| | | | | Whether or no there be any perfect ideal of historical | composition, the one best form of writing history for all ages and | countries, if we look to experience, we find that in fact each age | has ever had a fashion of its own, differing from that which | preceded and followed it. We do not speak of writers | contemporary with the events they write of. Such, even though | the most jejune of annalists, must always have an interest | independent of their form. But we speak of regular history, | complete accounts of nations or countries, compiled in later | times from books and records. Such history is a distinct species | of composition, a work of art, having its own principles of taste | to be guided and judged by. | | Such history, almost more than any other branch of literature, | varies with the age that produces it. Contemporary history never | dies; Thucydides and Clarendon are immortal; but, on the other | hand, no reputation is so fleeting as that of the "standard" | historian of his day. A review of the historical literature of any | nation will discover an endless series of decay and reproduction. | The fate of the historian is like those of the dynasties he writes of; | they spring up and flourish, and bear rule and seem established | for ever; but time goes on, their strength passes away, and at last | some young and vigorous usurper comes and pushes them from | their throne. It is not because new facts are continually | accumulating, because criticism if growing more rigid, or even | because style varies; but because ideas change, the whole mode | and manner of looking at things alters with every age; and so | every generation requires facts to be recast in its own mould, | demands that the history of its forefathers be rewritten from its | own point of view. When Hume superseded Echard, his | admiring contemporaries little thought that Hume himself would | so rapidly become obsolete. Hooke was considered to have | exhausted the history of the Roman Republic, and his Roman | History to be the final book on the subject; but great as is the | distance between him and Arnold, it is inevitable, in the course | of things, that the next century will have to compose its own | "History of Rome." And these mutations of popular favour | involve the smaller satellites as well as the great planets of the | historical heaven; Mrs. Trimmer and Goldsmith, pale before the | rising light of Keightly | | and Mrs. Markham, as the subs of office quit their desks when | premiers deliver up their portfolios. | | Our own immediate age is confessedly rich in works of the | historical class. Poetry we have almost none, and but little | philosophy; but history has attracted great attention among us. If | among the varied merits of the successful writers of history who | have appeared within the last twenty years, we were to select one | trait which seems above others to be a common characteristic, it | would be their vivid descriptive character, their painting their | narrative to the eye. The personages of the story go through their | parts before us like actors on the stage, | with a rich and strongly-drawn | background of scenery. We may call this kind of history | ~~ pictorial history. All writers, who are themselves gifted with | strong imaginations, are masters of description; but with us this | style is not a native gift, or a happy genius, but the result of art, | to be learnt like other arts, or rather is attained by going through | a uniform mechanical process. Take two or three old chroniclers, | rapidly select the striking bits, such as will tell, translate them in | a quaint antique phrase; and whenever any town is mentioned, | get the description of it out of the nearest county history, and the | business is done. The herd of superficial writers are, however, | the index of the public taste. No reader can be insensible to the | spell which such a master-hand as Thierry's wields by means of | his graphic narration. | | If we are right in thinking that this picturesque | character is the common feature of our historians now, we | may venture further to assert that it is not accidentally so, that it | is no isolated fact, but only one instance of our whole moral | condition. So prevailing a taste is something more than one of | those transient fluctuating fashions which change with each | generation of general readers, but one deeply seated in the mind | of our age. | | An attention, then, to external form, to accuracy of representation, | is characteristic of an age of refinement. Such an age implies | two things: a state of leisure and tranquillity, and a deficiency of | moral energy, arising chiefly from the smoothness with which | the current of social life runs down. Leisure gives a wide extent | of knowledge and information. Generations of antiquarians have | heaped together vast piles of facts, and have thus provided an | abundance of raw material ready for our use. The philologist is | the historian's pioneer; and no-one | can pretend fitly to write of | any period who has not made himself master of all the facts | preserved concerning it; and then the second of the two causes | we have named, the quiet and even tenour of existence will | determine our interest towards the secondary rather than the | primary objects of knowledge. A time of peace and security | inevitably tends to foster an umbratile and | | academic science. Curiosity is withdrawn from the momentous | questions which have interest only for noble souls; and an | attenuated pedantry coldly wonders at the "little importance of | the points theologians have been ready to die for." Then is the | age of little, well-informed minds. It is only when the contest | between good and evil becomes sharp and deadly, when men are | forced into daily and hourly action in matters where they cannot | be indifferent spectators, ~~ it is only in entering heart and soul | into the dust and heat of the Church's war with the world, ~~ that | the mind comes within the sphere of great principles, and begins | to feel their imperious right to control its movements. | | | | It would be leading us too far from our subject to show that an | over-estimation of the trappings of social life is a prevalent turn | of mind among us now. How it pervades all art, painting, | engraving, architecture; how it has driven all true acting from the | stage; how some have even sought to find an instance to their | purpose in Shakespeare himself; for that his Romans are true | Romans, ~~ his barons, the genuine Norman barons; ~~ | Shakespeare, who seems to have purposely outraged costume, to | have wantonly trampled on historical proprieties, as if for the | purpose of showing that the true greatness of the dramatist lies in | exhibiting man, ~~ the broad traits of human character, ~~ not | the peculiarities of national manners. | | If, however, it be the fact, that this taste be thus prevalent and | deeply seated, the writer of history must conform to it, and | endeavour to use it in the best way it admits of being used. | | Now, as we well know that mere chronology, or the retention in | the memory of facts, is often mistaken for history, and yet that all | that is true is, that such dry knowledge is only the alphabet of | history; so, though this pictorial history is far from being the | proper end of historical science, yet is it a most valuable | assistance in the study. | | , is indisputable; but we need continually to remember that | such fidelity of conception is but the vehicle of the truths which | history seeks to teach us. We must steer between two opposite | faults; we must not yield too much to imagination, which is to | turn poet; nor, on the other hand, must we confine ourselves to | bare cataloguing of facts, which is to act the antiquarian instead | of the historian. Both these extremes are deviations from the true | path of history, but far from being both equally faulty. The | former is the generous error of an early and simple age; the latter, | the mean vice of a late and refined one. The former is the | tendency of buoyant and high-hearted youth; the latter, of | plodding and calculating middle-life. In youth, the ideal is all-in-all | to us; and the imagination is all-sufficient to furnish and body | forth the shapes which Poetry has drawn for us. Poetry is then | the mind's natural aliment; we scorn facts, and prefer the true to | the actual. But society will not listen to what it mocks at as | "mere theory;" and genius, which seems the common inheritance | of the young and ardent, after being often cruelly overthrown by | unexpected demands of proof and data for its assertions, either | retires altogether from the attempt to make itself heard, or vents | itself in the half-reserve of poetry, or more commonly descents | into the arena of life to contend now on unequal terms against the | sharp pettifogging intellect by which the world's prizes are | carried off. | | The same distinction obtains between an early and a late age of | the world, as between the youth and manhood of the man. An | early age dressed history in the garb of fancy; it conceived the | externals of man and the forms of art, of which it read or heard, | no otherwise than those which it saw every day before its eyes. | The Italian painters of the sixteenth century drew the twelve | patriarchs and the senators of old Rome both equally in the robe | of the citizen of Florence, or the Apostles in a Dominican's gown. | Petrarch looks on Stefano Colonna as an old patrician, and | Rienzi as a tribune of the people. As in Dante's eyes Virgil was a | Lombard; or as in the middle ages the Parthenon was identified | with the Temple of the Unknown God, and the Temple of | Theseus was supposed a church of St. George. The richness of | the Gothic genius thus suffusing with its own hues and colouring, | and so blending into one all ages, nations, and faiths, as in the | harmonious variety of one of its gorgeous windows, symbolizing | the universal triumph of Christianity. In this case, the mind, | manly and vigorous, looks at the essential, rather than the | accident; at the man, rather than his dress. It goes direct to the | substance of history, to that which is really | | philosophical in it, and neglects only the shell and husk of | history. Its conscience is more active than its taste. It looks at | actions to see what may be their ethic content; what instruction | for practice they afford. It is a wise, but not a learned age. | | But the tendency of a highly civilized age is to be learned and | informed rather than wise. Its points of contact with the history | of past times are many, but they are all on the surface; it just | misses the few deep points on which the life and heart of the old | age was centred. It attends to the externals of history, to "the | transitory forms which it assumes, rather than to the principles of | permanent application which it includes." Correctness of | costume is its great aim in writing history. Hence, its personages | are like the figures in Madame Tussaud's exhibition, strong | likenesses, but of the body and clothes, not of the soul. They are | works of ingenuity, not of art. Last of all, a dry, dusty, and | soulless, antiquarianism comes in and quenches the lamp of | history. More than one able historian has made shipwreck on | this shoal. In a laborious anxiety to be correct, they have | evaporated away all the spirit of their book. It is a much worse | symptom when this spirit invades the sacred history of the | Church. It has done so, we fear, among us to a pernicious extent. | A nation indifferent to the creeds, is seized with a sudden passion | for ecclesiastical art. We read Bingham, and fancy we are | studying ecclesiastical art. Descriptions of religious ceremonies, | the interior of monasteries, the dress and food of the monks, are | favourite reading with persons who are quite unable to follow, | even in thought, the interior purpose, the inward life, the | description of whose outward forms is their every-day study. Far | more respectable and consistent indeed than this fashionable | coxcombry, which pollutes by its patronizing dilettanteism the | relics of middle-age art, while it spurns the religion which | inspired that art, and can alone give it meaning, was the honest | ferocity of the sixteenth century which broke painted windows, | defaced coats of arms, cut up illuminated missals, and violated | sepulchral monuments ~~ just as the Turks had done at | Constantinople, ~~ because they bore the image and print of "the | beast." | | At the head of the class of the pictorial historians stands | Augustus Thierry. He is no mere antiquarian. His graphic | narrative has all the vividness that art can give to description of | what the describer has not actually witnessed. Yet he never loses | himself in mere ornamental description for description's sake. | He uses it for the sake of giving relief to the events. He paints to | the understanding through the eye. He stands | | thus midway between the contemporary historian of the old age, | and the modern antiquarian historian. In the same way as | Rubens stands between the old masters, and the miniature Dutch | school. For the Flemish artist, transcendent as his merit is, has | more affinity with the latter school, which is yet so far beneath | him, than with the former. If then the error be guarded against of | thinking this knowledge of the external desirable for its own sake | ~~ of treating history as if it were a series of | intended to please the eye, the picturesque is one of the | most happy and appropriate of the forms in which history can | clothe itself. It is naturally a great help to a right understanding | of the inward thing. , says one who is certainly not | chargeable with neglect of the substantials of historical science, | . | | We can well understand how a mind, which either by training or | accident, has habitually thus cultivated imagination in connexion | with historical study, will find one of its highest pleasures in | actually visiting the scenes which have been long familiar to it in | books. This is the riches reward of the student of history, one of | the advantages which his pursuit has over those of a more | abstract nature, when he is thus enabled to fix and localize the | events on which he speculates, to verify and give material | substance to what were otherwise the shadows of names and | places. It is this that gives its chief charm to travel. Indeed, the | instinct of pilgrimage, as it has been said, | | | | The truth is, that that magnetic influence which irresistibly draws | our feet to spots on which our imagination has long fed, is an | instinct of our nature, and that in this, as in other respects, the | Church did but take into her service, and propose a fitting object | to, an impulse which will vent itself in some form or other. | There have been pilgrims both before and since the ages of faith, | the ages when the Church bore sway over every action of life. | Only she sent them to the tombs of saints and martyrs, and filled | their paths with sacred associations, instead of leaving them to | roam at will in search of the relics of pagans or infidels, with | Byron or Rousseau in their pockets as the companions of their | way. The Church cannot be said to have created pilgrimages, or | even to have encouraged them ~~ she suffered them, and gave | them a direction which might, at least, edify. But is | her doctrine. At the same time she conceived doubtless, that she | might do much worse than in proposing to our imitation the | example of those unknown Three, the earliest Christian pilgrims, | for whose guidance and consolation in their journey a new star | was created ~~ and in directing the footsteps of her children | more especially to that land which has been hallowed for ever by | the presence of one, who is the Lord, Whose servants the saints | and martyrs are. | | This is a task quite distinct from a love of grand scenery ~~ a | love of nature. For this we must go to particular spots of the | earth, where there are mountains, rocks, lakes. North America or | South Africa, lands the least interesting to the historical traveller, | will supply the richest objects to the lover of scenery. It is the | old historical lands of Europe that the lover of history longs to | explore. None of these are more attractive to him than France. | Its natural scenery preeminently, in western Europe at least, tame, | and uniform; but rich beyond all others in the traces of the men | of old, and the associations of the past. For ourselves, at least | were we younger, we could gaze for hours with Froissart on our | knee, over that boundless plain of Languedoc, convicted of all | guide-books of being arid, brown, and wholly uninteresting. | This old Languedoc, Roman and Gothic still. | | | | Nor, we hope, are we singular. Among the shoals of the | frivolous and dissipated which this country annually discharges | upon the continent, there are, we would hope, to be found some | few thoughtful travelers who are attracted to foreign lands by a | love of the localities associated with the memory of the great and | the saintly of ancient times. Such is perhaps the nearest | approach we may make to the motives of the Christian pilgrim. | Such a voyager, if it has ever been his hap to turn his feet to | Orleans, and descending to the water-side to embark in one of | the tiny iron steamers belonging to M. Larochjacqueline, glide | with sinuous course down the Loire, its banks still clad with the | broom which gave their title to the Plantagenets, the sunny and | laughing landscape once only gloomily broken as we sweep | beneath the frowning Blois; such a voyager will seldom feel this | spell upon his spirit more powerfully than when, before sunset of | a long summer's day, the little vessel is moored to the quay of | Tours. | | What a host of thoughts and images that one name carries! The | ecclesiastical capital of early France ~~ what Canterbury was to | England ~~ the depository of the wonder-working remains of the | Apostle of Gaul, the light of the Western Church in the fourth | century. The virtues of St. Martin's precious relics was in most | active operation during the fifth and sixth centuries. The | miracles and power of the saint called forth the devotion and | munificence of the people, poor and rich a like, the Tours | became the centre round which churches, monasteries, and | religious foundations crowded. Of all this what now remains? | The healing power had been long withdrawn, and at last | Providence was pleased to permit the body itself which He had | so highly endowed to be dishonoured and carried off. With it | went the splendour which had accumulated round it. The | Huguenots had pillaged the shrine; the revolution swept it away | altogether. Of the vast cathedral of St. Martin, of whose | | abbey the king of France was Abbot, and a crowd of the great of | all lands were canons, two towers are all that remain. The | Church of St. Julian, equal in size to most cathedrals, was in | 1842 a coach-house, and at the very time we are now writing, is | placarded with hills, "To be sold or let." Grope among those | vineyards and orchards in the little village over the bridge, you | may detect an archway, and a piece of a wall; that was the abbey | of Marmontier, founded by St. Martin himself. All this is | familiar enough to us in our own country ~~ but it strikes us | more in one which is still to so great an extent catholic as France. | Are the Church's saints in this respect like the heroes of the | world, that there may come a time when they shall be as though | they had never been? when all that the Church retains of them is | the memory of their example; and that a book is a more enduring | legacy than a saintly life, and a body gifted with miraculous | power? | | For so it is, that while the Church of France possesses not a | vestige of St. Martin, another saint of the same city of Tours has | left a book which is not only esteemed in the Church, but has had | the honour, which the actions of saints so seldom have, of | commanding the respect of the world. The "History of the | Franks" of St. Gregory is not only a most valuable monument of | the history of the early French monarchy, but it is the only one. | It is in this respect like Bede's "History of the English nation," | though widely different from it in other respects. But for Bede | we should know nothing of the early history of the Saxons in | England ~~ without Gregory of Tours, we should be equally | ignorant of the first settlement of the Franks in Gaul. But in all | other points it is a complete contrast of Bede. In the first place, | the style of Bede, if not elegant Latin, is yet correct, sufficiently | classical. It is a written style, such as was learnt in the cloister | schools by the help of Donat, Tullius Rhetorica, and matured by | reading the Latin fathers, St. Augustine, and St. Ambrose. St. | Gregory of Tours has no style, barely grammar; barbarisms and | solecisms of all kinds abound, and the brevity and conciseness | with which events most important to understanding his narrative | are related, if it does not make his meaning obscure, at least | requires great attention in the reader not to overlook anything. In | the opening he . In fact, Bede, is writing in a dead | language, Gregory in a living. Bede no doubt spoke it and heard | it spoken every day in cloister, but then he had learned to do so | from books; Saxon came first and readiest to his lips. While the | Latin which Gregory writes, is with little difference, his native | tongue. | | | The difference is not less in the matter of the two histories. Bede | viewed the world only from the retirement of his cell. He knew | events chiefly as they appeared in books. Even the history of his | own time is drawn from what was communicated to him. So that, | however correct it may be, it wants that truth of delineation | which can only be given by one who has been himself an agent | in the scenes he describes. This St. Gregory was. For the ten | books of which his history consists may be divided, as regards | the authority on which it rests, into four portions. 1. All that | precedes the arrival of the Franks in Thuringia is little more than | a short chronological epitome of the history of the world derived | from some of the compendious chronicles then in use, and | abounding in errors. 2. From this period to the middle of the | sixth century his materials are chiefly Sulpicius Alexander, the | letters of Sidonius, St. Remigius, and the Gesta of the saints of | the period. 3. For the generation preceding his own time his | authority is tradition, chiefly that of his uncle St. Gall, and St. | Avitus, successive bishops of Clermont, in whose house St. | Gregory was brought up. 4. The last forty or fifty years he | describes what he himself saw and knew, and in which he played | an active part. | | This is therefore the most valuable part of the book. He occupied | the see of Tours twenty-three years, from 573 to 596. The value | and interest of the last five books of his history which are | occupied with this period, we should rate far higher than any part | of the writer who stands in a similar relation to our own history, | and with whom we have already compared him. They are not the | learned and accurate arrangement of the annals of the several | Frankish kingdoms, the successions of the bishops, royal houses, | etc., all which is indeed most valuable to the antiquarian, but dry | and profitless to others. On the contrary, they present a living | stirring picture of the Church and State of those days: the rude | violence, and unscrupulous cunning of the Merovingian princes; | their ambition and lawless passions; brought into contact with a | moral power claiming their obedience, and forcing from them a | sort of recognition of its claims, while they at the same time | endeavoured by some clumsy expedient, or grotesque ruse, to | evade it. The Church studying the barbarian temper for the | purpose of winning it to Christ; often obliged to give way, but | never compromising principle; always yielding as to brute force, | not out of a timid complaisance; managing, coaxing the despot, | as a fond nurse an overgrown and dangerous child, not fawning | upon him as on a patron who has much to give. For no chair of | dignified ease was a bishop's throne in the sixth century. To do | one's duty thoroughly is not easy in the most peaceable times. | But then a | | conscientious bishop might be truly said to place his life in | jeopardy every hour. Not even within the precincts of a Turkish | seraglio were the knife and the poison-cup lavishly employed | than by Fredegonde. | | | | Such was the true and patient policy of the Church, and such the | situation of those bishops who were faithful to their Master's | calling. For there were without doubt many of a very different | stamp, as the following narrative will show, while it will at the | same time give a far better idea of the state of things under the | Merovingian princes, than any comments of ours. Gregory | himself is the chief actor, and exhibits in a situation of the utmost | difficulty and peril, a union of prudence, tact, firmness, and | unshrinking principle, which may furnish an example for a | Christian bishop in all ages. | | It may just be premised for the sake of making our story more | intelligible, that the Franks had been in Gaul now about a century | (the event we are about to narrate occurred in the year 577), and | that the footing on which they stood with the old Gallo-Roman | population was now pretty well understood on both sides. The | Franks were the stronger, and therefore the masters; the Romans | were the more able, and therefore indispensable to their masters, | who were thus obliged to use them well. And this good usage | was not entirely dependent on the caprice of the Frank, but was | secured by law, if that could be called security which he had the | power of violating whenever he chose. They were something in | the relation of the Turk and the Greek in Greece, before the | Greek revolution; with this important difference, that the Frank | owed submission to the religion of the vanquished party, and | learned with implicit submission his faith from the mouth of the | Roman priest. | | In a territorial point of view, the Frank empire was divided into | three portions ~~ which the chronicles, latinising the Frank terms, | call the kingdoms of Neustria, Austrasia, and Burgundia. Tours | was comprehended in Neustria, which, under Chilperic, | | extended from the Meuse almost to the present southern limits of | France. Chilperic's capital was Soissons. Sighebert, king of | Austrasia, or the East, which extended from Bar-sur-Aube into | Bohemia, had lately fallen a victim to Fredegonde's assassins, | and the throne was occupied by a minor, whose mother, the | famous Brunchilde, governed as regent for him. Merovig, a son | of Chilperic, but not of Fredegonde, had married Sighebert's | widow, Brunchilde. Sighebert was his uncle, and marriage with | his uncle's widow was forbidden by the law of God, the canons | of the Church. It was also, but for quite another reason, highly | displeasing to his father Chilperic. Merovig however found one | who was willing, from personal attachment to himself, to violate | the canons, and to brave Chilperic's or rather Fredegonde's | resentment, by performing the marriage sacrament between | himself and the Austrasian queen. This was the bishop of Rouen, | Prætextatus, who from the day when he had held the young | prince over the baptismal font, had felt for him one of those | devoted unreasoning attachments, of which only a mother or a | nurse are thought capable. | | This was Prætextatus's offence. It was Fredegonde's object to | punish him for it. And the surest and least obnoxious means of | doing so seemed to be, by bringing him to a regular trial before a | synod of bishops for his flagrant infraction of the canon law, in | giving the marriage benediction to persons related in the degree | in which Merovig and Brunchilde were. | | The Trial of Prætextatus . | | The bishops within the limits of the kingdom of Neustria were | summoned to meet in synod, at Paris, at the latter end of the | spring of 577. Chilperic and Fredegonde journeyed from their | capital, Soissons, to attend it in person. The assembly was to be | held in the Church of St. Genoveva, which crowned a height at | no great distance from the City Island, then confined within the | two arms of the Seine. The church had been built by Clovis, at | the time of his departure for the war against the Visigoths. | Arrived at the destined spot, he hurled his battleaxe straight | before him, that the length of the edifice might remain a standing | monument of the vigour of the Frank conqueror's right arm. It | was one of those basilicas of the fifth and sixth centuries, built in | imitation of the earlier Roman basilicas, more remarkable for the | richness of their decorations than for beauty of architectural | proportions. Its interior was ornamented with marble columns, | and a profusion of paint, carving, and gilding; like one of the | Jesuits' churches of the seventeenth century. Its roof was sheeted, | like St. Peter's, with copper. | | On the appointed day, forty-five prelates were assembled | | within its walls. The king, attended by some of his leudes, armed | only with their swords, entered; but the body of inferior Franks | who had followed him from Soissons, posted themselves, fully | armed, outside, under the portico, occupying all the entrances. | Under such circumstances an obnoxious criminal stood, we | might suppose, small chance of justice. On entering, the king | begged the attention of the synod to two bales of stuffs, and a | sack of coin, which figured prominently on the pavement of the | church, observing that they would prove of great importance in | the course of the inquiry. | | The accused was now brought forward. The king rose, and | instead of addressing himself to the judges, turned towards his | adversary, and thus bluntly apostrophized him: ~~ . At | these words, the Frank warriors who crowded the doors of the | basilica, raised a fierce shout of indignation, demanding the | death of the traitor to their king; and as their fury kindled, they | pushed into the nave of the building, and showed an inclination | of executing at once the sentence they had pronounced against | the accused. The bishops, in alarm, quitted their seats, and it | required all the personal influence of the king to check the | turbulence of his irritated followers, which he was not sorry, | perhaps, to have exhibited in terrorem to | the assembly. | | When order was in some measure restored, the criminal was | allowed to answer in his own behalf. Not at all disconcerted by | the scene that had just occurred, the wily Roman undertook to | justify himself. He could not deny the fact of the uncanonical | marriage, but he turned all his defence to vindicate himself from | the charge of treason. Then Chilperic summoned his witnesses. | Several persons of Frank origin came forward, and producing | different objects of value, declared that they had been given to | them by the bishop, on condition of their promising fidelity to | Merovig. Prætextatus, not at all disconcerted, replied, ? | No more substantial evidence being producible against the | bishop, | | the synod broke up, and the king retired to his residence, not a | little chagrined at having failed, with so many advantages in his | favour, in procuring a conviction. | | The bishops were withdrawn to the sacristy of the church, and | were conversing in separate groups familiarly enough, but with | an awkward reserve on the main subject. They distrusted one | another. They knew what they ought to think of the business in | hand. It was evident that the king sought the ruin of Prætextatus, | and wished to make them his instruments in effecting his purpose. | They would have refused their cooperation if they dared; but | they knew how dangerous it would be to do so. | | While they were in this mood, they were surprised by the abrupt | entrance of Aetius, the Archdeacon of Paris. Entering with equal | suddenness on the thorny subject which they were delicately | shunning in their conversation among themselves ~~ ! | he cried; . But the spirit of timid reserve still kept the | bishops silent, and this generous appeal met no response. | | The indignation of one among them was, however, roused by | their pusillanimous silence. Gregory of Tours, | finding that no-one | of more age or weight than himself spoke, came forward and | said, . And he reminded them of the cases of | Chlodomir, and the Emperor Maximus, whose fate was | considered a providential judgment on acts of violence they had | committed against two Christian bishops. The bishops made no | answer, and one by one they crept away, one part to withdraw | themselves from the storm which they saw now inevitable; | another party, chiefly consisting of those of Frankish race, to | make their court to the king, by betraying the events of their | private conclave. | | Chilperic was speedily informed that the man he had to fear was | the bishop of Tours. A messenger was immediately despatched | to summon "his enemy" into his presence. Gregory | | obeyed, and followed his conductor with a calm and composed | mind. He found the king in the open air, sitting under a hut | formed of the branches of trees, in the midst of the encampment | of his warriors. Berthramn, the licentious bishop of Bordeaux, | and Raghenemod, the bishop of Paris, who had been playing the | honourable part of informer against their colleague, were at his | side. Before them was along table, on which was bread, and | other meats, to be presented, according to the Frank custom, to | each new visitor. | | , said the king, in an angry tone, . | | , answered Gregory, ? | , said Chilperic, ? | | This flimsy hypocrisy, by which he who was all-powerful sought | to pass himself off as the victim of others' injustice, inspired | Gregory with a contempt which he could not dissemble, and he | replied ~~ . | | The king, with the craft with which a barbarian knows how to | conceal his passion when he pleases, assumed an air of | familiarity, and pointing to a mess of pottage, which stood | among the viands on the boards, said with an air of gentleness, | . This was intended to flatter the bishop's | | vanity, as though it was matter of notoriety that he abstained | from more solid food. But Gregory was not the dupe of this | stratagem, and bowing, in token of refusal, he answered, | . Unwilling to break openly with the Bishop of Tours, | whose great popularity at Tours, and indeed all over France, | made him a person of much consideration, Chilperic lifted his | hands, and calling the Almighty to witness, swore that he would | not in anything trespass against the law and the canons. Then | Gregory advanced to the table, and took a morsel of bread, and | drank some wine, a ceremony of hospitality which could not be | omitted without giving great offence. After this he retired to his | lodging in the Church of St. Julian. | | In the course of that night, after they had chanted nocturnes, the | bishop was roused by a loud and continued knocking at the door | of the house. Sending down a servant to ascertain the cause, he | was told that messengers from Queen Fredegonde desired to see | him. Being admitted to his presence they saluted him in that | queen's name, and told him that they were sent to pray him not to | show himself obstinately bent on thwarting her wish in the | matter now before the council. If he would declare against | Prætextatus, and nothing more was needed to ensure his fall, they | were authorized to promise him two hundred pounds of silver. | With his habitual calmness and self-command, Gregory replied | that he had but one voice amongst many, and that even if he were | to give way, it would be far from deciding the matter. The | messengers rejoined that it was all that was needed, for that they | had already gained the votes of all the rest. Without changing his | tone the bishop replied, . The messengers | misunderstood these words, either from their ignorance of what | was meant by the canon law, or from supposing that by "the | Lord" ( Dominus ) the bishop intended | the king, who was often so styled in ordinary language. They | accordingly withdrew to carry to the queen this favourable report | of the bishop's intentions. | | The members of the synod were betimes next morning in the | church, and the king, recovered from his disappointment, was | equally punctual. In order to reconcile his oath of the previous | evening with the accomplishment of the vengeance meditated | | against Prætextatus, he brought to bear all his literary and | theological knowledge. He had been diving into the collection of | the canons, and had pitched upon one which enacted the heaviest | punishment that could be inflicted on a clerk, that of deposition. | All that was now needed was to bring a charge against the | Bishop of Rouen, of such a nature as should fall within this | penalty. This caused Chilperic no great embarrassment. When | the judges and the accused had taken their places, the king, with | the gravity of a doctor expounding ecclesiastical law, began: | . The synod was amazed at this opening, and all the | members demanded with one voice who it was who was charged | with the crime of theft. , said the king, turning to | Prætextatus, ? | | The members of the council now remembered the bales and the | bag of money which the king had pointed out to them at the | opening of the sitting. Unexpected and barefaced as was this | new attack, Prætextatus replied with patience, ? | | ? | | | | | | The king knew not what to say in answer to such a genuine | expression of paternal regard on the part of the aged bishop | towards the young prince. Chilperic's resources were exhausted; | and the assurance he had at first displayed, was now succeeded | by an air of embarrassment and confusion; he broke up the sitting | abruptly, and withdrew disconcerted and discontent. Above all, | he dreaded the encounter with Fredegonde. Probably instigated | by her reproaches, he soon after summoned to his presence those | members of the council who were most at his command, and | among others, Berthram and Raghenemod. , said he, | . | | Whether the bishops persuaded their credulous and feeble | colleague that the king, tired of the prosecution, was only | anxious to extricate himself from it, without the disgrace of a | defeat, ~~ or whether they wrought on his fears by representing | to him that his innocence, however manifest, could not save him | from the royal vengeance, if he obstinately persisted in braving it, | ~~ Prætextatus, well acquainted himself with the timidity and | servility of his judges, did not reject the proposal thus made to | him. It was at best, he might think, a last resource, when all | others should fail. His pretended friends, receiving the thanks of | the man whom they were betraying, returned to the king to | announce the success of their mission. The accused, they said, | having come into the snare that had been laid for him, would | make a full confession on the first appeal made to him. Thus | Chilperic was delivered from the necessity of inventing any new | expedient to assure the success of the procedure. | | The next morning, at the opening of the sitting, the king, as if | merely resuming the | broken thread of the previous day's argument, said, pointing to | the witnesses who were by, ? Though his conscience | must have been unstrung by the secret engagement he had made | with the | | bishops, Prætextatus, by an instinct of shame which, for the time, | overcame his fears, revolted from the falsehood which he had | bargained to tell against himself. , was his answer, | . | | At these words, which seemed to indicate a purpose on the part | of Prætextatus of persevering in his defence, the king's anger | broke forth into a violence which so terrified the helpless old | man, that all at once, falling on his knees before the king, he | cried out, . As soon as the king saw his adversary at his | feet, his anger passed away, and hypocrisy recovered its | command. Feigning to be overpowered by his emotions, he now, | in his turn, threw himself on his knees before the bishops, | ? The bishops sprung from their seats, and hastened to raise | the king to his feet; those who were not in the secret melted to | tears, the others laughing inwardly at the scene that was being | acted before them. As soon as Chilperic had recovered himself, | as if unable any longer to bear the sight of one who had pleaded | guilty to so great a crime, he ordered Prætextatus to be removed | from the church. He himself followed shortly after, as if to leave | the council to deliberate upon the sentence it had now to give. | | Immediately on his return to his palace, the king despatched to | the synod the volume of the canons which had formed the object | of his study the preceding night. This was probably the | collection made by Dionysius Exiguus, in 525, for it contained | the Apostolical Canons, which were not as yet admitted as part | of ecclesiastical law in the Gallic Church. The twenty-first of | these canons was the same which Chilperic had pronounced with | so much emphasis at the first meeting. This article had attracted | his notice for no other reason, than because it enacted the penalty | of deposition. But as the cries against which it enacted this | penalty, viz. those of theft, adultery, and perjury, as the king had | himself previously quoted it, did not happen to suit the present | case, Chilperic had simply erased the word "theft" from the | parchment, and substituted that of "murder." This truly barbarian | trick escaped detection at the time on the part of the bishops, | unacquainted, as most of them were, with a collection which had | not long been in existence, and was of no authority among them. | The Bishop of Tours was even the only one who exclaimed | against the appeal to a novel code, and who | | made a fruitless effort to engage his colleagues to decline the | authority of the pretended Apostolical Canons. | | This they would not do. Condemned Prætextatus must be, and | what did it signify by what semblance of law or justice, when all | for whose opinion they cared, the king, Fredegonde, and the | Frank warriors, would look at the sentence, not at the grounds on | which it professed to rest. This artifice would do, since they | could bethink themselves of no better. The mock deliberation | terminated, the parties were called in again to hear the sentence | pronounced. The fatal article having been read, the Bishop of | Bordeaux, acting as president of the council, addressed the | accused: . | | At this judgment, pronounced by the lips of a man who, the | evening before, had practiced so basely on his unsuspecting | simplicity, the condemned stood struck mute with surprise. The | king, not content with his victory, sought for some further | aggravation of his ignominious sentence. He demanded that his | robe should be torn off his back in the church; and when this | insult was demurred to on the part of the bishops, he required | that they should read over his head the 108th Psalm, which | contains the maledictions applied by St. Peter, in the Acts, to | Judas Iscariot. | | This was the extreme and terrible punishment, usual only in | cases of sacrilege. Once again the voice of the dauntless | Gregory was lifted in behalf of the deserted and friendless | Prætextatus, and he reminded the king of his oath not to act in | anything against the canons. Finding his proposal not | entertained readily by the rest of the bishops, Chilperic was fain | to content himself with now requiring that the judgment which | had been given should be entered on record, and a clause inserted | that the deposition should be perpetual. Gregory's former | success encouraged him to withstand the king's wishes again on | this point. The sentence, accordingly, of simple deposition, | stood as at first pronounced. | | Prætextatus was then handed over to some of the king's guards, | and conducted to a prison outside the walls of the city, the ruins | of which long after remained on the left bank of the Seine. He | made an attempt to escape during the night, in which he failed, | and was cruelly beaten by the soldiers who had the custody of | him. In a day or two, he was sent into exile, or | transported , the usual Frank punishment for | offenders of any rank or consideration. The place of his exile | was an island adjacent to the city of Coutances ~~ probably, | Jersey; then inhabited only, if at all, by pirates of Anglo-Saxon | race, and serving as a kind of Siberia for the kingdom of Neustria.