sometimes adopted. This principle, in some of its bearings, seems to have advanced, rather than declined, in favour with the church, as time rolled on. The old heathen festival of the calends of January, which, in its pagan form, was long discountenanced by the church, appeared in the twelfth century, if not earlier, as a sort of Christian festivity, and bishops and archbishops engaged in Christmas sports, and even so far forgot their episcopal dignity as to join in a game of ball.[6] This festival afterwards became known as the Feast of Fools, and was marked by profanities almost incredible. An abbot of fools was elected, to whom the prelate of the diocese, if present, was accustomed to pay homage. A mock bishop was also chosen, who was carried to the house of the diocesan, where from the principal window he pronounced a benediction on the neighbouring town. Mock sermons, prayers, and other religious services, were connected with these absurd proceedings, and the whole thing, from beginning to end, was characterized by noise, disorder, folly, and impiety.
Still greater excesses afterwards arose, and Du Cange gives us the rubric of what was called the Feast of Asses, as celebrated in the cathedral of Rouen. It appears to have been a kind of drama in which a number of characters were introduced, Jewish and pagan, each one in turn repeating something in accordance with the part he assumed. Balaam, sitting on an ass, seems to have been the hero of the piece, and from this circumstance the feast derived its name. A young person appeared in the character of an angel, with a drawn sword, standing before the animal, and a dialogue ensued, founded on the Scripture narrative. Another absurdity, somewhat of the same kind, in commemoration of the flight into Egypt, prevailed in the churches of the diocese of Beauvais, at least as early as the thirteenth century.--A girl richly attired, with a child in her arms, was seated on an ass, and solemnly conducted to the altar, where mass was said, and the ceremony was concluded by the priest braying three times, to which the people all yielded an asinine response, three times repeated.[7] Who but must blush for the men calling themselves Christian ministers, who could not only tolerate, but even engage, in such impious fooleries? The rulers and teachers of the church in such instances, so far from having raised the people in piety and intelligence, had sunk down to the level of popular degradation. It is said that the bishops endeavoured to abolish these absurdities by ecclesiastical censures: but it was strange indeed, if they were strenuously resolved on putting them down, that they should still have permitted them to be performed within the walls of their own cathedrals.
Some examples of the superstitious character of the period before us have appeared in the preceding pages; but the shape which superstition took in reference to the legends, relics, and miracles of the saints, demand a distinct, though it must be a brief notice. Indeed scores of volumes like the present might be filled with the stories of the middle ages on these subjects. It is enough to dip into one of the portly tomes of father D'Achery, and take from his ample collection of mediæval documents a specimen of the tales commonly believed. For example, read the following extract from a sermon, by St. Theodore, upon the blessed apostle Bartholomew, preached in the ninth century, not as, by any means, the most marvellous story which might be selected, but as a sample at once of the superstition of the times, and of the kind of instruction imparted by the clergy to their people.
"The Saracens arrived, and seized and ravaged the island.[8] They burst open the sepulchre of the apostle, and scattered his bones. When they had departed, the saint appeared in a vision to a certain Greek monk, belonging to his church, and said to him, 'Arise, collect my scattered bones;' to which he replied, 'Why should we collect thy bones, or pay thee any honour, since thou hast permitted us and this people to be ravaged by the pagans, and hast afforded us no help?' But he said, 'For many long years I besought the Lord on behalf of this people, and, in answer to my prayers, he has preserved them; but because their sins are multiplied, and their iniquity is so increased, I am able to prevail no longer for their safety, and therefore they perish. But arise, and collect my bones, as I have said, and preserve them as I shall direct thee.' To whom the monk rejoined, 'But how shall I be able to find them, since I know not where they are scattered?' 'Go by night,' said the apostle, 'to gather them up, and what thou shalt see shining like fire are my bones.' Immediately he arose, and went to the place, and found the bones as the apostle had said. Having collected them together, he put them in a coffin, and departed, a friend being left to watch them. Some vessels of Lombardy having come to the place in pursuit of the Saracens, received the monks and the body of the saint on board, and sailed away. The Saracens afterwards surrounded the ship, in which the holy body of the apostle was conveyed, so that no hope of escape remained, when suddenly a thick mist enveloped the ships of the Saracens, so that they knew not where they were; and by this means the vessel escaped. While pursuing their voyage, the divine benignity of the apostle healed one of the sailors of a grievous malady."[9]
Miracles, in the middle ages, lost their miraculous character by their great frequency. "They became," as Jeremy Taylor observes, "a daily extraordinary, a supernatural natural event, a perpetual wonder, that is, a wonder and no wonder." They could, therefore, be sometimes dispensed with, and we are informed that abbot Stephen, of Liege, in the beginning of the eleventh century, prayed St. Wolbodo to refrain from working any more miracles, on account of the inconvenience which was felt by the brethren of the monastery, from the number of sick persons who came to be healed by day and by night![10] It should, however, be observed, that gross as was the credulity of the middle ages, in reference to the miracles of their saints, it scarcely surpasses the credulity of many of the fathers of the Nicene period. Ambrose, Augustus, and Jerome may be matched to a great extent, in this respect, with the legendary writers of a later period. It has often been asked, Were these stories the result of deliberate imposture, or the mere offspring of ignorance and superstition? No doubt there is room, in many cases, for the charitable interpretation so benevolently conceived and elegantly expressed by sir James Mackintosh: "The illusions of sight, the shades by which dreams sometimes fade into waking visions, the disturbance of the frame from long abstinence, and from the stimulants incautiously taken to relieve it, together with a permanent state of mental excitement, sanctioned by the firm faith which then prevailed in the frequent and ascertainable interpositions of Divine power, are sufficient to relieve us from the necessity of loading the teachers of our forefathers with a large share of fraudulent contrivance, and unmingled fiction. The progress of a tale of wonder, especially when aided by time or distance, from the smallest beginning to a stupendous prodigy, is too generally known to be more particularly called in aid of an attempt to enforce the reasonableness of dealing charitably, not to say justly, with the memory of those who diffused Christianity among ferocious barbarians."[11] But while the benefit of such a charitable construction may be extended to many instances of pretended miracles, it cannot be denied that a large portion of them were the work of fraud. Gregory of Tours, in the sixth century, candidly admits that a certain miracle which he records had been ascribed, not to the Divine power, but to the contrivance of the clergy. A writer of the eleventh century relates a characteristic instance of a man who was accustomed to dig up dead bodies, recently interred, and to dispose of them as wonder-working relics. On one occasion, at the dedication of a church, it was discovered, from conversation with the man himself, that the relic which he had sold, and to which most extraordinary virtues were ascribed, was a gross and flagrant imposture; but still the clergy, though convinced of the fraud, went on with the rites of consecration, and solemnly placed the pretended relic among the other precious treasures of the shrine.[12] It may also be remarked, that the actions of one saint are often ascribed to another, and whole legions are repeated with only the change of a name.[13] With facts of this description before us, we are compelled, though with deep pain, to believe that deliberate imposture was often practised in reference to relics and miracles. The disposition of the people to believe in these absurdities shows, that superstition must have been the very element of their being. Their appetite for incredible stories was truly voracious. Still it might be hoped, that though the mind was degraded by such a credulous temper, vice would, in some measure, be held in check, by a belief m the close and miraculous intercourse which the departed saints kept up with the dwellers upon earth. But these spiritual beings, instead of having ascribed to them such a character of inflexible hatred to all transgression, as would make it impossible for any but the virtuous, or sincerely penitent, to obtain their favour, were represented as taking under their patronage the worst of sinners, upon the easy condition of their presenting some offering to the church, or of their even uttering a simple prayer. Among the popular legends of those days, there are stories of the Virgin Mary having interceded with her Divine Son, for the salvation of a dissolute monk, who had died without confession; and of her having, to the no small surprise of the executioner, kept alive on the gallows, for two days, a favourite thief, who addressed his usual prayer to her while the rope was round his neck.[14]
[1] Bede, Ecc. Hist. lib. i. 30.
[2] See an able article on the Popular Mythology of the Middle Ages, Quarterly Review, vol. xxii. p. 356.
[3] Com. Laws of England, vol. iv. c. 27.
[4] Fosbrock's Antiquities, Art. "Ordeal."
[5] D'Achery, Spic. tom. ii. 87.
[6] Du Cange, in v. Kalendæ.
[7] Du Cange, v. Festum.
[8] One of the Lipari islands.
[9] D'Achery, Spic. tom. ii. 126.
[10] Mabill. Ann. lib. liv. No. 101. See Giesler, Text Book of Ecclesiastical History, vol. ii. 124.
[11] History of England, vol. i. p. 55.
[12] Glaber Radulph, iv. c. 3. Giesler, Text Book of Ecclesiastical History, ii. 124.
[13] Ibid. Giesler gives examples.
[14] Hallam gives these and other stories more fully. Middle Ages, c. ix. p. 1.
SECTION III.
MORALS.
At an early period in the middle ages bishops might be seen wearing the helmet and buckler, and leading troops to the field of battle. This resulted from their holding lands of the king, as his vassals, upon condition of their performing military service. Charlemagne attempted to reform the church, and perceiving the incompatibility of martial pursuits with the clerical character and functions, released the prelates in his dominion from the duty of serving in person, if they sent their vassals into the field. In one of his capitularies, A.D. 769, he prohibited their carrying arms, their engaging in war, or even in the chase, as occupations unbecoming the servants of God. But the regulation had little effect, for after his time, as well as before, instances are found of bishops being armed, and killed in battle, or taken prisoners of war. Charlemagne himself, though forbidding the clergy to use military weapons, regarded them as proper instruments of promoting religion, when they were employed by others, nor did he object to the display of a decidedly martial spirit in the exhortations of churchmen. Previous to his expedition against the Saracens in Spain, he summoned the clergy to his counsels, and addressed them in the following manner: "Noble men, we have suffered much for Christ, in order to extend the Catholic church, and subdue the Saracens. Notwithstanding, our sufferings for him are not a thousandth part so great as his sufferings for us, who, that he might deliver us from the devil, poured out his precious blood...... Since then he suffered so much that he might deliver us from the punishment of hell, and the power of the devil, and since he has promised to us a place in glory, we ought to extend the Christian faith and confound the pagans: wherefore, we propose, by his assistance, to enter Spain, which has greatly troubled us, and, if possible, to take Narbonne." Leo, the pope of Rome, afterwards addressed Charlemagne's army in the following strain: "You should know for certain, that, if any of you fall in battle, you shall receive an incorruptible and eternal crown. Let every one confess his sins, and thus we shall be secure of conquering our foes, and in life, and in death, we may expect a reward. With great boldness and cheerfulness we ought to enter on the expedition, and valiantly subdue them. And we, who occupy the place of St. Peter, by the power which is given to us, confer on you the pardon of all your sins."[1] We see here much of the same spirit as that which animated the crusaders of a later period. It was supposed that the sword was the proper instrument for subduing the enemies of Christ. Those who considered that their priestly vocation forbade them to use it themselves, encouraged and enforced its employment by others, and, in their addresses, breathed a ferocious and martial temper, strangely at variance with the mind of Him who said to his rash disciple, of whom a line of military pontiffs, military in spirit, if not in act, were the proud pretended successors: "Put up again thy sword into its place; for all they that take the sword shall perish with the sword."
From what has been already stated, some conclusion may be drawn respecting the morals of the middle ages. The impostures which were frequently countenanced and even practised by the clergy, and the palpable falsehoods which were propagated by them in the legendary tales of the saints, evince a most deplorable disregard of truth, the very first of virtues. There is scarcely anything that strikes the reader more forcibly, on looking into the records of this dark period, than the general moral obtuseness of feeling which prevailed relative to the guilt of practising deception and telling lies. Connected with this disregard of truth was an equal disregard of the principles of justice. Complaints were made, as early as the sixth century, of bishops who had appropriated to their own use endowments conferred on the church, and who were guilty of various acts of injustice and oppression. Instances of unjust conduct abound in the annals of monkish historians, and sometimes acts of shameful perfidy are recorded, as if they were by no means immoral. In the history of Ramsey Abbey, there is related a strange anecdote of a bishop who made a Danish nobleman drunk, that he might cheat him out of an estate--an exploit which the ecclesiastical historian records with much approbation.[2] In further illustration of the want of truth and justice, on the part of many of the clergy, may be noticed the notorious prevalence of simony, that evil with which the famous Hildebrand so vigorously grappled. It is not in its spiritual character, as a sin of most heinous magnitude against the Head of the church, that we notice it now, but as a crime against the laws of society. Ecclesiastical benefices were in fact social trusts--trusts to be employed for the good of mankind; and, therefore, when they were made mere matters of bargain and sale, an entire disregard to public rights was openly proclaimed. But the heaviest element of social guilt in the sin of simony, is to be found in the practice of perjury which it invariably involved. Ecclesiastical law severely condemned simony, and looking at the law we might imagine that the practice was never tolerated; but looking only at the practice so common among churchmen, and so little checked, except now and then by some bold reformer, we might suppose no law against it was in existence.
There are also abundant proofs of a general laxity of morals among the clergy of the dark ages. It is difficult to convey a correct impression on this subject. A style of sweeping declamation upon the vices of the clergy, through the space of about eight or nine centuries, is very often adopted: but it cannot be justly supposed that licentiousness prevailed equally in all places, and at all times, during that period. Here the clouds of moral gloom are of a deeper--there, of a lighter, shade: while it must be acknowledged, as will be shown more particularly hereafter, that some gleams of virtue occasionally relieve the darkness. Immediately after the barbaric invasion, the morals of the clergy in Europe seem to have been very low. Charlemagne certainly endeavoured to raise them throughout his wide dominions, and, perhaps, with some success. But, in the ninth century, some facts of a most revolting nature are disclosed. In the canons of a council held A.D. 888, the bishops complain of the numerous instances of vice among the clergy, which had come to their knowledge, and go on to state that they had heard of certain priests who were guilty of incest.[3] A bishop of Italy, in the tenth century, after complaining in the strongest terms of the vices of the age, laments that the clergy were deeply tainted with them.[4] In the eleventh and twelfth centuries, efforts were made, by zealous churchmen, to reform the moral habits of their brethren, but they seem to have been attended with little success. Of the manners of the clergy during the _twelfth_ century some most lively sketches are supplied in the letters of Peter of Blois, an English ecclesiastic, who was by no means tolerant of the vices of his fellow clerks. "I was dean of the church of Wolverhampton," says this honest writer, "which is in the diocese of Chester, but not under the jurisdiction of any one, except the archbishop of Canterbury, and the king. For by very ancient custom, which with many is reckoned as a right, the kings of England have always presented to that deanery. The dean gave the prebends, and instituted to them. As the clergy belonging to this church were wholly undisciplined, like the Welsh and Scots, (qu. Irish?) such a dissoluteness of life had crept in on them, that their vices tended to produce contempt for God, destruction of souls, infamy to the clergy, and derision and mockery in the people. In Scripture language, their base deeds were sung in the highways of Gath, and 'in the streets of Ascalon.' I frequently reminded them of the words of Hesca, 'Though thou, Israel, play the harlot, let not Judah offend.' But they fornicated openly and publicly, proclaimed their sin like Sodom, and regardless of popular infamy, married the one the other's daughter or niece; and so close was the tie of relationship among them, that no one could dissolve their bonds of iniquity. They were like the scales of Behemoth, one of which joins the other, and the breath of life does not pass through them. Moreover the earth cries against them, and the heavens proclaim their iniquities. I took the greatest pains to cut off the poisonous branches of vice among them, but it would have been easier to turn wolves into sheep, or beasts into men; for the Ethiopian will not change his skin, nor the leopard his spots. As often as I could collect any of them in the church, that I might have an opportunity of holding some conference with them, they shut their ears like the adder; and like the mountains of Gilboa, on which no dew nor rain descends, they were deaf to all wholesome advice, and careless about their own dangers. They rushed headlong, like stallions, to every vice. I did all in my power to correct them, and with all possible kindness, for their conduct gave me constant grief at the heart. But 'they hated him who stopped them in the gate, and abominated him who spoke health to them.' I betook myself to prayer; I spoke groaning in the bitterness of my heart; and, that fat might not be wanting to the sacrifice, I seasoned my groaning with tears. The king and the archbishop wrote them tremendous letters. I assured them most positively that the pope would take away their place and nation, and that they should be turned out of house and home. But the more they were threatened the more obstinate they were; the more they were exhorted, the more contemptuous did they grow. They were few in number, but their iniquities made them a multitude; the generations of vipers were multiplied. From the seed of Canaan came forth an evil and provoking race, sons of Belial, wicked children. They wished to possess the sanctuary of God as an inheritance, and therefore, when a canon died, and any respectable man was appointed, the nephew, or son, of the deceased, claimed that which is the Lord's patrimony as his. He then betook himself to the woods, joined the robbers and banditti who plunder by fire and the sword, and fell on the new canon so as to destroy him. When I saw that these insensible men were drawing near to the grave; and that I could produce no impression on them, I desired to be cut off entirely from men whose vices did not end with the end of life."[5]
In the gross immoralities of the clergy of the middle ages, which form a standing theme of lamentation with so many of the councils and writers of the period, are seen the result of forced celibacy. While the censors of ecclesiastical morals maintained that unnatural system, it was vain for them to be ever struggling with its inevitable consequences--it was useless with one hand to apply any medicines for the cure of a disease to which with the other they were continually administering the most feverish stimulants.
The clerical character being too generally what we have now described, the moral condition of the laity may be inferred. While so many of the priests were regardless of justice, truth, and purity, it would be unreasonable to look for much virtue among the people. There was a general regard paid to the forms of religion, but there was shown as general a disregard of its principles and spirit. Hallowed rites were associated with immoral practices; deeds of injustice and cruelty were prefaced by acts of devotion; the vilest characters breathed forth their aspirations to the Deity, and the virgin; and multitudes were punctilious in their observance of the ritual of the church, who were totally ignorant of the truths and duties of Christianity. This forms a state of society the most fearful. It was the condition of the Jews in the time of Isaiah, and the language of God to them, by the mouth of the prophet, applied with equal force to a large number of the religionists of the middle ages: "To what purpose is the multitude of your sacrifices unto me? saith the Lord: I am full of the burnt offerings of rams, and the fat of fed beasts: and I delight not in the blood of bullocks, or of lambs, or of he goats. Bring no more vain oblations; incense is an abomination unto me; the new moons and sabbaths, the calling of assemblies, I cannot away with: it is iniquity, even the solemn meeting. Your new moons and your appointed feasts my soul hateth; they are a trouble unto me; I am weary to bear them."
We have given the dark side of the picture: we must now, for a moment, glance at sentiments, and traits of character, of another order. Throughout the middle ages, traces of these may be found. Indeed the very strong terms in which the vices of an age are reprobated, by a contemporary author, evince on his part a better state of moral feeling. There are sermons extant, belonging to those times, which, among much that is superstitious and unscriptural, contain some excellent moral and religious maxims. One preacher of the seventh century has not, generally, had justice done him. Maclaine, Robertson, and other authors, have given a few sentences, extracted from different parts of a sermon by Eligius, bishop of Noyes, whence it would appear as if he had taught the people that nothing else was necessary to make a man a Christian than that he should go to church, present offerings to God, and repeat the creed and the Lord's prayer. That Eligius did not clearly understand the way of salvation by faith in the Divine Redeemer, is clear enough to any one who will peruse his discourse contained in D'Achery's Spicelegium; but justice also demands the statement, that this sermon, so often cited, but so little read, certainly inculcates a vast deal more than mere ceremonial religion, and contains many passages which are full of good sense and correct moral feeling. Indeed, in the very paragraph which precedes that from which garbled extracts have been taken, the bishop remarks: "It will not profit you, beloved, to receive the Christian name, if you do not cultivate Christian practice. Christian profession avails a man only when he preserves in his mind, and exemplifies in his conduct, the precepts of Christ; that is, who does not steal, nor bear false witness, nor tell falsehoods, nor commit adultery, nor hate any man, but loves all even as himself; who does not render evil to his enemies, but rather prays for them; who does not excite strife, but on the contrary promotes peace. For these things Christ hath commanded in the gospel, saying, 'Thou shalt do no murder,' etc., Matt. xix. 18, 19." The sermon is lamentably defective as it regards an exposition of the way in which a sinner is to obtain acceptance with God; no clear view is given of the work of Christ as the medium of our pardon, and of the work of the Spirit as the fountain of holiness; but it certainly is not wanting in moral exhortations, nor in a forcible statement of many important scriptural truths.[6]
Benevolence, at least so far as it consisted in almsgiving and kindness to the poor, was the cardinal virtue commended in many of the sermons, and exemplified in some of the lives of the saints of the dark ages. We may fairly conclude that the ecclesiastics were, in this respect, friends to the lower classes of society, and often relieved the wants of the indigent, and soothed the minds of the sorrowing. The value of such influence, during ages of disorder and violence, when a stern and almost savage spirit pervaded the upper classes of society, cannot be too highly appreciated. The spirit of kindness nurtured by many in the bosom of the church, produced an improvement in the condition of domestic slaves, and the gradual, but, at length, total extinction of slavery itself. Slaves who belonged to monasteries, or ecclesiastics, were in far better circumstances than those who were in the possession of laymen. Their sufferings under a stern master, are sometimes bewailed by the writers of the day, who allude to them under the touching appellation of those "whom Christ had redeemed at a rich price." Gregory the Great, in the sixth century, set a noble example of manumission, in granting liberty to a number of his own slaves, whom he described as free by nature, but placed by unjust law, under the yoke of bondage. Manumission was a religious ceremony. The person to be set free held a lighted torch in his hand, and was led round the altar; he then laid hold upon its horns, when the formulary of liberation was solemnly repeated.[7] Several charters of manumission, avowedly proceeding from religious motives, are cited by antiquarian writers. Slowly did the great curse of slavery yield to the influence of Christian principles; but its eventual extinction is to be ascribed solely to that spirit of humanity and justice, which Christianity alone could kindle.
Examples of individual purity and benevolence might be adduced, in contrast with the wide-spreading corruption already noticed. The lives of the saints, though pervaded by a thick cloud of superstition, do, nevertheless, reveal some traits of moral excellence. Christianity, in spite of the manifold corruptions which had gathered around it, exerted a renewing power over the minds of some. And it is very beautiful to catch, amidst the deep gloom of that period, glimpses of sincere piety, however faint. In the cloisters of the monastery, and in the more active scenes of religious life, might be found spirits who were partakers of a better nature than comes from earth. They had been born from above. They could not escape injury from the tainted atmosphere which filled the entire region around them. They often betrayed signs of feebleness, the moral pulse was low and faint; but life continued, till, raised above the unhealthy element they breathed, they entered those purer regions to which they aspired, and there felt the quickening influences of the presence of God, and were united to "the spirits of just men made perfect."
Before closing this brief survey of the influence of the church on the social condition of Europe, it will be proper to notice two institutions--The right of sanctuary, and The truce of God--which had their origin from that source, and which produced incalculably great and beneficial effects in an age of oppression and violence. The precincts of a church afforded refuge to the fugitive. Had laws been firmly established and equitably administered, such a privilege would have proved little else than a bounty upon crime, and such, at a later period, it became: but at a time when the innocent were often falsely accused, and the weak were generally oppressed, the place of sanctuary, like the Jewish city of refuge, afforded a shelter to those who, otherwise, would have been crushed by the hand of injustice or revenge. Rushing through the thickets of the forest, towards the church or the monastery, which stood in the bosom of the valley, or on the brow of the hill, the victim of savage cruelty rejoiced in the protection there afforded; and one can imagine him lifting the huge knocker of the gate, of which a specimen remains to this day on the door of Durham cathedral, and, with a palpitating heart, entering the portal under the conviction of perfect safety. There can be no doubt that this right was often abused; but still it may be fairly concluded, that, in many instances, it yielded protection to those who deserved it. The other custom we mentioned, The truce of God, was of unquestionable and still more decided advantage. The prelates of the middle ages often endeavoured to repress those private feuds which were among the most prevalent evils of the time. They availed themselves of seasons of public calamity to prevail upon the barons, who were ever waging war with each other, to form treaties of peace. But, at length, they were able to establish a permanent law, which secured a periodical and frequent interval of quietude in those troublous times. It was enacted in Aquitain, A.D. 1041, that from vespers on Wednesday evening, till the hour of dawn on Monday morning, no one should dare to assault his enemy without incurring the dreaded penalty of excommunication.[8] The law was soon afterwards extended to other countries; and in England, also, it was observed--the time of the truce being altered to the Ember days, Advent, Lent, the vigils and festivals of Christ, the virgin Mary, the apostles, and all saints, and every Sunday, reckoning from the hour of nine on Saturday evening to the dawn of light on Monday morning.[9] This was a welcome boon, and many would anxiously anticipate, and joyfully hail, the appointed time of vespers, when the authority of the church threw around them a defence more impregnable than the walls of a castle, and they could lie down and sleep in peace.
[1] Gesta, Caroli Magni, Florence, 1823, p. 37.
[2] Hallam, Middle Ages, chap. ix. 1.
[3] Mansi, xviii. 67, 177. Quoted in Giesler, ii. 112.
[4] Ratherii, Itinerarium. D'Achery, Spic. i. 381.
[5] We have adopted the vigorous translation of this letter in the Quarterly Review, vol. lviii. 437.
[6] D'Achery, Spic. tom. ii. 87.
[7] Robertson's View of the State of Europe, Note xx.
[8] Glab. Radulph Giesler, ii. 118.
[9] Lingard, Hist. of England, i. 472.
SECTION IV.
LITERATURE AND ART.
Next to the moral condition of mankind, their intellectual state is the most interesting subject of inquiry. The dark ages form a kind of parenthesis in the history of the human mind in Europe. A long and brilliant period of intellectual cultivation and energy preceded them; and an era, in many respects, of still higher attainment and of richer promise has followed. The night which comes between two such days seems very gloomy, yet is there much truth in the observation, "that there was always a faint twilight, like that auspicious gleam, which, in a summer's night, fills up the interval between the setting and the rising sun."[1] Nor should it be forgotten, that before the commencement of the mediæval period, there had been a great decline in sound learning; and that the nations of Europe, whose ignorance we deplore, were, for the most part, the descendants not of the classic nations of antiquity, but of the rude barbarians of the north.
Whatever measure of intellectual cultivation may have relieved the prevailing darkness, it emanated from the church. To men of the ecclesiastical profession we are indebted for the preservation of ancient literature; and they were almost the only authors who wrote during the period. The church afforded an asylum for the studious; and, in those times, quiet and reflective minds would naturally seek refuge in its bosom. It is difficult, even after much inquiry, to form a definite and accurate idea of the literary aspect of Europe in the dark ages; and next to impossible to convey, in the short space which we can here allot to it, a correct impression of the result of such inquiries. The seventh century may be fixed on as the nadir of the human mind.[2] Faint traces of the spirit of literature cheer the subsequent space of five hundred years, after which a very considerable revival of learning took place. General remarks as to the state of literature in Europe, daring the whole of this period, are likely to mislead, because the state of one country and of one century materially differed from another. The spirit of literature may be said to have migrated from land to land; now visiting the shores of Ireland and England, then passing over to France and Germany, and touching upon Italy, till there, in its classic form, it found a congenial home. Ireland and England were, probably, much in advance of their contemporaries, in the seventh and eighth centuries, but afterwards declined. France revived in the ninth, and went on progressing during the following ages; and, towards the latter part of the tenth century, Germany possessed many learned churchmen. In Italy, signs of improvement are perceptible in the eleventh century, but classical literature did not flourish there till the fifteenth.
A considerable number of books were written during the very darkest periods of the middle ages. They treat of various subjects connected with theology and the church. Several of the authors were evidently studious men, and were, for the time in which they lived, extensively acquainted with books. It should also be stated, that they were certainly not so ignorant of Scripture, so far as the letter of it was concerned, as is generally supposed. In looking over the writers of the middle ages, down to the monkish chroniclers and legendary tale-tellers, the reader finds frequent use made of Scripture language; the application of it, however, shows, in a great number of instances, a deplorable ignorance of its proper sense, and but little sympathy with its true spirit. "It is the most striking circumstance in the literary annals of the dark ages, that they seem to us still more deficient in native, than in acquired ability. The mere ignorance of letters has sometimes been a little exaggerated, and admits of certain qualifications; but a tameness and mediocrity, a servile habit of merely compiling from others, runs through the writers of these centuries. It is not only that much was lost, but that there was nothing to compensate for it, nothing of original genius in the province of imagination: and but two extraordinary men, Scotus Erigena and Gerbert, may be said to stand out from the crowd is literature and philosophy."[3]
What might be the average state of the clergy, in reference to the possession of knowledge, during the middle ages, is an interesting question, but one, like many others, difficult to answer. There can be no doubt that many ecclesiastics could not write, but it appears that ability to read, at least the service books, was a common attainment. Notices of extreme ignorance, in some countries, at certain times, may be found; for instance, king Alfred complains, in his day, that there were very few on the south side of the Humber, and none on the south side of the Thames, who could translate the Latin service into English; and Ratherius, bishop of Verona, in the tenth century, laments that he had found many clergy in his diocese who did not know (_sapere_) the apostles' creed.[4] But, perhaps, it would be unfair to take these as decisive proofs of the ignorance of the clergy in general, during the dark ages. The state of things assuredly was mournful enough, without adding to them any imaginary aggravations.
Ecclesiastics were the only instructors in those days; but there is no evidence of their having shown much zeal in the enlightenment of the mass of the people. It is true there were schools connected with monasteries and cathedrals, but these institutions were for the education of such persons as were intended for the service of the church. The chief promoters of learning among the laity, to any great extent, were Charlemagne and Alfred, who brought to their assistance the more enlightened men of their times. Parish schools were established by the bishop of Orleans, upon whom Charlemagne placed much dependence in carrying out his liberal views, and, in these schools, education was gratuitously provided for such children as their parents might choose to send.[5] Alfred also greatly exerted himself to extend the benefits of education over his own country: most of the noble, and many of the inferior orders, were placed under the care of masters, who taught them not only to read in Latin and Saxon books, but also to write.[6] Such facts, however, constitute the exception, rather than the rule, respecting the cultivation of the minds of laymen. Undoubtedly the higher as well as the lower classes were immersed in the deepest shades of ignorance; pursuits conducive to the improvement of their physical strength being, as a matter of course, in such an age, much more highly valued than those which tended to increase intellectual vigour. "For many centuries, to sum up the account of ignorance in a word, it was rare for a layman, of whatever rank, to know how to sign his name. Their charters, till the use of seals became general, were subscribed with the mark of the cross. Still more extraordinary was it to find one who had any tincture of learning. Even admitting every indistinct commendation of a monkish biographer, (with whom a knowledge of church music would pass for literature,) we could make out a very short list of scholars. None, certainly, were more distinguished as such than Charlemagne and Alfred. But the former, unless we reject a very plain testimony, was incapable of writing, and Alfred found difficulty in making a translation from the pastoral instruction of St. Gregory, on account of his imperfect knowledge of Latin."[7]
The church did more for art than she did for literature. It is in the nature of Christianity, even when imperfectly understood, or greatly corrupted, to produce an influence friendly to civilisation, and its attendant comforts, and thereby to foster the growth of the useful arts, of which the changes wrought in the barbaric nations, during the early part of the mediæval period, by the introduction of Christianity among them, are striking proofs: and in addition to this, it must be acknowledged that the innovations which, by that time, had been made upon the simplicity of gospel worship, operated in the same direction. The advantage, however, which thus accrued to the artistic civilisation of society, will be deemed, by Christian minds, a poor compensation for the mischief done to the interests of religion, and the souls of men, by the corruption of the service of God.
The study of architecture was a pursuit to which many of the clergy early devoted themselves; and though the ecclesiastical structures, from the seventh to the twelfth century, were far inferior to those which were afterwards reared, they were undoubtedly much superior to the generality of buildings of the period to which they belonged. The edifices reared by our Saxon fathers, in this island, before the arrival of the missionaries from Rome, were extremely humble; but the latter soon introduced a taste for structures of a higher order. Places of worship, rudely constructed of oaken planks, and covered with thatch, were succeeded by churches of polished masonry, with lofty towers, glazed windows, and roofs sheeted with lead. But convenience and taste, such as might have comported with the simplicity of Christian worship, did not suffice; the magnificence of Romish decorations and ceremonies found their way into the Saxon sanctuary. Pictures were brought from Rome by Augustin and Benedict, and placed in churches: a stimulus certainly was thus given to the art of painting. Images, crucifixes, and lamps of precious materials, and elaborate workmanship, were also introduced, and the manufacture of these afforded employ and encouragement to the goldsmith. The making of church bells was another important branch of industry; and the costly robes worn by the priests put the arts of weaving, embroidery, and dyeing in requisition. Splendid service books were also used; and for the production of these it was necessary to cultivate the art of ornamental writing, gilding, and setting precious stones. Servants skilled in these various employments might be found in the establishments of ecclesiastical dignitaries, and among the inmates of monasteries: nor did the clergy themselves deem it any degradation to practise the useful and elegant arts. The performance of mass led to the cultivation of a taste for music. Beside the harp and different kinds of wind instruments, such as the flute and horn, early mention is made of the organ, an instrument of which Bede gives a minute description: and attention seems to have been paid to music regarded as a science. The gentle and soothing influence of harmonious sounds will scarcely fail to be recognised as having been a civilizing power upon the minds of many a rude inhabitant of the British isles; and, in a little melody which has floated down to us from those distant times, we find express mention of the effect produced upon Canute the Great, who as he was approaching Ely in his boat, with his queen and courtiers, heard the music of the monks at their devotions, and was so affected that he told the rowers to pause, that he might listen to the sounds which were wafted by the breeze from the church, which stood on the rock before him.[8] Some of the hymns sung in those days were very beautiful; and to those who understood them, they conveyed sentiments adapted to elevate the tone of moral and religious feeling, by directing the heart to the source of all piety and virtue. Such was the following hymn, chanted in many a monastery at the hour of prime:--
"Now that the sun is gleaming bright Implore we, bending low. That He, the uncreated light, May guide us as we go.
No sinful word, nor deed of wrong, Nor thoughts that idly rove, But simple truth be on our tongue, And in our hearts be love.
And while the hours in order flow, O Christ, securely fence Our gates, beleaguer'd by the foe, The gate of every sense.
And grant that to thine honour, Lord, Our daily toil may tend, That we begin it at thy word, And in thy favour end."[9]
In bringing to a close this rapid survey of the influence of the church, during the middle ages, upon the manners, morals, literature, and arts of society, we cannot suppress the remark, which, however, must be obvious to every one, who at all thinks upon the subject, that the decided benefits emanating from this source, proceeded from so much of the genuine spirit of Christianity as still remained within its bosom, while benefits of but a doubtful, or imperfect kind, and evils, some of them most flagrant in their nature, were the fruit of institutions which men had officiously planted around the temple of God. Nor, when attempting to estimate the social good and evil thus produced, should we forget to think of the far larger amount of good, with no attendant evil, which might have been produced had Christianity been preserved in her purity, and her heaven-born energies been fully developed and directed to the improvement of mankind. Assuredly the church failed to perform her mission; and the benefits she actually conferred on society were but scanty and imperfect specimens of those rich and clustered blessings, which, if faithful to her Lord, she would have been enabled plentifully to scatter over all the nations of the world. It affords matter for curious speculation to inquire, what might have been the course of European history if Christianity had continued uncorrupt from the beginning, and the church had maintained her purity. Perhaps the progress of decay in the Roman empire might have been arrested, and the spirit of a new and righteous civilisation might have been infused into the commonwealth: or, if that had not been the case, yet the destiny of the nations, into which that colossal power was broken up, might have been one of far more rapid and decided advancement than it has proved to be. Much of the social conflict and confusion of the middle ages, perhaps, might have been prevented, and the human mind preserved from its deep and long degradation. The course of civilisation, instead of being like the troubled mountain stream, dashing, roaring, foaming, and eddying on its way, might rather have resembled the deep broad river, flowing calmly and steadily on, and reflecting from its glassy surface the hues of heaven.
[1] Harris, Phil. Enq.
[2] See Hallam, Introd. to Lit. of Europe, vol. i.
[3] Hallam, Introd. to Lit. of Europe, vol. i. 11.
[4] D'Achery, Spic. i. 381.
[5] Mansi, tom. xiii. p. 993. Giesler, ii. 34.
[6] Sharon Turner, Anglo-Saxons, vol. iii. 14.
[7] Hallam, Middle Ages, chap. ix. p. 1.
[8] Sharon Turner Anglo-Saxons, vol. iii. 279.
[9] Translation from Quarterly Rev. No. 118, p. 324.