Skip to main content

Full text of "History of Latin Christianity: Including that of the Popes to the Pontificate of Nicolas V"

See other formats


This is a digital copy of a book that was preserved for generations on Hbrary shelves before it was carefully scanned by Google as part of a project 

to make the world's books discoverable online. 

It has survived long enough for the copyright to expire and the book to enter the public domain. A public domain book is one that was never subject 

to copyright or whose legal copyright term has expired. Whether a book is in the public domain may vary country to country. Public domain books 

are our gateways to the past, representing a wealth of history, culture and knowledge that's often difficult to discover. 

Marks, notations and other maiginalia present in the original volume will appear in this file - a reminder of this book's long journey from the 

publisher to a library and finally to you. 

Usage guidelines 

Google is proud to partner with libraries to digitize public domain materials and make them widely accessible. Public domain books belong to the 
public and we are merely their custodians. Nevertheless, this work is expensive, so in order to keep providing this resource, we liave taken steps to 
prevent abuse by commercial parties, including placing technical restrictions on automated querying. 
We also ask that you: 

+ Make non-commercial use of the files We designed Google Book Search for use by individuals, and we request that you use these files for 
personal, non-commercial purposes. 

+ Refrain fivm automated querying Do not send automated queries of any sort to Google's system: If you are conducting research on machine 
translation, optical character recognition or other areas where access to a large amount of text is helpful, please contact us. We encourage the 
use of public domain materials for these purposes and may be able to help. 

+ Maintain attributionTht GoogXt "watermark" you see on each file is essential for informing people about this project and helping them find 
additional materials through Google Book Search. Please do not remove it. 

+ Keep it legal Whatever your use, remember that you are responsible for ensuring that what you are doing is legal. Do not assume that just 
because we believe a book is in the public domain for users in the United States, that the work is also in the public domain for users in other 
countries. Whether a book is still in copyright varies from country to country, and we can't offer guidance on whether any specific use of 
any specific book is allowed. Please do not assume that a book's appearance in Google Book Search means it can be used in any manner 
anywhere in the world. Copyright infringement liabili^ can be quite severe. 

About Google Book Search 

Google's mission is to organize the world's information and to make it universally accessible and useful. Google Book Search helps readers 
discover the world's books while helping authors and publishers reach new audiences. You can search through the full text of this book on the web 

at |http : //books . google . com/| 














By henry hart MILMAN, D.D., 


VOLUME vin. 
















BOOK XIIL (caniinued.) 

CouvcxL OF Fkkrara — Thb Gkeeks. 

A.». * PA0I 

Proposed Reconciliation of Grreek Empire and 

Church U 

Proceedings at Constantinople 17 

1485 Council Biupends the Pope 18 

The Emperor John Palaeologus tft. 

Fleets of the Pope and the Council 22 

1487 Hie voyage 24 

1488 Arrivd at Venice. 25 

Anival at Ferrara 27 

Plague at Ferrara 81 

Journey to Florence 88 

France — Pragmatic Sanction — Synod of Bouiges 84 

Council of Flobbncb. 

1488-9 Procession of the Holy Ghost 41 

Temw of Treaty 44 

Close of the Session 48 

Return of the Greeks to Constantinople ib. 





Archbishop of Aries 58 

1489 Deposition of Pope Eugenius 65 

Election of Pope Felix 60 

1440 Coronation 61 

Neutrality of Germany — Diets 62 

iEiiBAS Stlyius Piccolomini — DissocuTiON OF Council of Basle. 

Youth of Mneas 65 

.^Sneas in Scotland 67 

His morals 71 

iEneas at Basle 74 

Secretary to Pope Felix 80 

Secretary to the Emperor 81 

^neas in Holy Orders 84 

1444 .£neas Imperial Ambassador to Rome 88 

^neas Secretary to the Pope t&. 

1446 Again at Rome ib, 

Gregory of Heimburg 98 

Diet at Frankfort 94 

1447 Death of Eugenius IV. 98 

Nicolas V. 

Election of Nicolas V. 100 

1449 Dissolution of Council of Basle — Abdication of 

Pope Felix 102 

iEneas in Milan 105 

Character of Nicolas V. 106 

1450 Jubilee 108 

1452 Coronation of the Emperor Frederick HI. Ill 

• • 


A. V. 

Conspiracy of Stephen Porcaro 114 

Taking of ConaUntiMpie 118 

1454 Death of mcolas Y. 119 

Mcolas patron of letters and arts 121 

His buildings 126 




Cleigy and Laity 182 

Intellectual education of Clergy 184 

Spiritual power 186 

Monks and Friars 189 

Property of Clergy — Tithe 141 

Landed wealth 144 

France — England 146 

Doomsday 147 

Valuation of Henry VIII. 161 

Bent in money and kind 168 

Oblations 155 

Unity of the Clergy 157 

Ubiquity of Clei^ 160 

Social effects 168 

Charity 166 

Morals of the Clergy 167 

Power of Clergy — Italy 170 

" " France 178 

" " Spain — Germany 175 

«« " England 177 





The Creed 186 

Popular religion 186 

Angela 189 

Pseado-Dionysius the Areopagite 190 

Demonology 196 

Satan 199 

The Virgin 208 

The Saints 204 

Belies 217 

Hell 221 

Palpatory 224 

Heaven 227 

LATiif Lettbbs. 

Theology 284 

Earlier Schoolmen 286 

Peter Lombard 288 

M3rsties • • 240 

Arabic Philosophy 248 

Aristotle 245 

Translations of Aristotle * 248 

The Schoolmen 249 

The five great Schoolmen — 

Albert the Great 257 

Thomas Aquinas 265 

St Bonaventura 278 

Duns Scotus * *. 276 

(Scotists and Thomists) 280 

William of Ockham 282 

Roger Bacon 288 

The De Imitatione Christi 297 



Chbistiait Latin Poktbt — Histobt. 


Latin Poetry — Parapbrases 802 

Later Latin Poems • • 806 

Lives of the Saints 807 

Hymnology 808 

Mysteries 812 

Hroswitha 816 

Anacreontic Songs 819 

Satiric Poems 824 

History 881 

Chbistian Letters in the New Languages of Europe. 

French — Spanish — German — English 885 

Provencal Poetry 837 

Dante 888 

Petrarch 842 

Boccaccio ib. 


Language of France 850 

The Normans 858 

Poetry of Langui! d'Oil — Trouvferes 856 

Memoirs 859 



Teutonic Languages. 

Christian terms original 860 

The Anglo-Saxons 868 

Conversion of Germany • 364 

The Normans 868 



Piere Ploughman - 871 

Wycliffe'8 Bible 884 

Chaucer • 886 

Germany 891 

Preachers 896 

John Tauler 897 

Nicolas of Basle 401 

Mysticism 405 

Friends of God 407 

German Theology 408 

Chbistian Abchitbgtube. 

Architecture faithful to the Church 409 

L Boman Architecture 412 

The Arch 414 

Constantine the Great 415 

Constantinople 417 

n. Justinian 418 

St Sophia 420 

Hierarchical influence 422 

The Church — The builders in the West* ib. 

Motives for church-building 427 

The Church the people's 481 

m. Byzantine, Lombard, or Bomanesque 482 

IV. Norman Architecture 486 

V. Grothic Architecture 487 

The Gothic the consummation of church 

architecture 446 

Symbolism 447 

Chbistiam Scuuturb. 

Christian sculpture in the East 452 

Proscribed in the East 455 

Sculpture in the West 456 


Architectural Sculpture 467 

Monumental Sculpture 460 



The Catacombs 465 

Tjrpea of the Saviour, &c. 468 

Monks of St Basil 470 

Change in the tenth century ib. 

Mosaics 472 

Dawn of Art 476 

Gciotto ib. 

Mendicant Orders 479 

Frti Angelico 482 

Transalpine painting 484 

Art under Nicolas V. 486 

Revolution begun under Nicolas Y. 487 

I. Progress of human intellect 489 

n. Revival of Letters 490 

m. Modem Languages 498 

IV. Printing and paper 494 

Conclusion • 497 

Indxx 607 







The Pope liad appealed to Christendom on his orig- 
inal inherent irresponsible aatocracy, even before the 
afiair of the reconciliation of the Greek Church be- 
coming more urgent gave him a special pretext for 
convoking the Council to some city of Italy. This act 
was in truth the dissolution of the Council of Basle. 
For the Teutonic Council of Basle with all its aspixa^ 
tions after freedom, the substitution of an Italian Conn- 
cily if not servilely submissive, in interests and views 
closely bound up with the Pope^ had been from the 
first the declared policy of Eugenius IV. And now 
the union of the Churches of the East and West, so 
long delayed, so often interrupted, might seem an inev- 
itable necessity; it was imminent, immediate, at the 
will and the command of the West, which might 
dictate its own terms. The Emperor, and even the 
Patriarch of Constantinople seemed driven, in their 
deathpang of terror at the approach of the victorious 


Tui'ks, to accept the aid of the West at any cost, at 
any sacrifice. The Emperor John PalaBologus was 
hardly master of more than the Imperial city. Con- 
stantinople was nearly the whole Byzantine Empire. 
Nothing, however, shows more clearly that the Coun-' 
Reconciliation cil and the Pope divided tlie allegiance of 
smpin. Christendom than that ambassadors from the 
Eastern Empire appeared in Basle as well as in Rome. 
Negotiations were conducted between the Emperor and 
Patriarch &s well with the Council as with the Pope.^ 
Legates from the Council as from the Pope were sent 
to Constantinople. Contracts were entered into for 
Negotiations galleys, if not hired, promised both by Pope 
and Council, and Couucil to couvey the Byzantine and his 
Clergy to the West. The crafty Greeks seemed dis- 
posed to bargain with the highest bidder, and with him 
who could give best security. The difficulties and ad- 
vantages seemed singularly balanced. The Pope might 
admit the Easterns to unity, but Transalpine Christen- 
dom alone could pay the price of their laudable apos- 
tasy. Effective aid could be expected not from Italy, 
but from the Emperor (Sigismund was still on the 
throne) and from a crusade of all Europe. If the 
Greeks were unwilling to appear at Basle, the Council 
would consent to adjourn for this purpose to Avignon. 
And Avignon, it was thought, would purchase the high 

1 Syropoliu (p. 17), the Greek, describes the Council as assembled to 
remedy the monstrous evils which had grown up in the West, and for the 
limitation of the Pope's power, and that of his court: 'Ett^ dtop^uaei tQv 
drovuv TufV h rolg ftepeoi r^f 'IroAiaf napeia^apivTUVt koI fiaXuna hrl 
Ty auoTo^ Kol ifTTorvnoaei rov Udna xai t^ KVprti^ airov. Of the three 
ambassadors to Basle, two were Demetrius, the great Stratopedarch, and 
Isidore, afterwards Metropolitan of Russia. See the accounU of their re- 
oeption — Syropnlus, p. 23, et seq. 


honor of becoming the seat of the Council for this glo- 
rious object, at the price of 70,000 pieces of gold for 
the convoy of the Emperor and his retinue. Avignon 
declined, or at least was not prompt in the acceptance 
of these terms. 

The Pope during the preceding year had offered the 
choice of the great cities of Italy — Bologna, Ancona, 
Ravenna, Florence, Pisa, Mantua, even Rome. He 
now insisted on the alternative of Florence or of 
Udine in the Friulian province of his native Venice. 
Florence, his faithful ally, would open her own gates, 
Venice would admit a Council into her territory, not 
within her lagunes. If the reconciliation of the Greek 
and the Latin Church, tlie tardy and compulsory sub- 
mission of Constantinople to the See of Rome, had 
been the one paramount, transcendent duty of Chris- 
tendom ; if it was to swallow up and supersede all the 
long agitated questions of the reform in the hierarchy, 
the reinstatement of the sacerdotal Order not only in 
its power but in its commanding holiness, the Pope 
might urge strong reasons for the transplantation of 
the Council to Italy. The Greeks might well be 
alarmed at . the unnecessary difficulties of a journey 
over the snowy Alps, the perils of wild roads, of 
robber chieftains. The Pope felt his strength in rest- 
ing the dispute on that issue alone. At all events it 
might create a schism at Basle. The Transalpine 
party still adhered to Avignon, or some city of France. 
But if the Greeks also 'were to be considered, there 
could be no doubt of the superior convenience of Italy.^ 

1 On one occasion the Patriarch said with simplicitj that he had no in- 
clination to be food for fishes: '£^ 6k oi)K d^utv K(Kvere ^eidea^ai k/iavroO, 
fOproTe Kol kv rift neXuyei fit/^ KaTd(3(Mfia yivotfuu twv ix^uv. — 


The Papal Legate, die Archbishop of Tarento, ap- 
Bfareh 8, pcared at Basle to propose the removal of the 
^^' Council for this great end to Florence or to 

Udine. The President of the Conncil was still the 
Cardinal Julian Cdesarini. Up to this time Caesarini 
had stood firm and unshaken on the rights of the 
Council, but now with other Italian Prelates inclined 
towards obedience to the Pope. But the large number 
of the Transalpine Clergy, especially of the lower 
clergy, knew that once evoked to Italy the Council, 
as an independent assembly, was at an end. The de- 
bate was long and turbulent. They came to the vote. 
Above two thirds of the Council rejected the proroga- 
tion to Florence or Udine. The Duke of Milan, still 
opposed to the Pope in Italian politics, on his part de- 
sirous of having the Council in his dominions, offered 
a third alternative, the city of Pavia. -^neas Sylvius, 
in an eloquent speech of two hours (it was a conven- 
ient resting-place for w£neas ere he passed from the 
interests of the Council to that of the Pope), urged 
this middle course. He wrought on the ambassadors 
of Castile, but the Council was obdurate ; it would not 
pass the Alps. The decree of the majority was pub- 
licly read, ordered to be engrossed, and confirmed with 
the seal of the Council. To the indignation of most, 
a Bishop arose and published aloud the decree of the 
minority as that of the Council.^ Nor was this all ; 
at night the Bull of the Council was stolen from its 
box, the silken thread which attached the seal had 
been cut, the seal appended to the substituted decree 

Syropulw, p. 22. The magniloquent Latin translator makes the fishes 
1 MsietA Sylvius, p. 73. L'Enfant, i. p. 481, &c. 


of the Papal party. The fraud was openly charged, 
it was believed to be brought home to the Legate, the 
Archbishop of Tarento. His officer was treated with 
contumely, even with personal violence. The Arch- 
bishop with inconceivable effi"ontery, avowed and glo- 
ried in the crime. He had advised, ordered, aided in 
tbe theft. He had done it, and would do it were it to 
do again. Must he not obey the Apostolic See rather 
than a rabble ?^ He fled from the city (he was threat- 
ened with imprisonment) under an armed July 6, 1487. 
escort. The Emperor heard of this unworthy artifice ; 
he declared that the crime should not pass unpunished. 
Europe rang with the guilt of the Legate. 

Eugenius loudly protested against this insolent im- 
peachment of his Legate. He denounced the violence 
threatened against his sacred person, the rude usage of 
the Archbishop's officer: he afterwards rewarded the 
Archbishop with the Cardinalate. His protest and 
denunciations were heard with incredulity or indiffer- 
ence at Basle. 

The Pope was more successftil in his dealings at 
Constantinople. The Assembly, he urged, was but a 
small knot of unruly spirits, usurping the name of a 
Council ; their sole object was to diminish the power 
of the Pope, the Pope who alone had the right to sum- 
mon a Council and control their proceedings. He 
warned the Byzantines against trusting to their prom- 
ises ; they had no money to transport the Greeks to 

1 ** TarentinuB aiti cordis vir, intrepidos, audax. Quid vos, inquit, tanto- 
pere factmn vituperatiaV Rectum est et lande dignum, quod reprehenditur. 
Suasi ego rem, fieri mandavi, operam dedi, et nisi fecissem, hodie facerem. 
ApostolicsB Sedi magis qnain vestrie turbs obnoxius sum. Verum ego 
decretum plumbavi, vos adulterinum. Vi nos impediistis plumbare: cur 
arte non vindicabimus, quod nobis vi rapitur? nolo negare quod feci et 
recte feci." — ^n. Sylvias, p. 74. 

VOL. vm- 2 


the West, none for ulterior purposes. Venice had al- 
ready prepared her galleys for the convoy of the Em- 
peror. Of Venice the Greeks well knew the power 
and the wealth. Yet the crafty Greeks might well 
smile at the zeal of the Pope for the unity of the 
Church, which made him hold up their reconciliation 
as the one great object of Christendom, while in the 
West the unity was thus broken by the feud of Pope 
and Council. 

That feud was growing more violent and irreconcil- 
Jaiysi. able. The Council issued their monition to 
Sept. 26. ^Q Pope and to the Cardinals to appear be- 
fore them at Basle within sixty days, and answer for 
Oct. 81. their acts. They annulled his creation of 
Cardinals. At the expiration of the sixty days they 
solemnly declared the Pope contumacious. He had 
promulgated his Bull for the Council of Ferrara. 
That Bull they declared void and of none effect. 
Jan. 24, 1488. After some delay they proceeded to the sus- 
pension of the Pope. Other resolutions passed, limit- 
ing appeals to the Roman See, abolishing ex})ectatives, 
gradually unfolding and expanding their views of 
Church Reformation. 

The union of the Greek and Latin Churches, as it 
was understood in the West by the Pope and the high 
Papalists, the unqualified snlgection of the East to the 
successor of St. Peter, by the Council the subjection to 
the Western Church represented at Basle, seemed to 
acquire more paramount importance from the eager 
and emulous exertions of the Council and the Pope to 
secure each to itself the Imperial proselyte. The Em- 
The Emperor peror, Johu VI. PalaBoloffus, miffht at first 
logiu. appear to balance with lofty indifference their 


conflicting claims ; to weigh the amount and the cer- 
tainty of their offers, in which thej vied against each 
other ; and to debate which would be the most service- 
able ally against the terrible Ottoman, and therefore 
best reward the sacrifice of the religious freedom of 
the East. Those were not wanting who advised him 
to dismiss the ambassadors of both, and declare, '^ when 
you have settled your own quarrels^ it will be time for 
ns to discuss the terms of union." Friar John, the 
Legate of the Council, as he began to despaii* of con- 
ducting the Emperor to Basle, would at all hazards 
keep him away from Italy. He urged this dignified 
course ; the more important adviser, the Emperor 
Sigismund, gave the same counsel.^ But the Byzan* 
tine was now resolutely, as far as a mind so feeble was 
capable of resolution, determined on his journey to the 
West. He could not hope to hold a Council in Con- 
stantinople, in which the West would be but partially 
represented, if it condescended to be represented ; or 
in which his own Church, dominant in numbers, if re- 
quired to make the slightest concession, would render 
obedience. His fears and his vanity had wrought him 
to desperate courage. He could not but know that the 
Turks were still closing round his narrowing empire, 
though there was for the moment some delay or sus- 
pense in their movements. Amurath had hardly con- 
sented to a hollow and treacherous delay ,^ and who 
could know when they might be under the walls of 
Constantinople ? Yet had PalsBologus strange notions 

1 Laonictis Chalcondylas. By a great anachronism he antedates the 
election of the Antipope Felix by the Council at Basle, and makes it a 
tMt between the rival Pontiffs. — Ivi. p. 267. Edit Bonn. 

2 Syropulus, p. 57. 
s The treaty in Phranza, p. 118. 


of his own grandeur. The West would lay itself at 
his feet ; he might be chosen the successor of Sigis- 
mund, and reunite the great Christian commonwealth 
under one sovereign.^ 

But he had great difficulty in persuading the heads 
of his Church to embark on a perilous voyage to a dis- 
tant and foreign Council, where their few voices might 
be overborne by multitudes. Joseph the Patriarch was 
old, infirm, of feeble character : he yielded with ungra- 
cious reluctance,^ but scrupled not to compel the at- 
tendance of his more prudent and fiir-sighted clergy. 
They too found consolation to their vanity, food for 
their ambition. " The barbarous and ignorant West 
would bow before the learning and profound theology 
of the successors of Basil, the Gregories, and Chrysos- 
tom." Nor were they without some vague notions of 
the prodigal and overflowing wealth of the West : they 
would return having achieved a victory by their irre- 
sistible arguments, and at the same time with money 
enough to pay their debts.* If the Latins should stand 
aloof in sullen obstinacy, they would return with the 
pride of having irradiated Italy with the truth, and of 
having maintained in the face of Rome the cause of 
orthodoxy ; at the worst, they could but die as glorious 
martyrs for that truth.* The Patriarch labored under 
still more extravagant illusions. ^^ When the Eastern 

I STTopulas, p. 86. 

3 See his speech (Sjropiiliis, p. 16) in the time of Pope Martin, in which 
he predicts the inevitable humiliation from attending a Coancil in Italy, at 
the expense of the Westerns. *Ev yovv t£> ^tteX^bIv o^u koI kKdixetr^ai 

ittUVOi d^ KVpUH. 

* Syropulus, p. 63, 3. Kai imeXevaoiie^a koI iirmarphpoiuv vuairat 


* Syropaliifl, ibid. 


Emperor should behold the pomp of the Pope, the 
lowly deference paid to their ecclesiastical superiors by 
the great potentates of the West, he would take les- 
sons of humility, and no longer mistake the relative 
dignity of the spiritual and temporal Sovereign."^ 
These strange and chimerical hopes blinded some at 
least to the danger of their acts, and even mitigated for 
a time their inextinguishable hatred of the Latins ; for 
the Latin conquest of Constantinople still left its deep 
indelible animosity in the hearts of the Greek Church- 
men. They had been thrust from their Sees; Latin 
Bishops speaking a foreign tongue had been forced upon 
their flocks ; they had been stripped of their revenues, 
reduced to poverty and contempt. On the reconquest 
of Constantinople, the Cantacuzenes and Palaeologi had 
resumed the full temporal sovereignty, but the Church 
had recovered only a portion of its influence, wealth, 
and power. Even in Constantinople, still more in 
many cities of the Empire, the Latin Bishops still 
claimed a coordinate authority, refused to be deposed, 
and, where the Franks were in force, maintained their 
thrones. There were at least titular Latin Bishops of 
most of the great Eastern Sees. 

The Emperor and the Patriarch determined to ao 
cept the invitation of the Pope, and to reject Emperor 
that of the Council. Vague and terrible no- X^S **"* 
tions of the danger of surmounting the Alps, ***"•• 
or of the interminable voyage to Marseilles, if Avig- 
non should be the seat of the Council ; the more doubt- 
ful, less profuse promises of money for the voyage from 
the Council ; the greater dexterity and address of the 

1 Syropaliu, p. 92. Kal dn^ rov naira k^af»^i iXev^epCtaat r^v iiucXrfaUaf 
hrd T^ hnriMatfc airrov 6ovXeia( napd rov paaiXiuC' — «. t. A. 


Papal Legate, wrought powerfully on their minds. 
The fetal and insulting declaration of the Council — 
" They had subdued the new heresy of the Bohemians, 
they should easily subdue the old heresy of the Greeks" ^ 
— had been industriously reported, and could not be 
forgiven. More politic Rome made no such mistake : 
her haughtiness could wait its time, could reserve itself 
in bland courteousness till the adversary was in her 
power, at her feet. 

Eight Papal galleys, furnished in Venice and in 
ittTEi fleets. Crete, entered the harbor of Constantinople. 
They had not long arrived when it was heard that the 
fleet of the Council was drawing near. The Council 
had at length prevailed on the city of Avignon to fur- 
hiah the necessary fiinds ; the ships had been hired and 
manned at Marseilles. The Roman Admiral, the 
Pope's nephew Condolmieri, produced his commission 
to bum, sink, or destroy the hostile fleet. He gave 
orders to his squadron to set sail and encounter the in- 
solent enemy .2 It was with great difficulty that the 
Emperor prevented a battle between the fleets of the 
Pope and of the Council: an edifying proof to the 
Turks, who occupied part of the shores, of the unity 
of Christendom ! — to the Greeks a significant but dis- 
regarded warning, as to the advantages which they 
might expect from their concessions to Western Chris- 
tendom, itself in such a state of fatal disunion ! 

Afker nearly three months' delay — delay afterwards 
bitterly reproached by the Pope against the Greeks, as 

^ Syiopnlas, |>. 37. 

• MoXic o^ (5fd iroXkuv Xoyuv Kot ftqwfidTuv Kareireiae rbv Kavr^jovfiipriv, 
KtH iiaitxftoe, -^ Syropalas, p. 55. The Papal Legates had pennaded the 
Greeks that the Council of Basle was dissolred. 


having involyed much loss of time and needless expense 
— the Emperor and the Patriarch emharked on board 
the Venetian galleys. The Emperor was accompanied 
by his hrother, the Despot Demetrius, whom it might 
be dangerous to leave behind at Constantinople ; and 
attended by a Court, the magnificence of whose titles 
might make up for their moderate numbers. The 
Church made even a more imposing display. The Pa- 
triarch was encircled by the Bishops of the most fa- 
mous Sees in the East, some of them men of real 
distinction. There were those who either held or were 
supposed to be the representatives of the three Patriar- 
chates now under Moslem dominion — Antioch, Alex- 
andria, Jerusalem ; the Primate of Russia, whose 
wealth excited the wonder and envy of the Greeks; 
Bessarion Archbishop of Nicea, and Mark of Ephesus, 
the two most renowned for their learning ; the Prelates 
of Cyzicum, Heraclea, Nicomedia, Trebizond, Lace- 
da^iion, and other fiimous names. The greater monas- 
teries were represented by some of their Archiman- 
drites. The Patriarch was attended, in his person, by 
all the high officers and the inferior dignitaries of St. 
Sophia, the cross-bearers, the whole choir of singers, 
the treasurer, the guardian of the books, the guardian 
of the vestments, the guardian of those who claimed 
the right of asylum, the expounder of the Canon Law, 
and Syropulus, the Ecclesiast or the Preacher. The 
last avenged the compulsion laid upon him to follow 
his master to Ferrara and Florence by writing a lively 
and bold history of the whole proceedings.^ The 

1 This remarkable work of Syropulus is the chief and trustworthy au- 
thority for the voyage, personal adventures, and personal feelings of the 


preparations, both of the Emperor and the Patriarch, 
made an incongruous display of pomp and poverty. 
The Emperor, that he might appear as the magnificent 
Sovereign of the East, to the indi<niation of the Church 
appropriated and lavished the sacred treasures, which 
had been sent as votive ofierings by rich worshippers, 
on his own adornments, on a golden chariot, and cloth 
of gold for his bed. It was proposed that the Patri- 
arch alone should appear in becoming state ; the Bish- 
ops without their useless copes and dalmatics, in the 
coarse dress and cowls of simple monks. It was an- 
swered that the haughtv Latins would scoff at their 
indigence. Notwithstanding the prodigies which re- 
monstrated against their removal, the sacred vessels of 
St. Sophia were borne off, that the Patriarch might 
everywhere be able to celebrate Mass in unpolluted 
patens and chalices, and without being exposed to the 
contemptuous toleration of the Latins. When, how- 
ever, on the division of the first Papal subsidy (15,000 
florins), the Emperor assigned only the sum of 6000 
to the clergy, the Patriarch resolutely declared that he 
would not proceed to the Council. The Emperor was 
no less stubborn : he gave the Patriarch 1000 for his 
own use, and distributed the 5000 among the clergy ; 
to the richer less, to the poor more.^ 

An earthquake (dire omen I) shook the city as they 
TheToyage. sct Sail. The voyagc was long, seventy- 
seven days. The timid landsman, the Ecclesiast, may 
have exaggerated its discomforts and perils. It was 
humiliating alike to the Emperor and to the Patriarch. 
As they passed Gallipoli they were saluted with show- 
ers of javelins from the Turkish forts. In another place, 

1 Syropulus, 63. 


though there was no declared war, the Hagarenes 
would scarcely allow them to take in water. The 
Emperor hardly escaped falling into the hands of some 
Catalan pirates. The Patriarch, when he landed, had 
to endure the parsimonious courtesy and the niggard 
hospitality of the Latin Prelates who occupied Greek 
Sees on the coast.^ 

Nothing, however, could equal the magnificence of 
their reception at Venice. The pride of the AniTaiat 
Republic was roused to honor, no doubt to ^•°*«®- 
dazzle, so distinguished a guest. As they approached 
the Lagunes, the Doge rowed forth in the Bucen* 
taur, with twelve other galleys, the mariners in silken 
dresses, the awnings and flags of silk, the emblazoned 
banners of St. Mark waving gorgeously above. The 
sea was absolutely covered with gondolas and galleys. 
" You might as well number the leaves of the trees, 
the sands of the sea, or the drops of rain." The 
amazement of the Greeks at the splendor, wealth, 
and populousness of Venice forcibly shows how Con- 
stantinople had fallen from her Imperial state : — 
" Venice the wonderful — most wonderful I Venice 
the wise — most wise! The city foreshown in the 
Psalm, ' God has founded her upon the waters.' " ^ 

The respectful homage of the Doge to the Emperor 
was construed by the Greeks into adoration.^ He 
was conducted (all the bells of the city loudly pealing, 
and music everywhere sounding) up to the Rialto. 

1 See the voyage in Syropuliu at length, with many amusing incidents 
hy land and sea, 69, et uq. Gibbon justly says that " tiie historian has the 
uncommon talent of placing each scene before the reader's eye." — Note c. 
rvi. p. 99. 

S Phranza, ii. 15, p. 181, 6. Edit Bonn. 

* Phranza says, irpootKVVfiae rdv PaaiXea Kodijfuvov. 


There he was lodged in a noble and spacious palace : 
the Patriarch in the monastery of St. George. The 
Patriarch visited tlie church of St. Mark. The Greeks 
gazed in utter astonishment at the walls and ceilings 
glittering with mosaics of gold and precious stones, 
and the carvings in precious woods. The great treas- 
ury, shown only twice a year, flew open before them : 
they beheld the vast and incalculable mass of gold and 
jewels, wrought with consummate art, and set in the 
most exquisite forms ; but amid their amazement rose 
the bitter thought, " These were once our own : they 
are the plunder of our Santa Sophia, and of our holy 
monasteries." ^ 

The Doge gave counsel to the Emperor — wise 
Venetian counsel, but not quite in accordance with 
the close alliance of Venice with the Pope, or her re- 
spect for her mitred son, Eugenius IV.^ He might 
take up his abode in Venice, duly balance the offers 
of the Pope and the Council of Basle, and accept the 
terms most advantageous to himself or his Empire. 

If the Emperor hesitated, he was determined by the 
arrival of Cardinal Caesarini, deputed by the Pope, 
with the Marquis of Este, to press his immediate pres- 
jsn. 9, 1438. cncc at Fcrrara. Julian Caesarini had now 
abandoned the Council of Basle : his desertion to the 

1 Syropulus. There was one splendid image wrought entirely out of the 
gold and jewels taken in Constantinople : Tolg fuv K€KTijfiEvoic KavxvfJta kcu 
rep^u^ kyivero Koi ifSov^, raic 6* a^cupeddaiv el Trot) koI 7raparr;fot«», 
ir^fua Kol Tivnri koI Kaiifi^eui^ ug koI ^fuv Tore avvipij. S^Topulus is 
bettor authority than Ducas, and would hardly have suppressed, if he had 
witnessed the wonder of the Venetians at the celebration of the Mass by 
the Greeks according to their own rite. " * Verily,' '* writes Ducas, " they 
exclaimed in wonder, * these are the first-bom of the Church, and the Holy 
Ghost speaks in them.* " — Ducas, c. xxxL 

s Syropulus, p. Sd. 

Chap. XUI. TEBRARA. 27 

hostile camp might indicate that their cause was sink- 
ing towards desperation. He was now the Legate of the 
Pope, not that of the majority, it might be, but dwin- 
dling, more democratic, almost discomfited, majority at 

Early in March the Emperor set forward to Feri-ara. 
He travelled (it was so arranged) partly by water, 
partly by land, with greater speed than the aged 
Patriarch, who was highly indignant, as the Church 
ought to have taken precedence. In the reception of 
the Emperor at Ferrara all was smooth cour- ^j,^ Emperor 
tesy. He rode a magnificent black charger ; ** **™"*- 
another of pure white, with trappings emblazoned with 
golden eagles, was led before him. The Princes of 
Este bore the canopy over his head. He rode into 
the courts of the Papal palace, dismounted at the stair- 
case, was welcomed at the door of the chamber by the 
Tope, He was not permitted to kneel, but saluted 
with a holy kiss, and took his seat at the Pope's right 
hand. The attendants had indeed lifted up the hem 
of the Pope's garment, and exposed his foot, but of 
this the Greeks took no notice. The Patriarch moved 
more slowly: his barge was splendidly adorned,^ but 
there ended his idle honors. He had still March 4. 

1 There is however considerable difficulty, and there are conflicting au- 
thorities as to the time, at which Julian Ciesarini, the Cardinal of St. An- 
gelo, left Basle (see Fea's note to ^neas Sylvius, p. 128): and also whether, 
as Sanuto asserts, he appeared before the Emperor of the East, not as rep- 
resentative of the Pope, but of the Council. Caesarini seems to have been 
in a state of embarrassment: he attempted to mediate between the more 
violent and the papalizing parties at Basle. He lingered for some mouths 
m this doubtfhl state. Though accredited by the Pope at Venice, he may 
have giwn hunself out as representing the sounder, though smaller part 
of the Council of Basle. This was evidently the tone of the Engenians. 

* Phranza compares it to Noah*s Ark. He was astonished with its sump- 
tnoosness and accommodation. — P. 189. 


cherished the fond hope that the Pope would receive 
him as his equal. He had often boasted that the 
Patriarchate would now be delivered from its base 
subjection to the Empire. He was met by a mes- 
senger with the tidings that the Pope expected him 
ji^^jj g to kneel in adoration and kiss his foot. This 
A.D. 1438. degrading ceremony his own Bishops had de- 
clined.^ " If he is the successor of St. Peter," said 
the Patriarch in his bitterness, " so are we of the other 
Apostles. Did they kiss St. Peter's feet? " No Car- 
dinals came out to meet him, only six Bishops, at the 
bridge. His own Bishops, who were with him, re- 
proached the Patriarch : " Are these the honors with 
which you assured us we were to be received ? " The 
Patriarch threatened to return home. The Pope, dis- 
appointed in the public humiliation of the Patriarch 
at his feet, would grant only a private audience. In 
the morning they all mounted horses furnished by the 
Marquis of Este, and rode to the gates of the Papal 
palace. All but the Patriarch alighted. He rode 
through the courts to the foot of the staircase. They 
passed through a suit of chambers, through an array 
of attendants with silver wands of office. The doors 
closed behind them. They were admitted only six 
at a time to the presence of the Pope. Eugenius was 
seated with only his Cardinals around. He welcomed 
the Patriarch with a brotherly salute. The Patriarch 
took his seat somewhat lower, on a level with the Car- 
dinals. His cross-bearers did not accompany him : they 
came last, and were permitted to kiss the hand and the 
cheek of the Pope. Now as afterwards, in their more 
private intercourse, the Pope and the Patriarch being 

^ Syropalas, p. 95. 


ignorant, the one of Greek, the other of Latin, dis- 
coursed through an interpreter.^ 

The Greeks had not been many days at Ferrara, 
ere they began to suspect that the great ob- iMscontent 
ject of the Pope was his own aggrandizement, Greeks. 
the strengthening of his power against the Council 
of Basle. They looked with jealousy on every aiir 
fiil attempt to degrade their Patriarch from* his ab- 
solute coequality with the Pope, on his lower seat, 
and the limitation of the honors paid to him ; they re- 
proached the Patriarch with every seeming concession 
to the Papal pride.^ Before they met in the Council, 
they had the prudence curiously to inspect the arrange- 
ments in the great church. They found a lofty and 
sumptuous throne raised for the Pope in the midst: 
the rest were to sit, as it were, at his feet. Even the 
Emperor was roused to indignation. After much dis- 
pute it was agreed that the Pope should occupy a 
central throne, but slightly elevated. On his right, 
was a vacant chair for the Emperor of the West, then 
the Cardinals and dignitaries of the Latin Church ; on 
his left, the seat of the Eastern Emperor, followed by 
the Patriarch and the Greek clergy. But the affairs 
dragged languidly on. The Pope affected to expect 
submission of the Fathers of Basle. The Italian Prel- 
ates were by no means imposing in numbers ; of the 
other Latin clergy were very few. The only ambas- 
sadors, those of the Duke of Burgundy. The Greeks 
perhaps knew not in what terms the Western clergy 
had been summoned. ^^ If the Latins had any parental 

^ Syropnlus, p. 96. 

> The Bishop of Trebisond was luiuiUy the spokesman. Syropolas, p. 


love they would hasten to welcome the prodigal son : 
the Greek Church returning to his father's home." 
The appeal to the charity of the Latins had no great 
result The Patriarch had joined with the Pope at 
the first Session in an anathema, if they should con- 
tmnaciously remain aloof from this Council. Awe was 
as powerless as love. 

The Emperor retired to a monastery about six miles 
from Ferrara, and abandoned himself to the pleasures 
of the chase. The husbandmen in vain remonstrated 
against his wanton destruction of their crops, the Mar- 
quis of Ferrara ^ against his slaughter of the pheasants 
and quails which he had preserved at great cost.^ The 
Patriarch and the clergy were left to suffer every kind 
of humiliating indignity, and worse than indignity* 
They were constantly exposed to endure actual hunger; 
their allowance in wine, fish, meat was scanty and ir- 
regular ; their stipends in money always many montha 
in arrear. They were close prisoners ; ^ rigid polioe 
watched at the gates of the city: no one could stir 
without a passport.^ The Bishop of Ferrara refiised 
them one of the great churches to celebrate Mass ac- 
cording to their own rite : he would not have his holy 
edifice polluted. Three of them made their escape to 
Venice, and were ignominiously brought back. A 
second time they contrived to fly, and found their way 

^ Nicolas III. of Este. LaonicuB Chalcondylafl takes the opportmiily of 
telling of the Marquis tht dreadfiil stoiy which is the groundwork of Lord 
Byron's " Parisina." — .** 288, &c 

* Raynald. sub ami. 

* This ancient Itali4kj usage, that no one could leave a city without a 
passport from the authorities, astonished the Greeks. — Syropulus, p. 141. 

^ Syropulus, ibid. He is indignant: Ovtu{ 6 HvevfMTiKOC ian^p rtfiOf 
tyvu Tovc Tou dyiov Hvevftaroc inr^pirac* 


to Constantinople. The indignant Patriarch sent home 
orders that the recreants should be suspended from their 
office, and soundly flogged.^ Tidings in the mean time 
arrived, fortunately exaggerated, that the Ottoman 
who had condescended to grant a precarious peace, 
threatened Constantinople; the Pope evaded the de- 
mand for succor. He, indeed, himself was hardly safe. 
The bands of Nicolas Piccinino, Captain of a terrible 
Free Company, had seized Forli and Bologna. 

The miserable Greek clei^ urged the Patriarch, the 
slow and irresolute Patriarch at length urged the Eid- 
peror, too well amused with his hunting, to insist on 
the regular opening of the Council. ^^ We must wak 
the arrival of the ambassadors from the Sovereigns and 
Princes, of more Cardinals and Bishops; the few at 
present in Ferrara cannot presume to form an (Ecu- 
menic CounciL'' Autumn drew on ; with autumn the 
plague began to appear. Of the eleven Cardinals only 
five, of the one hundred and sixty Bishops only fifty 
remained in Ferrara. The Greeks escaped the ravage 
of the pestilenqe, all but the Russians : they sufiered a 
fearful decimation.^ 

Not, indeed, that the whole of this time had been 
wasted in inactivity. Conferences had been held: 
private Synods, not recognized as formal acts of the 
Council, had defined the four great points of difference 
between the Gredc and Latin Churches. Scandalous 
rumors indeed were disseminated that the Greeks were 
guilty of fifty-four articles of heresy ; these charges 
were disdained as of no authority ; but the Greeks 
were not less affected, and not less despised and hated 
by the mass of the people for such disclaimer. The 

1 Syiopaliu, p. 1S5. > Id. p. 144. 


Council was at length formally opened ; but through- 
out it was skilfully contrived that while there was the 
most irreverent confusion among the Greeks, the Pa- 
triarch was treated with studied neglect, the Emperor 
himself, with reluctant and parsimonious honors ; the 
Pope maintained his serene dignity ; all the homage 
paid to him was skilfully displayed. The Greeks were 
jealous of each other ; the courtly and already waver- 
ing Prelate of Nicea was in constant collision with the 
ruder but more faithful Mark of Ephesus ; they could 
not but feel and betray, they knew not how to resent, 
their humiliation.! Their dismay and disgust was con- 
summated by news of the intended adjournment of the 
Council to Florence. They would not at first believe 
it ; the Emperor was obliged to elude their remon- 
strances by ambiguous answers. The terrors of the 
plague, which Syropulus avers had passed away for 
two months ; the promises of better supplies, and more 
regular payments in rich and fertile Tuscany; the 
neighborhood of commodious havens, where they might 
embark for Greece ; above all, starvation, not only 
feared, but almost actually suflFered : all were as noth- 
ing against the perils of a journey over the wild and 
unknown Apennines, perhaps beset by the marauding 
troops of Piccinino, the greater distance from Venice, 
and, therefore, from their home. Already the Bishop 
of Heraclea, the homophylax, and even Mark of Ephe- 
sus, had attempted flight, and had been brought back 
by actual force or by force disguised as persuasion.* 
The clergy with undissembled reluctance,* or rather 

I See all the Utter part of the 6th section of SyropuliiB. 

* Syropuliu, 151. 

• Kal Tcavrec rd r^r fura^eoQ detvbv dfuvdc kxTpayaiovvTec kcU 


under strong compulsion, the Emperor with ungracious 
compliance, yielded at length to the unavoid- journey to 
able necessity. Tlie Emperor and the Pa- *'*«*"'°<^- 
triarchy the Pope and his Cardinals found their long 
way to Florence, not indeed by the ordinary roads, for 
the enemy occupied Bologna, but, according to the 
Greeks, with the haste and secrecy of flight ; to the 
Latins, with the dignity of voluntary retirement. The 
Pope travelled by Modena ; the Emperor and the Pa- 
triarch by Faenza, and thence in three days over the 
savage Apennines to Florence.^ 

In Basle, meantime, the Nations continued their 
sessions, utterly despising the idle menaces Baaie. 
of the Pope, and the now concurrent anathemas of 
the Greeks. The Cardinal Louis Archbishop of Aries, 
a man of all-respected piety and learning, had taken 
the place as President, on the secession of Cardinal 
Julian Caesarini. But not only Caasarini, the Cardinal 
of St. Peter's and many others had fallen off from the 
Council ; the King of Arragon, the Duke of Milan 
menaced away their Filiates. None, it was said, re- 
mained, but those without benefices, or those from the 
kingdoms of which the Sovereigns cared nothing for 
these religious disputes. Amadeus of Savoy compelled 
his Bishops to join the Council, to make up a suffi- 
cient number to depose the Pope.^ The death of the 
Emperor Sigismund, whose presence in the dm. 9, i487. 
Council had no doubt raised its credit in the minds 

aimadafievoif kcU rrpdc ifinodiafidv raiynK Traina 6<ja ivi^ "Xkyovreg. — 
Syropulufl, p. 184. 

1 There is now a noble road from Fori! to Florence; but before this road 
was made it mu»t have been a wild and terrific joomej, especially to th« 
sedentary Greek of GonAtantinople. 

* ^neas Sylvius, p. 76. 



of men, was a fatal blow to the cause of Reformation. 
His son-in-law, Albert, was chosen at Frankfort King 
of the Romans ; bat Albert's disposition on this mo- 
mentous subject was undeclared ; his power not yet 
Atvrank- Confirmed. The Geiinan Diet now took a 


A.i>' 1438. lofty tone of neutrality ; they would not in- 
terfere in the quaiTel (it had sunk into a quarrel) 
between the Pope and the Council. In vain the Arch- 
bishop of Palermo, in the name of the Council, urged 
that it was the cause of ecclesiastical freedom, of holy 
religion. Even the great German Prelates heard in 

Not so the kingdom of France. On the 1st of May 
Prance. tho GalHcau Hierarchy, at the summons of 
Sanction. the King, assembled in a national Synod at 
Bourges. The Kings and the clergy of France had 
seldom let pass an opportunity of declaring their own 
distinctive and almost exclusive independence on the 
Papal power. At the same time that they boasted 
their titles, as inherited from Pepin or Charlemagne 
as the defenders, protectors, conservators of the Holy 
See, it was with reservation of their own peculiar 
rights. They would leave the rest of the world pros- 
trate at the Pope's feet, they would even assist the 
Pope in compelling their prostration ; in France alone 
they would set limits to, and exercise coutrol over that 
power. Even St. Louis, the author of the first Prag- 
matic Sanction, in all other respects the meekest Cath- 

1 These verses are of the time : — 

" Ut primum nugnl coepit dtecordia cleri 
Dicnnt Germani, nos sine parte flomiu. 
Hoc abi non rectam docti docuere magistri 
Bospcodaiit animof , gutton non sapinnt." 


olic Christian, was still King of France. The King, 
or rather the King's advisers, the Legists and the 
Counsellors in the Parliament, saw that it was an in- 
estimable occasion for the extension or confirmation 
of the royal prerogative. The clergy, though they 
had attended in no great numbers, were still in gen- 
eral adherents of the Council of Basle. The doc- 
trines of Geraon and of the University of Paris were 
their guides. At the great Synod of Bourges synodat 
the King proposed, the clergy eagerly adopted a.d. ftss. 
the decrees, of the Council. Yet though they fully 
admitted the Assembly of Basle to be a legitimate 
OBcumenic Council, to which all Christians, the Pope 
himself, owed submission, they virtually placed them- 
selves above Pope or Council. They did not submit 
to the Council as Legislator of Christendom ; their own 
consent and reenactment 'was necessary to make the 
decree of Pope or Council the law of the realm of 
France. The new Pragmatic Sanction, as now issued, 
admitted certain of the decrees in all their fulness, from 
the first word to the last ; others they totally rejected, 
some they modified, or partially received. The Synod 
of Bourges assumed to be a coordinate, or, as regarded 
France, a superior Legislature. It asserted the rights 
of national churches with plenary authority, a doctrine 
&tal to the universal monarchy of Rome, but not less 
so to the unity of the Church, as represented by the 
Pope, or by a General Council. The Pragmatic Sanc- 
tion encountered no opposition. It enacted these pro- 
visions : the Pope was subject to a General Council, 
and such General Council the Pope was bound to hold 
every ten years. The Pope had no power to nominate 
to the great ecclesiastical benefices, except to a few 


Specially reserved ; the right of election devolved on 
those to whom it belonged. The Court of Rome had 
no right to the collation to inferior benefices ; expecta- 
tives or grants of benefices not vacant were absolutely 
abolished. Appeals of all kinds to Rome were limited 
to very grave cases. No one was to be disturbed in 
his possession who had held a benefice for three years. 
It restricted the number of Cardinals to twenty-four, 
none to be named under thirty years of age. Annates 
and first-fruits were declared simoniacal. Priests who 
retained concubines forfeited their emoluments for three 
months. There were some regulations for the perform- 
ance of divine service. The Mass was to be chanted 
in an audible voice : no layman was to sing psalms or 
hymns in the vulgar tongue in churches. Spectacles 
of all sorts, plays, mummeries, masks, banquets in 
churches were prohibited. The avoiding all com- 
merce with the excommunicated was limited to cases 
of great notoriety. The interdict was no longer to 
confound in one sweeping condemnation the innocent 
and the guilty.^ 

Thus, then, while Germany receded into a kind of 
haughty indifference, France, as far as France, had 
done the work of the Council. The Pragmatic Sanc- 
tion was her reform ; the dissolution of the Council by 
the Pope, the deposition of the Pope by the Council, 
she did not condescend to notice. England, now on 
the verge of her great civil strife, had never taken 
much part in the Council, she had not even resented 
her non-admission as a Nation. Even Spain and Milan 

1 Conciliam Bituricense, apud Labbe. Ordonnances de France, xiii. p. 
987, 291. L*£nfant, Hist da Concile de Bale. Compare Sismondi, Hist, 
des Fnui9ai8, xii. p. 327. 


had to a certain extent withdrawn their sanction. But 
still the Council of Basle maintained its loftj tone ; it 
must have had deep root in the reverence of mankind, 
or it must have fallen away in silent, certain dissolu- 




Florence received the strangers from the East with 
splendid hospitality. The Emperor, after some eon- 
test, allowed the Church on this occasion her coveted 
precedence.^ The Patriarch arrived first ; he was met 
by two Cardinals and many Bishops. But at Florence 
curiosity was not highly excited by the arrival of an 
aged Churchman : he passed on almost unregarded* 
Three days after came the Emperor ; the city was in a 
tumult of eager wonder ; the roofs were crowded with 
spectators ; trumpets and instruments of music rang 
through the streets ; all the bells pealed ; but the mag- 
nificence of the pomp (so relates the Ecclesiast, not 
"without some ill-suppressed satisfaction) was marred by 
deluges of rain.^ The gorgeous canopy held over the 
Emperor's head was drenched ; he and all the specta- 
tors were glad to find refuge in their houses. 

The Council of Florence began with due solemnity 
its grave theological discussions, on the event of which 
might seem to depend the active interference of the 

1 Laonicns Chalcondylas describes Florence as the greatest and richest 
city after Venice. 'H de ^?Mp€VTia nohf iorlv dXiSiurara fieru ye t^ 
OveverCjv rroXtv, kcU inl Ifinopiav lifia koI yeupyovi napexofdvtj toCc uarodc* 
This union of agriculture with trade is, I presume, to distinguish them 
from the Venetians. He enters into the constitution of Florence. 

'^ Sjropaliis, p. 218. 

CHAP.xnr. COUNCIL of Florence. 89 

West to rescue her submissive and orthodox brethren 
from the Mohammedan yoke, or the abandonment of 
the rebellious and heretical race to the irresistible Otto- 
man. It began with solemn order and regularity. 
The champions were chosen on each side ; on the 
Latin, the most distinguished were the Cardinal Julian 
CaBsarini, the late President of the Council of Basle, 
not less eminent for learning than for political wisdom ; 
and John, the Provincial General of the Dominican 
Order in Lombardy, esteemed among the most expert 
dialecticians of the West. On the side of the Greeks 
were Isidore of Russia, the courtly Bessarion, who 
might seem by his temper and moderation (though not 
unusual accompaniments of real learning) not to have 
been without some prophetic foresight of the Cardinal- 
ate, and the quiet ease of a Western Bishopric ; and 
Mark of Ephesus, whose more obstinate fidelity aspired 
to be the Defender, the Saint, the Martyr of his own 
unyielding Church. If legend were to be believed (and 
legend is still alive in the full light of history) the 
Greeks were indeed incorrigible. Miracle was wasted 
upon them. St. Bernardino of Sienna is said to have 
displayed the first recorded instance of the gift of 
tongues since the Day of Pentecost ; he disputed flu- 
ently in Greek, of which he could not before speak or 
understand one word.^ 

Already at Ferrara the four great questions had been 
proposed which alone were of vital difierence to the 
Greek and Latin Churches. I. The Procession of the 
Holy Ghost, whether from the Father alone, or like- 
wise from the Son. II. The use of leavened or un- 
leavened bread in the Eucharist. III. Purgatory. 


1 Raynaldas sub anno. 


IV. The Supremacy of the Pope. At Ferrara the 
more modest discussion had chiefly confined itself to 
the less momentous questions, those on which the pas- 
sions were less roused, and which admitted more calm 
and amicable inquiry, especially that of Purgatory. 
At Florence they plunged at once into the great ab- 
sorbing difficulty, the Procession of the Holy Ghost. 
This, though not absolutely avoided at Ferrara, had 
been debated only, as it were, in its first approaches. 
Yet, even on this point,^ where the object with the 
Latins, and with the more enlightened and best court- 
iers of the Greeks, was union not separation, agreement 
not stubborn antagonism, it began slowly to dawn upon 
their minds that the oppugnancy was in terms rather 
than in doctrine ; the discrepancy, as it was calmly ex- 
amined, seemed to vanish of itself. The article, how- 
ever, involved two questions, one of the profoundest 
theology, the other of canonical law. I. Which was 
the orthodox doctrine, the procession of the Holy Spirit 
from the Father alone, or firom the Father and the 
Son ? II. Even if the latter doctrine were sound, by 
what right had the Latin Church of her sole authority, 
in defiance of the anathema of one or more of the four 
great CEcumenic Councils, presumed to add the words 
" and the Son " to the creed of Nicea ? Which of 
these questions should take precedence was debated 
with obstinacy, not without acrimony. The more 
rigid Greeks would stand upon the plain fact, which 
could hardly be gainsaid, the unauthorized intrusion of 

^ The Greeks were manifestly bewildered by the scholastic mode of arga- 
ment, the endless logical fonnalaries of the Latins (Syropulas, pcutim). 
They were utterly unacquainted with the Latin Fathers; could not distin- 
guish the genuine from spurious citations; or even understand their lan- 
guage. — Syropulus, p. 218. 

Cbat-xiy. differences of the churches. 41 

the clause into the Creed. To the Latins, the Proces- 
sion of the Holy Ghost from the Father alone (the 
Greek doctrine) was an impions disparagement of the 
coequal, coeternal Godhead of the Son ; to the Greeks 
the Procession of the Holy Ghost from the Son also, 
was the introduction of two principles — it ascribed the 
incommunicable paternity of the Father to the Son.^ 
It was discovered at length that neither did the Latins 
intend to deny the Father to be the primary and sole 
fountain of Godhead, nor the Greeks absolutely the 
Procession of the Holy Ghost from the Son. They 
all acquiesced in the form " of the Father through the 
Son;" yet in the different sense of the two Greek 
prepositions, "from and through," Mark of Ephesus 
and the rigid Greeks fought with a stubborn pertinac- 
ity as if their own salvation and the salvation of man- 
kind were on the issue.^ But the real difficulty w^as 
the addition to the Creed. As a problem of high spec- 
ulative theology, the article might be couched in broad 
and ambiguous terms, and allowed to sink into reveren- 
tial silence. The other inevitable question forced itself 
upon the mind, the popular mind as well as that of the 
clergy, almost in every service. Whenever the Nicene 
Creed was read or chanted, the omission of the words 
would strike the Latins with a painful and humiliating 
void ; it was an admission of their presumption in en- 
larging the established Creed — the abasing confession 
that the Wi^tern Church, the Roman Church, had 
transcended its powers. To the Greek the unusual 

1 The Latin argued, el d^ dfioXoyovvrei rffieli ol Aarelvoi fiiav &px^ Kcti 
alTiiuf Koi wffy^ luii pi^ rbp Udrepa rm viov lud tov irvevfiarog^ fijf 
woiovvrr^ &ifo &pxof, Tii^ ^ XP^ "^^ itiraKei^tv irpoir&iKffv, — Ducas, 
s. xxxi. 

s Syropulos, p. 237. 


words jarred with equal dissonance on the ear; the 
compulsoiy repetition was a mark of galling subjection, 
of the cowardly abandonment of the rightfiil indepen- 
dence of his Church, as well as of truth and ortho- 
doxy. On this point the Latins suffered the humil- 
iation of having produced a copy of the Acts of the 
Second Council of Nicea, which included the contested 
words. It was a forgery so flagrant that they were 
obliged to submit to its rejection without protest.^ The 
Greeks drew the natural conclusion that they would 
not scruple to corrupt their own documents.^ The 
Latins were more fortunate or more skilful in some 
citations from St. Basil and other writers of authority. 
Their authenticity could not be disproved without 
awaiting the arrival of other copies from Constantino- 
ple. Throughout, the dispute rested on the Greek 
Fathers ; the Greeks somewhat contemptuously avowed 
their ignorance of the Latin saints. 

The Latins had the strength of strenuous union, the 
Greeks were weakened by discord. Already at Fer- 
rara the more rigid Greeks had seen the accomplished 
Bessarion of Nicea desert the faithful Mark of Ephesus. 
On the question of Purgatory they had differed more 
widely than the conflicting Churches. Their quarrel 
now degenerated into coarse and personal altercation. 
" Why do I dispute any longer " (Bessarion so far 
forgot himself) "with a man possessed by an evil 
spirit ? " ^ Mark, in return, denounced Bessarion as a 
bastard and an apostate. 

^ The interpolation was traced up to the time of Charlemagne, no higher. 

bri hoT^sinirfaav koI T(1 (iriTu tuv dvTUuJv cryiuw. — Syrop. p. 171. 
• Syropulus, p. 257. 

Chap. XIY. 6R££KS IN B15C0BSIQK. 43 

The Pope and the Emperor^ were resolutely deter- 
mined upon the union. Every art, all influence and 
authority, were put forth to compel the more refractory 
to ohedience. If the Cardinalate was not yet bestowed 
or promised to the more obsequious Prelates, Bessarion 
of Nicea and Isidore of Russia, the appointments and 
allowances to the more pliant were furnished with 
punctuality and profusion, those of the contumacious 
parsimoniously if it all. The arrears of the disfavored 
again extended to many months ; they were again 
threatened with starvation. Christopher, the Pope's 
former Legate at Constantinople, proposed altogether 
to withdraw the allowance from Mark of Ephesus, the 
Judas who ate the Pope's bread and conspired against 
him.^ Rumors were spread that Mark was mad. It 
was skilfully suggested, it was plain to the simplest 
understanding, that the liberties of the Greeks, perhaps 
their lives, in a foreign land, were not their own ; their 
return depended on the mercy or the generosity of their 
antagonists. They might be kept an indefinite time, 
prisoners, despised, starving prisoners. Their own poor 
resources had long been utterly exhausted; the Em- 
peror, even the Patriarch, could make or enforce no 
terms for refractory subjects, who defied alike temporal 
and spiritual authority. 

The Greeks met again and again in their private 
synod. The debates were long, obstinate, q^^i^ ib 
furious; the holy councillors were almost ^"**"'^®°' 
committed in personal violence ; the Emperor mingled 

1 The Emperor burst oat into a furious invective against the Bishop of 
Heraclea, who had presumed to refute the Imperial arguments : Ovtu Koi 
vOv avaujJcwTuv Xeyetc &nep aol oix i^eari. Utori imtt^tx^ii litonK 
brdptmoi^ Kcu airaidevrog Kcd Puvavaoc icaX x^''Vi' — P* ^^* 

3 Sjropulus, p. 251. 


in the fiay, overawing some to adulatory concessions, 
but not all.^ The question of the Procession of the 
Holy Ghost was proj)osed for their accordance in the 
mildest and most disguised form ; that of the addition 
to the Creed altogether eluded. There were twenty 
who declared themselves in favor of the union, twelve 
Junes. not content. But in subsequent meetings 
(every kind of influence was used, menaces, promises 
were lavished to obtain suffrages) the majority was 
gradually swelled by the admission of certain " Gram- 
marians " to vote : the minority dwindled away by the 
secession of some Bishops through fear or favor, the 
disfranchisement of three of the cross-bearers and some 
obstinate monks, as not in holy orders. The Emperor 
determined tliat suffrages belonged only to Bishops and 
Archimandrites.^ At length Mark of Ephesus stood 
alone, or with one partisan, Sophronius of Anchialus ; 
even Sophronius seems to have dropped away ; but in 
vain the Patriarch wasted all his eloquence on the ada- 
mantine Ephesian. 

Yet the Emperor would not surrender the liberties 
of his Church without distinct stipulations as to the 
reward of his compliance.^ His sole motive for sub- 
mission had been the security of his empire, of Con- 
stantinople now almost his whole empire.* A treaty, 
Jons 2. negotiated by Isidore of Russia, was duly 
ratified and signed, with these articles. I. The Pope 

1 The Bishops of Mitylene and Lacedaemon almost fell tooth and nail on 
Hark of Ephesus: Kat fiovov oi>K bdovai koX ;tepaiv upftuv diaanapd^ai 
ainiiv. — P. 236. 

2 'Hyovfievoi. 

* Gibbon has noted with his asual sarcasm the protest of the Emperor*fl 
dogy who howled fiercely and lamentably throughout his master's speech. 
— Syropulus, 266. 

^ Syropulus, 261. 


bound himself to supply ample means, ships and pro- 
visions, for the return of the Emperor and the Greeks. 
II. The Pope would furnish every year two galleys 
and three hundred men-at-arms for the defence of Con- 
stantinople. III. The ships which conveyed the pil- 
grims to the Holy Land were to touch at Constantinople. 
IV. In the Emperor's need the Pope should furnish 
twenty galleys for six months or ten for a year. V. 
If the Emperor should require land forces, the Pope 
would use all his authority with the Princes of the 
West to supply them. 

The temporal treaty was signed. With weary haste 
they proceeded to perfect, to ratify, and to publish the 
spiritual treaty, which pretended to unite the East and 
West in holy communion. The Patriarch, who had 
long been suffering from age and sickness, just lived 
to see and to sign this first article of his great work. 
He died suddenly almost in the act of urg- June9. 
ing his followers to submission. He had already sent 
off some of his effects to Venice, and hoped to return 
(happily he did not return) to Constantinople. His 
obsequies were celebrated with great pomp ; and in 
the Baptistery of Florence the stranger wonders to 
find the tomb of a Patriarch of Constantinople. 

The strife seemed to be worn out with this more 
momentous question. The discomfited and discordant 
Greeks had no longer courage or will to contest fur- 
ther.^ The three other points had already been par- 
tially discussed ; even that perilous one, the supremacy 

1 There is a remarkable passage, in which Bessarion of Nicea took the 
opportunity, to the perplexity and a.«toni8hnient of the Greeks, of asserting 
their absolute unity with the Latins as to the sole power of the hierarchy 
to consecrate the Eucharist and to ordain the clergy. — SyropuluB, p. 295; 
but compare p. 278. 


of the Pope, was passed, reserving only in vague and 
doubtful terms the rights of the Eastern Patriarchate. 
Death had silenced the remonstrant voice of the Patri- 
arch. The final edict was drawn by common consent. 
One only difficulty remained which threatened seri- 
ously to disturb the peace. In whose names, on whose 
authority, should it address the world as a law of 
Christendom, that of the Emperor the heir of Jus- 
tinian, or the Pope the successor of St. Peter ? The 
Emperor yielded to a compromise, which seemed to 
maintain his dignity. It spoke in the name of the 
Pope Eugenius IV. with the consent of his dear son 
John PalaBologus, Emperor of the Romans, and the rep- 
resentatives of his venerable brethren the Patriarchs. 
Earth and heaven were summoned to rejoice that the 
wall had fallen which had divided the Churches of the 
East and West. The Greeks and Latins are now one 
people. I. The Holy Ghost proceeds from the Father 
and the Son, but as from one principle, by one opera- 
tion. The words " from the Son " have been lawfully 
and with good reason inserted in the Creed. II. In 
the use of leavened or unleavened bread, each Church 
might maintain its usage. III. The souls of those 
who die in less than mortal sin are purified in purga- 
tory, by what fire was not determined, but their suf- 
ferings may be shortened or alleviated by the prayers 
and alms of the faithful. V. The Roman Pontiff^, as 
successor of St. Peter, has a primacy and government 
over the whole Catholic Church, but according to the 
Canons of the Church.^ The rights and privileges 
of the other four great Patriarchs, Constantinople, 

1 About this there was a dispute, on which the Emperor threatened to 
break off the treatj. The Pope proposed " according to Scripture and the 
writings of the Saints." ~ P. 282. 


Alexandria, Antioch, Jerusalem, are inviolate and in- 

The Acts of the Council of Florence boast the sig- 
natures, on the part of the Latins, of the Pope, eight 
Cardinals, two Latin Patriarchs, of Jerusalem and 
Grado, two Bishops Ambassadors of the Duke of 
Burgundy, eight Archbishops, forty-seven Bishops, 
four Heads of Orders, forty-one Abbots, and the Arch- 
deacon of Troyes. Among the Greeks were the Em- 
peror, the Vicars of the Patriarchs of Alexandria, An- 
tioch, Jerusalem, nineteen Archbishops and Bishops by 
themselves or by their proctors, the great Dignitaries 
of the Church of Constantinople, the Head of the Im- 
perial Monastery, and four Abbots. Of these some 
were compelled to set their hands, the Ecclesiast fairly 
owns, speaking no doubt of himself among otliers, from 
fear. Such were the representatives of the Christian 
world. The Despot Demetrius still sternly refused : 
he was to reap his reward in popularity, hereafter to 
be dangerous to his brother's throne. He retired to 
Venice in sullen dignity. 

The Act was published with imposing solemnity in 
the Cathedral of Florence. Nothing was wanting to 
the splendor of the ceremony, to the glory of the Pope. 
After Te Deum chanted in Greek, Mass celebrated in 
Latin, the Creed was read with the " Filioque." Sy- 
ropulus would persuade himself and the world that the 
Greeks did not rightly catch the indistinct and inhar- 
monious sounds. Then the Cardinal Julian Cassarini 
ascended the pulpit and read the Edict in Latin, the 
Cardinal Bessarion in Greek. They desQended and 
embraced, as symbolizing the indissoluble unity of the 
Church. The Edict (it was unusual) ended with no 


anathema. Bessarion and Isidore, with the zeal of 
renegades, had urged the condemnation of their con- 
tumacious brethren: they were wisely overruled. Even 
Mark of Ephesus*, whom the Pope would have visited 
for his stubborn pride (the brave old man adhered to 
his convictions in the face of the Pope and his Car- 
dinals), was protected by the Emperor. The service 
in the Cathedral of Florence was in' the Latin form, 
the Pope was on his throne, with his Cardinals, in all 
his superiority. Greek vanity had expected to impress 
the Latins by the more solemn majesty of their rites.^ 
They proposed the next day a high Greek function, 
witli the Pope present. The Pope coldly answered, 
that before they could be permitted in public, the rites 
must be rehearsed in private, in order that it might 
be seen whether there was anything presumptuously 
discordant with the Roman usage. The Greeks de- 
clined this humiliating mode of correcting the errors 
and innovations of the Roman ritual.^ 

Five copies of these Acts were made, and duly 
signed, that authentic proof of this union might never 
be wanting to perpetuate its memory to the latest time. 

Thus closed the first, the great. Session of the Coun- 
cil of Florence. The Emperor with the Greek Clergy 
returned to Venice, and, after a long and &tiguing 
navigation, to Constantinople^ there to be received, 
not as the Saviour of the empire from the sword of the 

1 The only superiority which the Latins seemed obliged to own, wm the 
splendor of the Greek dresses of silk. " A la maniera degli abiti Greci, 
pareva assai piii grave, e piii degna chc qnella de' Prelati Latini." — V«- 
pasiano, Vit. Eogeil. IV. Muratori, xxv. p. 261. 

* 'Hfielg k^appov/Jtev diop^uaai k6X?\m a^uXfiara tuv Aanvuv, — Syropu- 
lus, p. 299. 

* He embarked Oct. 19; arrived in Constantinople Feb. 1. 


Turks, not as the wise and pious reconciler of religious 
dissension and the peace-maker of the Church, but as 
a traitor to his own imperial dignity, as a renegade, 
and an apostate. Already in Venice signs of rebellion 
had appeared. The Bishop of Heraclea and the Eo- 
clesiast, compelled to officiate in St. Mark's, revenged 
themselves by chanting the Creed without the obnox- 
ious interpolation, and by refiising to pray for the 
Pope.^ During the voyage the Emperor encountered 
bitter complaints from the Greeks of the tyranny and 
exultation of the Latin Clergy. In Constantinople it 
was eagerly inquired whether they had returned victo- 
rious. They confessed with humble and bitter self- 
reproach that they had sold the &ith ; that they had 
yielAed in* base fear to the Franks.^ Had they been 
scourged, imprisoned, put to the torture? they could 
not plead this excuse. It was openly said that. Judas- 
like, they had received money and sold the Lord. The 
Archbishop of Heraclea declared that he had been 
compelled to the base apostasy, and confessed his bitter 
remorse of conscience ; he had rather his right arm had 
been cut off than that he had subscribed the union. 
At once the Monks and the women broke out into 
unrestrained fanaticism against the impious Azymites, 
who had treated the difference of leavened or unleav- 
ened bread as trivial and insignificant. The obsequi- 
ous Bishop of Cyzicum, promoted to the Patriarchate, 
could not command the attendance of his own digni- 
taries without the mandate, without threats of severe 
punishment from the Emperor.^ He stood even then, 
in the midst of his sullen retinue, in Santa Sophia, with 

1 Sjropnlus, p. 315. * Syropalus. 

9 Ducas, c. xxzi. 
voii. ym. 4 


hardly a single worshipper.^ The churches where the 
clergy officiated who had favored the union, not merely 
in the metropolis but in the villages around, were de- 
serted by their flocks.^ The D^pot Demetrius raised 
the standard of Greek orthodoxy in direct rebellion 
against his brother. His partisans excited the people 
everywhere, if to less violent, to as stubborn rebellion. 
Bold had been the Priest who had dared to interpolate 
the Creed with the hated clause. Even in Russia, the 
Cardinal Isidore (the wiser Bessarion returned to peace 
and honor in the West) was met with the same con- 
temptuous, inflexible resistance. 

A few short years had entirely obliterated all signs 
of the union in the East, excepting the more imbit- 
tered feeling of estrangement and hatred which raiScled 
in the very depths of their hearts towards the Latin 
Church ; and these feelings were only quenched in 
their blood. For, as they thus indignantly repudiated 
all connection with Rome, all subjection to Latin 
Christianity, the Pope and the Princes of Western 
Christendom thought no more of their treaty of succor 
and support against the Turks. 

Only fifteen years after the return of the Emperor 
John Palaeologus to the East, Constantinople was a 
Mohammedan city. St. Sophia, which disdained to be 
polluted by the " Filioque " in the Creed, resounded, 
unrebuked, with the Imauin's chant, " There is but 
one God, and Mohammed is his Prophet." 

The sole lasting consequence of the Council of Flor- 
ence, even in the West, was the fame acquired by Pope 

1 He demanded the reason of this from some of his refractory flock 
AiotI IfKohifn^ifffac Koi aii Tut Trarptapxv '^^ i^nvioac. — P* 337. 
^ Phranza, p. 194. Laonicus Chalcondjlas. Ducas, c. zxxi. 


Eugenius, which he wanted neither the art nor the 
industry to propagate in the most magnificent terms. 
He, of all the successors of St. Peter, had beheld the 
Byzantine Emperor at his feet, had condescended to 
dictate terms of union to the Greeks, who had ac- 
knowledged the superior orthodoxy, the primacy of 
Rome. The splendid illusion was kept up by the ap- 
pe»:ance of ecclesiastical ambassadors — how commis- 
sioned, invested with what authority, none knew, none 
now know — from the more remote and barbarous 
churches of the East, from the uttermost parts of 
the Christian world. The Iberians, Armenians, the 
Maronites and Jacobites of Syria, the Chaldean Nes- 
torians, the Ethiopians, successively rendered the hom- 
age of their allegiance to the one Supreme Head of 




The Council of Basle, frustrated in its endeavors to 
secure the advantage to itself of the treaty with the 
Eastern Emperor, looked on the negotiations at Fer- 
rara and Florence with contemptuous disregard. Its 
hostility might seem imbittered by the success of the 
Pope in securing the recognition of the Emperor and 
the Greek Clergy. It was some months before the 
time when Eugenius triumphantly announced his union 
with the Byzantine Church, that the Council deter- 
mined to proceed to the deposition of the Pope. They 
would before long advance to the more fatal and irrev- 
ocable step — the election of his successor. 

The Council might seem, in its unshaken self-confi- 
dence, to despise the decline in its own importance, 
from the secession of so many of its more distinguished 
members, still more from the inevitable consequences 
of having raised vast expectations which it seemed 
utterly unable to fulfil. It afiected an equable supe- 
riority to the defection of the great temporal powers, 
the haughty neutrality of Germany, and the rival 
synod of France at Bourges. Even the lesser tem- 
poral princes, who had hitherto supported the Council, 
the Spanish Kings, the Duke of Milan, seemed to 
shrink fix)m the extreme and irrepealable act — the 


deposition of the Pope. They began to urge more 
tardy, if not more temperate, counsels. The debates 
in the Council became stormy and tumultuous; the 
few great prelates encountered in bitter altercation. 
The Archbishop of Palermo, the representative of the 
King of Arragon, urged delay ; he was supported by 
the Archbishop of Milan, and by others of rank and 
name. He endeavored to counteract the growing dem- 
ocratic tendencies of the Council, by asserting the sole 
and exclusive right of the Bishops to suffrage. This 
preliminary debate was long and obstinate.^ At its 
close, after the speech of the Cardinal of Aries, a 
violent collision took place. The old Archbishop of 
Aquileia arose, and rashly said, ^^ You do not know us 
Grermans : if you go on thus, you will hardly come off 
without broken heads." The Archbishop of Palermo, 
Louis the Papal Prothonotary, and others, rose, and 
with one voice, exclaimed that the liberty of the Coun- 
cil was threatened. He called on the Count of Thier- 
stein, the Emperor's representative, who still had his 
seat in the Council, for his protection. The Count 
solemnly declared that the peace should be maintained. 
He was supported by the magistrates and citizens of 
Basle, who were proud that their town was the seat of 
the Council, and declared that it should not be dis- 
turbed. Still, as the President went on to read the 
decree, he was interrupted by shouts and unseemly 

^ See the whole in iEneas Sylvias. Comment, lib. i. Opera, p. 23. The 
speech of the Cardinal of Aries is of many folio pages. He rashly said 
that the Archbishop of Milan, though a prelate of the greatest weight and 
dignity, was no great orator. " As good an orator as you a president," 
burst in the indignant Lombard. The Cardinal of Aries bore the interrup- 
tioQ with patience, and went calmly on (p. 26). He soothed the Bishops 
with great skill, who were jealous of the suffrages of the inferior clei^. 
He compared the Council to the Spartans at Thermopyle. 


noises. ** A miracle," exclaimed the Archbishop of 
Lyons ; " the dumb speak, Bishops who never uttered 
a word before are now become loquacious." The Car- 
dinal Archbishop of Aries, the President, stood quite 
alone of his Order, aliAost alone among the Prelates of 
the highest rank, in his inflexible fidelity to the Council. 
His dignity, his unalterable temper, his promptitude 
and eloquence, which excited the most unbounded ad- 
miration, his consummate ability, by which, though a 
Frenchman, he out-manoeuvred the subtle Italians, still 
maintained his ;3way. His chief supporters, though of 
inferior rank, were men of fame for learning. He 
always happily chose his time : on the second meet- 
ing, he carried his point against the Archbishop of 
Palermo and all the Spanish and Milanese Prelates, 
who withdrew angry but baffled. '* Twice," said the 
Archbishop in Italian, meaning, twice we have been 
beaten, or twice overreached. 

As the session drew on which was to determine the 
question of deposition, the Bishops — some from ti- 
midity, some from dislike of the proceeding — shrunk 
away. Of the Spanish Prelates there was not one ; 
from Italy one Bishop and one Abbot, of mitred Prel- 
ates from the other two kingdoms (England took no 
part in the Coimcil) only twenty ; their place was 
filled by clergy inferior in rank, but, according to 
iBneas Sylvius, much superior in learning. The Car- 
dinal of Aries was embarrassed, but not disheartened, 
by this defection. The relics of many famous Saints 
were collected, borne by the Priests of his party through 
the city, and actually introduced into the hall of coun- 
cil in the place of the absent Bishops.^ At the solemn 

1 '^Plurimasque Baactomm reliquks tot& nrbe perquiri jnasit, «c per m- 


appeal to the Saints in bliss, a transport of profound 
devotion seized the assembly ; they all burst ^^^ ^^ 
into tears. The Baron, Conrad of Winsperg, ^•"' ^*^' 
the Imperial Commissioner, wept the loudest, and de- 
clared that he derived ineffable consolation in the ex- 
ecution of his arduous duty. Though so few Bishops 
were there, never were the seats so full. Proctors of 
Bishops, Archdeacons, Provosts, Priors, Presbyters, 
sat to the number of four hundred or more. Nor did 
the Council ever proceed with such calm and dignified 
decency. There was no word of strife or altercation, 
only mutual exhortation to defend the freedom of the 

The edict passed almost by acclamation. This act 
for the deposition of Eugenius condemned the Pope, 
who was now boasting the success of his inappreciable 
labors for the union of the whole Church, as a notori- 
ous disturber of the peace and unity of the Church, as 
guilty of simony and perjury, as an incorrigible schis- 
matic, an obstinate heretic, a dilapidator of the rights 
and possessions of the Church.^ All Christians were 
absolved from their oaths and obligations of fealty, and 
warned that they must neither render obedience nor 
counsel, nor receive favor from the deprived Gabriel 
Condolmieri. All his acts, censures, inhibitions, consti- 
tutions, were declared void and of none effect. The 
decree of course abrogated all the boasted acts of the 

cerdotum manos in sessione portatas, absentium EpiBcoporum locum te- 
nere." -~ ifineas Sylvius, lib. ii. p. 43. 

1 ^* Qnos inter nullum unquam probmm, nulla rixa« nulla unqnam con- 
tentio fuit : sed alter alteram in professione fidei hortabatur, unanimisque 
omnium ease consensus ad defendendam Ecclesiam videbatur." — Ibid. 

* The decne is dated Maj 26. — Labbe. According to the Continuator 
of Fleuiy (see Patrici. Art. Concil. Basil.)} June 25; the very day on 
which was announced the union of the Greek and Latin churches. 


Council of Florence. To the astonishment of the Coun- 
cil itself, the ambassadors of the Emperor and of the 
King of France, the Bishop of Lubeck and the Arch- 
bishop of Tours, made almost an apology for their ab- 
sence in their masters' name, approved the act of the 
Council and declared Pope Eugenius IV. an enemy 
to the truth.^ 

It was thought but decent to interpose some delay 
between the act for the deposition of Eugenius and the 
election of his successor. It was determined to wait 
two months. During those two months the plague, 
which had raged in the Pope's Council at Ferrara, with 
impartial severity broke out at Basle. The mortaUty, 
not in Basle alone, but in many cities of Southern Ger- 
many, was terrible.^ In Basle the ordinary cemeteries 
were insufficient; huge pits were dug to heap in the 
dead. Many of the Fathers died, protesting in their 
death, with their last breath, and with the Holy Eucha- 
rist on their lips, their fearless adhesion to the Council, 
and praying for the conversion of those who still ac- 
knowledged Grabriel fpr the Pope.* The aged Patri- 
arch of Aquileia rejoiced that he should bear into the 
other world the tidings of the deposition of Eugenius. 
iBneas Sylvius was among the rare examples of recov- 
ery from the &tal malady. But the Fathers stood 
nobly to their post ; they would not risk the breaking- 
up of the Council, even by the temporary abandon- 
ment of the city. The Cardinal of Aries set the ex- 
ample ; his secretary, his chamberlain, died in his house. 

1 Session XXXIV. apud Labbe, sab ann. 1439. 

s The Bishop of Labeck died between Buda and Vienna; the almoner 
of the King of Arragon in Switzerland; the Bishop of Evreux in Straa- 
burg; a great Abbot in Spires. 

* iEneas Sylviiis, lib. ii. p. 47. 


The pressing entreaties, prayers, remonstrances of his 
friends, who urged that on his safety depended the 
whole influence of the Council, were rejected with 
tranquil determination. The malediction fulminated 
against the Council hy Eugenius at Florence disturbed 
not their equanimity. Even at this hour they quailed 
not. They were described as a horde of robbers ; " at 
Basle all the devils in the world had assembled to con- 
summate the work of iniquity, and to set up the abom- 
ination of desolation in the Church of God." All 
Cardinals, Prelates, were excommunicated, deposed, 
menaced with the fate of Korah, Dathan, and Abiram. 
All their decrees were annulled, the brand of heresy 
affixed on all their proceedings. Against this furious 
invective the Fathers at Basle published an apology, 
not without moderation. 

The plague had mitigated its ravages; the two 
months had folly expired ; the Council proceeded to 
the election of a new Pope. The Cardinal of Aries 
was alone entitled by his rank to be an Elector ; -in his 
name there was unanimous assent. It was ^ proposed 
that three persons should nominate thirty-two, who 
with the Cardinal should form the Electoral College. 
The triumvirate were men whose humble rank is the 
best testimony to their high estimation. John, called 
the Greek, the Abbot of an obscure Cistercian convent 
in Scotland ; John of Segovia, Archdeacon of Villa 
Viciosa, Thomas de Corcelles, Canon of Amiens. 
Lest the most important Nation, the Germans, should 
take offence at their exclusion, they were empowered to 
choose a fourth : they named Christian, Provost of St. 
Peter's of Brun in the diocese of Olmutz, a German 
by birth. 


These theological triumvirs with their colleague 
named twelve Bishops, seven Abbots, five distin* 
gaished divines, nine Doctors of Canon or Civil Law.^ 
They were impartially chosen from all the four Nations, 
Germany, France, Spain, Italy. England alone, un- 
represented in the Council, was of course unrepresented 
in the Conclave. 

The Conclave was conducted with the utmost regu- 
87th senion. ^^^ ^^^ ^ studious imitation of the forms 
ock 24. observed by the College of Cardinals. The 
election, after not many days, was without serious strife ; 
88th SMtfon. ^^ struck Christendom with astonishment. It 
Oct. 28. ^j^g jiQij Q^ Prelate whose vigor and character 
might guarantee and conduct the reformation in the 
Church, on the expectation of which rested all the con- 
fidence of the world in the Council of Basle ; not a 
theologian of consummate learning, not a monk of rigid 
austerity, it was not even a Churchman of tried and 
commanding abilities. It was a temporal sovereign, 
who, weary of his crown, had laid it down, but was 
itot unwilling to plunge again into the more onerous 
business of a Pope : who had retired not into the desert, 
but to a kind of villarconvent on the beautiful shores of 
the Lake Geneva, and whose life at best decent and 
calmly devout, if not easy and luxurious, had none of 
the imposing rigor of the old founders of monastic 
orders. Amadeus of Savoy was summoned from his 
retreat at Thonon to ascend the Papal throne.^ 

1 The numben in ^neas SyWius are perplexing. The twelve Bishopii, 
including the Cardinal, were to represent the twelve Apostles. But he 
names many more. The account in the Acts of Patricius varies in many 
but not ven* important particulars. 

^ .£neas Sylvius (but we must begin to hear ^neas with more mistrust) 
attributes the elevation of Amadeus to a deep-laid plot " Amadeus qni ae 


Objections were raised that Amadeus of Savoy was 
not in holy orders ; that he had been married and had 
children. These difficulties were overruled, and yielded 
easily to the magnificent eulogies passed on the piety, 
charity, holiness of the hermit of Ripaflle. Some of 
the secret motives for this singular choice are clear 
enough. The Pope of Basle must be a Pope, at least 
for a time, without Papal revenues. Italy, all the pat- 
rimony of St, Peter which acknowledged the Pope, 
was in the possession of Eugenius, and showed no 
inclination to revolt to the Council. If any of the 
Transalpine sovereigns would recognize the Antipope, 
none was likely to engage in a crusade to place him on 
the throne in the Vatican. The only means of sup* 
porting his dignity would be the taxation of the Clergy, 
which his poor partisans could ill bear; the more 
wealthy and powerful would either refuse, or resent 
Udd pass over to the opposite camp. Amadeus, at first 
at least, might maintain his own court, if not in splen- 
dor, in decency. This, however, was a vain hope. 
The first act of the Council afler the election was the 
imposition of a tax of a fifth penny on all ecclesiastics, 
for the maintenance of the state of the new Pope. 
Perhaps the unpopularity of this measure was alien- 
ated by the impossibility of levying it. It was an idle 
display of unprofitable generosity. If Christendom 

fiituraiD P&pam sperabat " (p. 76). " Sapienti& pneditus dicebatur qui 
annis jam octo et amplius simulatam religionem accepisset, ut papatum con- 
Bequi posset." He makes Amadeus too far-sighted, ^neas assigns a cu- 
rious speech to Cardinal Giesarini. ** I was afraid that they would have 
chosen a poor and a good man ; then there had been indeed danger. It is 
that which stirs the hearts of men and removes mountains. This man 
hopes to accumulate the wealth of Pope Martin" — Martin's wealth had 
passed into a proverb — *'not to spend his own money." The election 
Nov. 5; confirmed, Nov. 17. 


had been bnrdened with the maintenance of two Popes 
it would have wakened up from its indifference, co- 
alesced in &vor of one, or discarded both. 

A deputation of the most distinguished Churchmen 
in Basle, the Cardinal of Aries at their head (he was 
attended by the Count of Thierstein, the Imperial Com- 
missioner), proceeded to the royal hermitage, there to 
announce to Amadeus his elevation to the Papal See. 
Amadeus assumed, if he did not feel, great reluctance. 
If his retirement and seclusion had not been mere 
weariness of worldly affidrs, and if he was not by this 
time as weary of his seclusion as he had been of the 
world, when Amadeus looked down on the shadow of 
his peaceful retreat, reflected in the blue and unbroken 
waters of the lake below, he might have serious mis- 
givings in assuming the busy, invidious, and, at least 
of old, perilous function of an Antipope.^ He had to 
plunge into an interminable religious war, with the 
administration, though without power, of the spiritual 
afiairs of half Christendom, the implacable hatred of 
the other half. Some difficulties were raised, but not 
those of a deep or earnest mind. He demurred about 
the form of the oath, the change of the name, the loss 
of his hermit's beard. He yielded the two first points, 
took the oath, and the name of Felix Y. ; ^ the last 
only on finding out himself, when he appeared as Pope 
in the neighboring town of Thonon, the unseemliness 
of a thick-bearded Pope among a retinue of shaven 

1 It waa his avarice which caused the delay, says the unfriendly ^neas. 
Tet it was natonl in him to say, " You have passed a decree suppressing 
Annates : how is the Pope to be maintained ? Am I to expend my patri- 
mony, and so disinherit my sons? ** — Fea, p. 78. 

' Accepts, Dec. 17. 


Though enthroned in the Church of St. Maurice, 
some months elapsed before his triumphant June 24,1440. 
progress through Switzerland to his coronation at Basle. 
He had created five Cardinals, who assisted the Car- 
dinal of Aries in the imposing ceremony first of his 
consecration as Bishop, afterwards his coronation as 
Pope ; his two sons, the Duke of Savoy and the Count 
of Greneva, an unusual sight at a Papal inauguration, 
stood by his side. Fifty thousand spectators beheld 
the stately ceremony : the tiara which he wore was of 
surpassing cost and splendor, said to be worth 30,000 
gold crowns.^ 

So then for the last time Christendom beheld the 
strife of Pope and Antipope, each on their respective 
thrones, hurling spiritual thunders against each other. 
The indignation of Eugenius knew no bounds. His 
denunciations contained all and more than all the mal- 
edictions which were laid up in the Papal armory 
against usurping rivals. The Fathers of Basle repelled 
them, if with less virulent, with not less provoking 

Bat Christendom heard these arguments and re- 
criminations with mortifying indifierence. That which 
some centuries ago would have arrayed kingdom against 
kingdom, and divided each kingdom within itself, the 
sovereigns against the hierarchy, or the hierarchy in 
civil feud, now hardly awoke curiosity. No omen so 
sure of the decline of the sacerdotal power; never 
again had it vital energy enough for a schism. 

The Transalpine kingdoms indeed took different parts, 
but with such languid and inactive zeal, that as to the 
smaller states it is difficult without close investigation to 

1 iEneas SjlyioB, Hist. ConcO. Basil. 1. ii. 


detect their bias. France had already in her synod at 
Bourges declared in favor of the Council, but expressed 
cold and discouraging doubts as to its powers of depos- 
ing Pope Eugenius and electing another Pontiff. The 
King spoke of Felix V. as of Monsieur de Savoye, sug- 
gested the summoning another Council in some city 
of France, but took no measure to enforce his sugges- 
tion. England was occupied, as indeed was France, 
with its own internal contests. The King of Arra- 
gon alone took an active part, but on both sides, and 
for his own ends. The kingdom of Naples was his 
sole object ; he would wrest that realm from the feeble 
pretensions of Ren^ of Anjou. At first the devoted 
ally of Felix, he would transport the Antipope to the 
shores of Naples, having subdued the kingdom to him- 
self under the Papal investiture, march to Rome with 
his triumphant forces, and place the Antipope in the 
chair of St. Peter. Amadeus wisely shrunk from this 
desperate enterprise. The King of Arragon, in a year 
or two, had changed his game. The Pope Eugenius 
scrupled not, at the hazard of estranging France, to 
abandon the helpless Angevine. Alfonso of Arragon 
became convinced of the rightful title of Eugenius to 
the Pontificate. 

Germany maintained the most cool and deliberate 
apathy. At three successive Diets at Mentz,^ at Nu- 
remberg, at Frankfort, appeared the envoys of Basle 
and of Rome, of Felix and of Eugenius, men of the 
most consummate eloquence. At Mentz John Bishop 

1 Mentz, Feb. 1440. At Mentz the Diet, before the election of the Emper- 
or Frederick III., in the disdainful assertion of their neutrality, published 
a declaration in which they sedulously avoided the word Pope. Th^ 
spoke of Ecciesia Dei, Ecclesia Romana, Sedes Apostolica, as the *' cui fa- 
denda est adhsesio." — Dax, Nicolas von Cusa, p. 223. 


of Segovia on the part of Basle, Nicolas of Cusa on 
the part of Rome, pleaded the caose of their respective 
masters : they cited authorities ivhich of old would have 
commanded awful reverence, precedents which would 
have been admitted as irrefragable, but were heard 
with languid indifference. At Nuremberg with Nico- 
las of Cusa stood the Archbishop of Tarento not. so, 1440. 
and the famous Dominican Torquemada, on the side 
of Basle the Patriarch of Aquileia. At a.d. 1441. 
Mentz^ again Nicolas de Cusa took the lead for the 
Pope, the Archbishop of Palermo for the Council. 
The Diet on each occasion relapsed into its ostenta- 
tious neutrality, which it maintained at subsequent 
meetings.^ Even the aggressive measure a.d. 1448. 
ventured at length by Eugenius, the degradation of 
the Archbishops of Cologne and Treves, as adherents 
of the heretical Council, and the usurping pseudo-pope, 
might have passed away as an ineffectual menace ; no 
one would have thought of dispossessing these power- 
fol Prelates. If he might hope to raise a strife in 
Germany by appointing Prelates of noble or rich Ger- 
man houses, therov was danger lest the nation might 
resent this interference with the German Electorate ; 
it might lead to the renunciation of his authority. He 
must look for other support. To Cologne he named 

1 Dax has given Nicolas de Cnsa's speech at length. His speech and 
that of the Archbishop of Palermo are in Wurdtwein. 

2 The speech of Nicolas of Cusa shows the course of argument adopted 
to annul the pretensions and blast the character of Felix. The wh61e is 
represented as an old and deep-laid conspiracy on his part. The Council, 
the Conclave had been crowded with his obsequious vassals (the four Italian 
Bishope were, it is true, those of Veroelli, Turin, Aosta, and another) ; his 
reluctance to assume the tiara was hypocritical effrontery; even his former 
Abdication of his throne a base simulation of humility. 


the nephew, to Treves the natural son, of the Duke 
of Burgundy. 

The Schism seemed as if it would be left to die out 
of itself, or, if endowed with inextinguishable, obsti- 
nate vitality, be kept up in unregarded insignificance. 
Some of the Fathers of Basle still remained in the city, 
but had ceased their sessions.^ The Council of Flor- 
ence was prorogued to Rome. Eugenius was in un- 
disturbed possession of Italy; Felix in his court at 
Lausanne, or Geneva. The Popes might still hate, 
they could not injure, hardly molest each other ; they 
might wage a war of decrees, but no more. 

One man alone by his consummate address and sub- 
tlety, by his inde&tigable but undiscemed influence, 
restored the Papacy to Italy, never but for one short 
reign (that of Adrian VI. of Utrecht) to depart from 
it, himself in due time to receive the reward of his 
success in nothing less than the Popedom. Eugenius 
and his successor Pope Nicolas V. enjoyed the fame 
and the immediate advantage of the discomfiture of 
the Council of Basle, of its inglorious dissolution. But 
the real author of that dissolution, of its gradual degra- 
dation in the estimation of Europe, of the alienation of 
the Emperor from its cause ; he who quietly drove 
Pope Felix to his abdication, and even added firmness 
and resolution to the obstinate and violent opposition 
of Pope Eugenius, was Mneas Sylvius Piccolomini. 

1 Lasf Session. The 44th. Haj, 1488. 





The life of ^neas Sylvius is the history of the dis- 
solution of the Council of Basle ; and not only so, but 
as an autobiography of an Italian, a Churchman, a 
Cardinal, at length a Pope, the most valuable part of 
the Christian history of his times — that of the opin- 
ions, manners, judgments, feelings of mankind. Con- 
trast it with the rise of high ecclesiastics in former 
times I 

The house of Piccolomini had been among the 
noblest of Sienna, lords of fortresses and castles. On 
the rise of the popular government in that city, the 
Ficcolominis sunk with the rest of the nobles. Yet the 
grand&ther of ^neas possessed an ample estate. He 
died early, leaving his wife pregnant. The estate was 
dissipated by negligent or improvident guardians ; the 
father of ^neas married a noble virgin, but without 
dowry, except the burdensome one — extraordinary 
fertility. She frequently bore twins, and in the end 
had twenty-two children. Ten only grew up, and Pic- 
colomini retired to the quiet town of Corsignano, to 
bring up in humble condition his large family. The 
plague swept off all but ^neas Sylvius and two sisters. 

^neas Sylvius was bom October 18, 1405. His 
VOL. vin. 5 


third baptismal name was Bartholomew, that of the 
Apostle of India. His infancy was not uneventfiil : 
at three years old *he fell from a wall, was taken up, 
as supposed, with a mortal wound in his head ; at eight 
was tossed by a bull. At the age of twenty-two he 
left his father's house, heir to no more than his noble 
name, went to Sienna, was maintained by his relations, 
and studied law and letters. The war between Flor- 
ence and Sienna drove him from his native city to seek 
his fortunes. Dominico Capranica, named as Cardinal 
by Pope Martin V., rejected by Pope Eugenius, es- 
poused the cause of the Council of Basle. He engaged 
the young Piccolomini as his secretary. After a peril- 
ous voyage ^neas reached Genoa, travelled to MUan, 
where he saw the great Duke Philippo Maria, and 
passed the snowy St. Gothard to Basle. Capranica, 
though he resumed his Cardinalate on the authority of 
the Council, was too poor to keep a secretary, ^neas 
found employment in the same office, first with Nico- 
demo Scaligero, Bishop of Freisingen, son of the Lord 
of Verona ; him he accompanied to Frankfort : after- 
wards with Bartolomeo Visconti, Bishop of Novara. 
With the Bishop of Novara he returned to Italy ; by 
his own account, through his eloquence obtained the 
Rectorship of the University of Pavia for a Novarese 
of humble birth, against a Milanese of noble family 
and powerful connections. With the Bishop of Novara 
he went to Florence, to the Court of Pope Eugenius : 
he visited the famous Piccinino, and his own kindred 
at Sienna. On his return to Florence he found his 
master, the Bishop of Novara, under a charge of cap- 
ital treason.^ The Bishop and his secretary Piccolomini 

^ Yoigt, Leben ^nea Sjlvio, p. 80 (Berlin, 1856), has attempted to un- 


foand refiige under the protection of the Cardinal of 
Santa Croce (Albergati). The Cardinal was sent as 
Legate to France, to reconcile the Kings of France and 
England, Charles VII. and Henry VI. In attendance 
on the Cardinal j^neas passed a third time through 
Milan, crossed the St. Bernard, and descended on the 
Lake of Greneva. At Thonon he saw Amadeus of 
Savoy, afterwards the Pope Felix V. of the Council 
of Basle, in his hermitage, living, as he says, a life of 
pleasure rather than of penance.^ They proceeded 
to Basle, not yet at open war with Pope Eugenius, 
dropped down the Rhine to Cologne, took horse to 
Aix-la-Chapelle, Liege, Louvain, Douay, Tournay, 
to Arras. The Cardinal di Santa Croce began his 
difficult function of mediating between the French, the 
English, and the Burgundians. 

^.^Ineas was despatched on a special mission to Scot- 
land, to restore a certain prelate to the favor of the 
King. He went to Calais. The suspicious English 
would not permit him to proceed or to go back. For- 
tunately the Cardinal of Winchester arrived from Ar- 
ras, and obtained for him permission to embark. But 
the English looked with jealousy on the secretary of 
the Cardinal of Santa Croce, whom they accused of 
conspiring to alienate Philip of Burgundy from their 
cause. He was refused letters of safe-conduct; he 
must be employed in some hostile intrigue with the 
Scots. During this delay ^neas visited the wonders 
of populous and most wealthy London. He saw the 

ravel a deep plot against Eug^nius FV. It is questionable whether the 
Bishop of Novara was not treacherous both to the Pope and to the Yisconti, 
m whose fkyor he was reinstated. 
^ ** Magis volnptuosam quam poenitentialem." 


noble church of St. Paul's, the sumptuous tombs of 
the kings at Westmmster, the Thames, with the rapid 
ebb and flow of its tide, and the bridge like a city.^ 
But of all things, the shrine of St. Thomas at Canter- 
bury most excited his amazement, covered with dia- 
monds, fine double pearls,^ and carbuncles. No one 
offered less than silver at this shrine. He crossed to 
Flanders, went to Bruges, took ship at Ecluse, the 
most frequented port in the West, was blown towards 
the coast of Norway, encountered two terrible storms, 
one of fourteen hours, one of two nights and a day. 
The sailors were driven so far north that they did not 
know the stars. The twelfth day a lucky north wind 
brought them to Scotland. In a fit of devout grati- 
tude ^neas walked barefoot ten miles to Our Lady 
at Whitechurch,' but suffered so much from exhaustion 
and numbed feet that he hardly got to the court. He 
was received by the King with great favor, obtained 
, the object of his mission, his expenses were paid, and 
he was presented with fifty nobles and two horses for 
his journey. 

The Italian describes Scotland as a cold country, 
producing litde com, almost without wood. " They 
dig out of the earth a kind of sulphurous stone, which 
they burn." Their cities have no walls, their houses 
are mostly built without mortar, the roofs of turf, the 
doors of the cottages bulls' hides. The common people 

1 He saw also a yillage, where men were said to be bom with tails. 
* Unionibus. 

" And in his cup an union shall he throw 
Richer than that which four BnocessiTe kings 
On Denmark's throne hsTe worn." 

BamUt^ T. 2. 
—See Kare6*8 Glossary. 


are poor and rude, with plenty of flesh and fish ; bread 
is a delicacy. The men are small and bold ; the 
women of white complexion, disposed to sexual indul- 
gence.^ They had only imported wine.^ They export 
to Flanders hides, wool, salt-fish and pearls.^ The 
Scots were delighted by nothing so much as abuse of 
the English. Scotland was divided into two parts: 
one cultivated (the lowlands) ; one forest (the high- 
lands) without cornfields. The forest Scots spoke a 
different language, and lived on the barks of trees.* 
During the winter solstice, the time when ^neas was 
there, the days were only four hours long. 

^neas had suffered enough in his sea voyages ; he 
determined to run all hazards, and find his way through 
England. He was fortunate in his resolution : the ship 
in which he was about to embark foundered at the 
mouth of the haven. The captain, who was returning 
to Flanders to be married, with all the passengers and 
crew, were drowned in sight of shore. JBneas set off 
disguised as a merchant. He passed the Tweed in a 
boat, entered a large town about sunset, found lodging 
in a cottage where he was housed, and supped with the 
parish priest. He had plenty of broth, geese and 
fowls ; neither wine nor bread. All the women of the 
town crowded to see him, as to see a negro or an In- 
dian in Italy. They asked who he was, whether he 

1 ^neas adds that kissing women in Scotland meant no more than shak- 
ing hands in Italy. Like Erasmus later in England, he drew Italian con- 
clusions firom Northern manners. 

2 Their horses were small hackneys, mostly geldings. They neither 
curried nor combed them. They had no bridles ! 

* Margaritas. 

^ He says also that there were no woods in Scotland. Rooks (cornices) 
were newly introduced, and therefore the trees whereon they built belonged 
U> the King's Exchequer ! 


was a Christian, ^neas had been warned of the 
scanty fare which he would find on his journey, and 
had provided himself in a certain monastery (there no 
doubt alone such luxuries could be found) with some 
loaves of bread and a measure of red wine. This 
heightened the wonder of the barbarians, who had 
never seen wine nor white bread. Some women with 
child becran to handle the bread and smell the wine, 
^neas was too courteous not to gratify their longings, 
and gave them the whole. The supper lasted till the 
second hour of the night, when the priest, his host, and 
his children, and all the men, took leave of ^neas, 
and said that they must retire to a certain tower a long 
way off for fear of the Scots, who, on the ebb of the 
tide, were wont to cross over and plunder. No en- 
treaties could induce them to take ^neas with them, 
nor any of their women, though many of them were 
young girls and handsome matrons. The enemy would 
do them no harm : the borderers' notions of harm were 
somewhat peculiar.-^ The Italian remained with his 
two servants, a single guide, and a hundred women, 
who sat round the fire all night spinning hemp and 
talking with his interpreter. After great part of the 
night was passed, there was a violent barking of dogs 
and cackling of geese. The women ran away, the 
guide with them, and there was as great confusion as 
if the enemy were there. JSneas thought it most pru- 
dent to stay in his chamber (it was a stable), lest, be- 
ing quite ignorant of the ways, he might run into the 

1- " Qui stuprum inter mala non dncunt** It mast be remembered that 
Maeas picked np all he learned through an interpreter, probably a man 
who knew a few words of bad Latin. I owe perhaps an apology for insert- 
mg this scene, so irresistibly characteristiCf if not quite in its place. Walter 
Scott, if I remember, had seen it in his multifarious reading. 


arms of the mosstroopers. Presently the women and 
the guide returned: it was a ialse alarm. 

JBneas set out the next morning. When he arrived 
at Newcastle (said to be a work of the CsBsars) he 
seemed to have returned to the habitable world, so rug- 
ged, wild, and bleak, was the whole Border. At Dur- 
ham he visited the tomb of the venerable Bede. At 
York, a large and populous city, there was a church 
fiunous throughout the world for its size and architec- 
ture, with a most splendid shrine, and with glass walls 
(the rich and large windows) between very slender 
clustered pillars. (Had JBneas seen none of the Ger- 
man or Flemish Gothic cathedrals?) On his way 
southward he fell in with one of the judges of the 
realm, returning to his court in London. The judge 
began to talk of the business in Arras, and, not suspect- 
ing who JSneas was, to abuse the Cardinal of Santa 
Croce as a wolf in sheep's clothing. In the company 
of the judge, who, had he known who he was, would 
have committed him to prison, he arrived safe in Lon- 
don. There he found a royal proclamation that no for- 
dgner should leave the realm without a passport, which 
he cared not to ask for. He got away by bribing the 
officers, a matter of course, as such personages never 
refuse hard money. He crossed from Dover to Calais, 
thence to Basle and to Milan. Finding that the Cardi- 
nal of Santa Croce had been sent back from Florence, 
and had passed by the Valley of the Adige, and over 
the Arlberg to Basle, he returned over the Alps by 
Brig, and joined his master at Basle. 

^neas was an Italian in his passions, and certainly 
under no austere, monkish self-control. His morals 
were those of his age and country. His letters are fall 


of amatory matters, in the earlier of which, as he by 
no means counsels his friends to severe restraint, he 
does not profess to set them an example. Licentious- 
ness seems to be a thing of course. He was not yet in 
holy orders : to do him justice, as yet he shrank from 
that decided step, lest it should involve him in some 
difficulties. ^ His confessions are plain enough ; he 
makes no boast of constancy.^ But the most unblush- 
ing avowal of his loose notions appears in a letter to 
his own father, whom he requests to take charge of a 
natural son. The mother of his son was an English- 
woman whom he met at Strasburg, of no great beauty, 
but who spoke It^^lian with great ease and sweetness. 
" It was the beauty of her eloquence by which Cle- 
opatra inthralled not Mark Antony only, but Julius 
Caesar." He anticipates his father's objection to the 
sinfulness of his conduct, in being a parent without 
being a husband. He had done only what every one 
else did. God had made him prone to desire : he did 
not pretend to be holier than David, or wiser than Sol- 
omon. He borrows the language of Terence — " Shall 
I, weak man that I am, not do that which so many 
great men have done ?" But his examples are not the 
gods of the heathen lover in the comedy, but Moses, 
Aristotle, and some good Christians.^ Let us hastily 

* " Cavi ne me sacer ordo involveret." — Epist. 1. 

3 " Ego plures vidi amavique foeminaa, quarum exinde potitus, magnum 
taedium suscepi.'* — Epist. xlvi. Compare the coarse pleasantry, Epist. 
ixii. He was averse to German women: he could not speak German. 

8 '* Mecumque quis reprehendit, inquam, si ego humuncio faciam, quod 
maximi viri non sunt aspemati. Interdum Moysen, intcrdum Aristotelem, 
nonnunqnam Christinnos in exemplum sumebam." — Epist. xv. The pub« 
licationf or at least the admission of this letter into a collection published 
after the Popedom of ^neas, is singular enough. But even this letter is 
modesty compared to Epist xxiii. 

Ghap.XVI. morals of iENEAS. 78 

despatch this, if not the least curious, not the most 
edifying passage in the life of the future Pope. Later 
in life he was seized with a paroxysm of virtue, and 
wrote some letters on such subjects in a more grave 
and ecclesiastical tone. In an epistle written at the 
approach of Lent, he urges his friend to flee all woman- 
kind, as a fatal pestilence. When you look on a woman 
you look on the devil. He had himself erred often, 
too often ; and he acknowledges that he had become 
more correct, not from severe virtue, but from the ad- 
vance, it must have been, of premature age. He con- 
soled himself, however, for one vice which he could not 
indulge, by another. The votary of Venus (his own 
words) had become the votary of Bacchus. To his 
new god he will be faithfril to death, ^neas must 
then have been between thirty-five and forty years 

He was forty when he wrote his celebrated Romance, 
Euryalus and Lucretia, a romance with neither incident 
nor invention ; ^ in its moral tone and in the warmth 
of its descriptions, as in its prolixity, a novel of Boccac- 
cio, but without his inimitable grace ; yet ^neas no 
doubt thought that he infinitely surpassed Boccaccio's 
vulgar Italian by his refined and classical Latinity. In 
the penitential Letter on this subject, in later life (after 

1 ^ Turn quoque et illud verum est languescere vires meas, canis aspereos 
tnm, aridi nervi siint, ossa cariosa, nigis corpus aratum est. Nee ulli ego 
foniins possum esse voluptati, nee voluptatem mihi afferre foemina potest. 
Baccho magis quam Veneri parebo: vinum me alit, me juvat, me oblectat, 
me beat: hie liquor suavis mihi erlt usque ad mortem. Namque ut fateor, 
magis me Venus fiigitat, quam ego illam horreo." The letter (Epist xcii.) 
is written to John Freund, Prothonotaxy of Cologne, not long after the diet 
of Nuremberg, a.d. 1443. 

* The disgraceful history is probably a true one. 


he was Pope 1) the lingering vanity of the author still 
struggles with his sense of decency.^ 

So, then, the Siennese adventurer had visited almost 
every realm of Northern Europe, France, Grermany, 
Flanders, Scotland, England; he is in the confidence 
of Cardinals, he is in correspondence with many of 
the most learned and influential men in Christen- 

No sooner was ^neas fixed at Basle, than his singu- 
lar aptitude for business, no doubt his fluent and per- 
spicuous Latin, his flexibility of opinion, his rapidly 
growing knowledge of mankind, his determination to 
push his fortunes, his fidelity to the master in whose 
service he happened to be, opened the way to advance- 
ment; offices, honors, rewards crowded 'upon him. He 
was secretary,^ first reporter of the proceedings, then 
held the office as writer of the epistles of the Council.*^ 
He was among the twelve Presidents chosen by the 
Council. The office of these duodecimvirs was to pre- 
pare all business for the deliberation of the Council; 
nothing could be brought forward without their previ- 
ous sanction, nor any one admitted to the Council till 
they had examined and approved his title. He often 
presided over his department, which was that of faith. 
The leaden seal of the Council was often in his custody. 
During his career he was ambassador from the Council 
three times to Strasburg, twice to Constance, twice to 

1 Epist. occxv. There were two things in the book, a too lasciviooB love- 
stoiy and an edifying moral. Unhappily many readers dwelt on the first; 
hardly any, alas ! attended to the latter. ** Ita ImpraTatum est atque ob- 
inscatum infelix mortalium genus." He adds, " Nee privatum homiaein 
pluris facite quam Pontifieem; iEneam rejicite, Piam snscipite." 

2 Scriba. 

* Abbreviator major. 

Chap.XYI. .£N£AS AT BASLE. 75 

Frankfort, once to Trent, later to the Emperor Albert, 
and to persuade Frederick III. to espouse the cause of 
the Council. 

His eloquence made him a power. His first appear- 
ance with a voice in the Council seems to have been in 
the memorable debate on the prorogation of the Coun- 
cil to Italy. We have heard that, while the Pope in- 
sisted on the removal of the Council to Florence or 
Udine, the Council would remove only to Avignon. 
The Duke of Milan, by his ambassadors, urged the in- 
termediate measure, ihe adjournment to the city of 
Pavia. But his ambassador, Isidore Bishop of Ros- 
sano, was but an indifferent orator. He talked so fool- 
ishly that they were obliged to silence him. iBneas 
had been twice or three times at Milan ; he was not 
averse to make Mends at that powerful Court ; nor 
was he disinclined by taking a middle course to wait 
the issue of events. He obtained permission of the 
President, the Cardinal Julian Csesarini, and urged in 
a speech of two hours, which excited the greatest ad- 
miration, the claims of Pavia against Florence, Udine, 
and Avignon. His zeal was not unrewarded. The 
Archbishop presented him to the Provostship of St. 
Lawrence in Milan. His rival Isidore remonstrated 
against the appointment of a stranger. He protested 
before the Council ; the Council was unanimously in 
fevor of iBneas. He went to Milan, but found that 
the Chapter had already elected a Provost of the noble 
house of Landriano, whom he found in actual posses- 
sion. But the Duke, the Archbishop, and the Court 
were all-powerful ; the intruder was expelled. At 
Milan iBneas was seized with a fever, which lasted 
seventy-five days, and was subdued with great dif- 


ficulty.^ On his return to Basle, he recovered his 
heahh so far as to be able to preach the commemora- 
tion sermon on the day of St. Ambrose, Bishop of Mil- 
an. This sermon by one not in orders was opposed 
by the theologians, but met with great success. 

The war had now broken out between the Pope and 
the Council ; there was no middle ground ; every one 
must choose his side. None, so long as he was in the 
service of the Council, and the Council in the ascend- 
ant, so bold, so loyal a partisan, or with such lofty con- 
ceptions of the superiority of the Council over the 
Pope, as ^neas Piccolomini. As historian of the 
Council, he asserts its plenary authority. The reasons 
which he assigns for undertaking this work ai« charac- 
teristic. He had begun to repent that he had wasted 
so much time in the idle and unrewarded pursuits of 
poetry, oratory, history. Was he still to live improvi- 
dent as the birds of the air or the beasts of the field ? 
Was he never to be in possession of money, the owner 
of an estate ? The true rule of life is, that a man at 
twenty should strive to be great, at thirty prudent, at 
forty rich. But, alas I the bias was too strong : he 
must write history. 

Throughout that history he is undisguisedly, inflex- 
ibly, hostile to Eugenius IV.^ He sums up with great 
force and clearness, irrefragably, as he asserts, to his 
own mind, irrefragably it should be to the reason of 
men, the whole argument for the supremacy of tho 

1 He relates that a certain drug was administered, which appeared to fail 
in its operation. He was about to take a second dose, when the first began 
to work : " ut nonaginta vicibus assurgere cogeretur.** 

^ The reader must not confound two distinct histories, one, that published 
in Brown, Fasciculus, and in his Works; the other by Fea, in Roms, as late 
as the year 1822. I cite this as " Fea." 


Council over the Pope. Words are wanting to express 
his admiration of the President of the Council, the 
Cardinal Archbishop of Aries : his opponents are secret 
or timid traitors to the highest Church principles. 
Eugenius IV. sinks to plain Gabriel Condolmieri.^ 
j£neas does not disguise his contempt. He reproaches 
the Pope with perfidy, as seeking either to dissolve the 
Council or to deprive it of its liberty. He is severe 
against the perjury of those who had deserted the 
Council to join the Pope. Nicolas of Cusa, the Her- 
eulea of the apostasy, is guilty of schism. So he con- 
tinues to the end : still he is the ardent panegyrist of 
the Cardinal of Aries, after the declaration of the her- 
esy of Pope Eugenius, after the deposition of that 
Pope, even after the election of Pope Felix. 

On the death of the Emperor Sigismund, Albert of 
Austria, elected King of the Romans, hesitated to ac- 
cept the dignity. The Hungarians insisted that he had 
been raised to the throne of Hungary on the express 
condition that he should not be promoted to the Em- 
pire. Bartolomeo, Bishop of Novara, the ambassador 
of Philip Duke of Milan to Vienna, persuaded -Sneas, 
either as empowered, or thought to be empowered, by 
the Council, to accompany him on this important mis- 
sion. An address, drawn by JBneas, not only a.d. 1488. 
induced Albert to accept the Imperial Crown, but won 
over the Hungarians, more than to consent, even to 
urge their King to this step. The grateful thanks of 
the Diet were awarded to ^neas. But Mneas took 
great dislike to Vienna, where he was afterwards to 
pass so many years : he returned to Basle. 

1 ^ Quocirca mentita est iniquitas Gabrieli, et perdidit eum Dominiu in 
jnalitift soft.'* — Lib. ii. sub init 


He returned at a fearfiil time. During the sixty 
days, it has been said, between the deposition of Euge- 
nius IV. and the election of his successor, the plague 
raged at Basle. Some of the dearest friends of ^neas 
fell around him. He was himself among the few who 
had the malady and recovered. He might well ascribe 
his cure to Divine goodness, ^neas preferred piety to 
science. There were two famous physicians, one a 
Parisian of admirable skill without religion, the other 
a German, ignorant but pious. The nature of a cer- 
tain powder administered to iBneas (the rest of the 
mode of cure is fully detailed^) the pious doctor kept a 
profound secret. The patient was in a high fever, de- 
lirious, and so far gone as to receive extreme unction. 
A rumor of his death reached Milan ; his Provostship 
was given away ; on his recovery he found great diffi- 
culty in resuming it. He wrote to his patron the 
Duke, urging that the fiict of his writing was tolerably 
conclusive proof that he was alive. 

^neas was not without his place of honor in the 
A.]>. 1489. great affair of the election of the new Pope. 
He might indeed have been an Elector. There were 
but few Italians in the Conclave. The consent of 
more was earnestly desired. iBneas was urged to ac* 
cumulate the minor orders, with the subdiaconate and 
diaconate, which might qualify him for the suffrage. 
He was still unwilling to fetter himself with the awful 
sanctity of Holy Orders. He was first employed in 
the difficult negotiations as to the appointment of the 
Electors. He was afterwards one of the two Masters 

^ The bubo was in the left groin, the vein of the left foot therefore was 
opened. He was not allowed to sleep. He took the powder; cataplasms 
alternately of green radish and of moist chalk were applied to the sore. 


of the Ceremonies. He now describes himself as Can- 
on of Trent, This canonry had been granted to him 
by the grateful Council, and was held with his Prov- 
ostship of St. Laurence in Milan. On the ceremonial 
of the Conclave he is full and minute, as one who took 
no small pride in the arrangements. To his office was 
attached the duty of standing at the window to receive 
from the Vice-Chamberlain the food for the use of the 
Conclave, and to take care that no letters or other un- 
lawful communications were introduced. No doubt his 
particular account of the kinds of food, .in which the 
Electors indulged, is faithful and trustworthy. He 
takes care to inform us of the comical anger of the 
Archdeacon of Cracow, who was allowed to have his 
dishes of mutton or lamb, but complained bitterly that 
he might not have his poultry or game, or perhaps 
small birds.^ 

JBneas hailed the election of Amadeus of Savoy 
with the utmost satisfaction ; he had forgotten the 
Epicurean life of the hermit which he had witnessed at 
Ripaille. The intrigues and the parsimony of Ama- 
deus darkened on his knowledge at a later period. 
The splendid eulogy, which he makes a nameless Elec- 
tor pronounce, might seem to come from the heart of 
iBneas, as far as his eloquence ever did proceed from 
the heart. Pope Eugenius is still the odious and con- 
temptible Gabriel. In a letter to his fnend John of 
Segovia, he describes in rapturous terms the coronation 
of Felix v., the gravity, majesty, ecclesiastical propriety 
of his demeanor : '' the demeanor of him who had been 
called of God to the rule of his Universal Church."* 

1 Avicoiaa. 

3 Epist. ad Joann. Segoviens. Opera, 61, 3. 


Fifty thousand spectators rejoiced, some wept for joy. 
The vain ^neas will not be silent as to his owoi part 
in this splendid ceremonial, though it bordered on the 
ludicrous. The Cardinal of Santa Susanna chanted 
the service ; the responses were given by the advocates 
and notaries ^ in such a dissonant bray, that the congre- 
gation burst into roars of laughter. They were hearts 
ily ashamed of themselves. But the next day when 
the preachers were to make the responses, ^neas, 
though quite ignorant of music (which requires long 
study), sung out his part with unblushing courage.^ 
-ZEneas does not forget the tiara worth 30,000 pieces 
of gold, the processions, the supper or dinner to 1000 
guests. He is as full and minute as a herald, man- 
ifestly triumphing in the ceremonial as equalling the 
magnificence, as well as imitating to the smallest point 
that of Rome. 

The Antipope was not ungrateful to his partisan, 
jBneM secre- whosc cloqucut adulatiou published his fame 
Felix. and his virtues to still doubtful and vacillat- 

ing Christendom, ^neas became the secretary of 
Pope Felix, he was not only his attendant in public, 
he became necessary to him, and followed him to Ri- 
paille, Thonon, Geneva, Lausanne. 

Frederick III. had now succeeded to the Imperial 
A.D.1440. throne. On his adhesion or rejection de- 
pended almost entirely the fate of the rival Popes. 
Who so able, who (might Felix suppose) so true and 
loyal, who with such consummate address to conduct 
his cause before the King of the Romans, who so 
deeply pledged to the justice and holiness of that cause, 

^ Adyocati et scrmiarii. 

9 Cantitare meam cannen non erabai. 


as his faithixil Secretary? ^neas is despatched by 
Pope Felix to the Imperial Court at Frankfort. 

At the Court of Frederick the eloquent and dex-« 
terous Italian made a strong impression on amm woto. 
the counsellors of the young Emperor, Silves- erick lu. 
ter Bishop of Chiemsee, and James Archbishop and 
Elector of Treves. Frederick was urged to secure 
the services of a man so experienced in affairs, so gifted, 
so accomplished. Nothing could be more skilful than 
the manner in which the Emperor was recommended 
to secure his attachment. Of all his accomplishments, 
^neas was most vain of his poetry. The Emperor 
appointed him his Laureate ; ^ to his letters j£neas for 
some time prefixed the proud title of Poet. He says, 
that he did this to teach the dull Viennese, who 
thought poetry something mischievous and abomina- 
ble, to treat it with respect.^ \ 

Tet he made some decent resistance; he must re- 
turn to Basle and obtain his free discharge from Felix. 
He wrung with difficulty, and only by the interven- 
tion of his friends, the reluctant assent of the Anti- 
pope. On the arrival of the Emperor at Basle, he 
was named Imperial Secretary, and took the not. 1442. 
oaths of fidelity to Frederick III. ; he accompanied his 
new Lord to Vienna, -^neas saw the turning-point 
of his fortunes, and never was man so deliberately 
determined to push forward those fortunes. "You 
know," he writes to a firiend not long after his ad- 
vancement, " that I serve a Prince who is of neither 
party, and who by holding a middle course seeks to 
enforce unity. The Servant must have no will but 

1 The diploma of poet, dated July 97, 1442. 



that of his Master/' ^ iBneas hopes to obtain a place 
for his firiend at Vienna. *^ How this may be I know 
not. In the mean time I shall insinuate myself into 
the King's graces : his will shall be mine, I will oppose 
him in nothing. I am stranger. I shall act the part of 
Gnatho : what they af&rm, I affirm ; what they deny, 
I deny.^ Let those that are wise have their fame, let 
those that are fools bear their own disgrace ; I shall 
not trouble myself about their honor or their discredit. 
I shall write, as Secretary, what I am ordered, and no 
more. I shall hold my tongue and obey : if I should 
do otherwise, it would not be for my interest, and my 
interest, you will allow, should be my first object." 
It will soon appear how much stronger was the will 
of the subtle Italian than that of the feeble and ir- 
resolute Emperor. 

^neas was for a time not unfaithful to the Council. 
Already indeed, before he left Basle, he had made the 
somewhat tardy discovery that their aiFairs were not 
altogether governed by the Holy Ghost, but by hu- 
man passions. He began to think neither party ab- 
solutely in the right. He was gently, but rapidly 
veering to the middle course, then held by his master 
the Emperor. Yet he treated the arguments of John 
Garovia, orator of Pope Eugenius, with sufficient dis- 
dain. ^^ You say that the Pope has made more ample 
concessions to the Princes of Germany, and has hum- 
bled himself more than was ever heard of Roman Pon- 

1 There is something carious in his observation about the Archbishop of 
Palermo, who was laboring hard at Frankfort about his writings. " Stultua 
est qui putat Ubellis et codicibus morere reges." iEneas is learning to know 
more of kings. 

3 Ego peregrinufl sum: consultom mlhi est Onathonis ofiensum (offidnm ?) 
•osciperei aiunt aio, negant nego. Epist. zlv. p. 531. 


tiff. This stuff may pass with peasants and those who 
are utterly ignorant of history." God alone, ^neas 
still asserts, is superior to a General Council. " You 
and your party desire unity ; that is, on your own 
terms ; if your Pope remain Supreme Pontiff." He 
more than hints the abdication of Eugenms. ^' He 
deserves greatest praise not who clings to his dignity, 
but who is ready to lay it down. Of old holy men 
were with greater difficulty prevailed on to be elevated 
to the Popedom than they are now removed from it. 
A good disposition and a gentle spirit would not seek 
in what manner — but how speedily, he might resign."^ 
** In truth," he adds, " the quarrel is not for the sheep 
but for the wool ; there would be less strife were the 
Church poor." 

iBneas at first, notwithstanding* his prudential de- 
terminations, was an object of much jealousy at the 
Court of the Emperor. William Taz, a Bavarian, 
was acting as Imperial Chancellor, in the absence of 
Graspar Schlick, who had filled that high office under 
three Emperors, Sigismund, Albert, and Frederick. 
The Bavarian hated Italians ; he thwarted ^neas in 
every way. The Secretary bore all in patience.^ Bet- 
ter times came with the return of Gasper Schlick to 
the Court. At Sienna Gaspar had received some ci- 
vilities, and made friendship with certain kinsmen of 
the Piccolomini. The enemy of ^neas, William Taz, 
who had trampled on the Secretary, began humbly to 
truckle to him. Taz, however, soon left the Court. 
His other adversaries, as he rose in favor with the Em- 

1 Epist. xxy. 

* AoricnUs declinayi, ut iniqiue mentis aselliiB: bo ^neas writes of him- 


peror, became his humble servants. He was one of 
the four distinguished persons appointed to hear at Nu- 
remberg the debate before the Diet. 

^neas, his young blood no longer remonstrating, 
against his committing himself to Holy Orders, now 
entered into the priesthood. His orders of subdeacon, 
deacon, priest, followed rapidly on each other. • He had 
ceased to dread the sacred office. He no longer desired 
to indulge the levity of a layman ; his whole delight 
was henceforth to be in his holy calling.^ He was not 
long without reward for this decided step. His first 
benefice, obtained tlu-ough the emperor's interest, was 
a singular one for an Italian bom in sunny Sienna, and 
whose life had been passed in journeys, councils, and 
MntM in courts. It was the parochial cure of a retired 
Hoij orden. y^Uey in the Tyrol. It was worth sixty gold 
pieces a year. It was accessible only up one wild glen, 
covered with snow and ice three parts of the year. 
The peasants during the long winter were confined 
to their cottages, made boxes and other carpenter's 
work (like the Swiss of Meyringen and elsewhere), 
which they sold, at Trent and Botzen. They passed 
much time in playing at chess and dice, in which they 
were wonderfully skilful. They were a simple people, 
knew nothing of war or glory or gold. Cattle was 
their only wealth, which they fed with hay in the win- 
ter. Some of them had never tasted any liquor but 
milk. Some lived a great way from the church: if 

1 Jam ego subdiaconus sum, quod olim valde horrebam. Sed recessit a 
me ilia animi levitas, quae inter laicos crescere solebat. Jamque nihil 
magis amo quam 8acerdotium. Epist. xciii. This letter is in unfortunate 
juxtaposition with the one (Epist. xcii.) in which he gives so much good 
advice to his friend, makes such iiill confession of his own former frailtieB, 
with the resolution to abandon Venus for Bacchus. See above. 


they died their bodies were laid out and became frozen. 
In the spring the curate went round, collected them in- 
to one procession, and buried them altogether in the 
church-yard. There was not much sorrow >at their fii- 
nerals. ^neas does not flatter the morality of his pa- 
rishioners (he did not do much to correct it). They 
would have been the happiest of mankind had they 
known their blessings and imposed restraint on their 
lusts. As it was, huddled together night and day in 
their cottages, they lived in promiscuous concubinage : 
a virgin bride was unknown, .tineas had some difH- 
culty (every one seems to have had difficulty where 
the rights of patrons- were in perpetual conflict, and the 
Pope and the Council claimed everything) in obtaining 
possession of his benefice. Small as was its income, 
with his canonry it furnished a modest competency, two 
hundred ducats a year, with which he was fully con- 
tent. He was anxious to retire from the turbulent 
world ; to secure, as he had passed the meridian of life, 
a peaceful retreat where he might serve God.^ We 
read in the next sentence in his Commentaries that he 
had given up his happy valley for a better benefice in 
Bavaria, that of Santa Maria of Auspac, not far from 
the Inn, which was given him by the Bishop of Passau. y 

As yet we do not see (when shall we see ?) much 
indulgence of this unworldly disposition : in this respect 
it is impossible to deny the rigid self-denial of ^neas. 
In a letter to Graspar Schlick, the Chancellor, the Ital- 
ian opens his whole mind. He does not attempt to 
conceal his own falsehood ; he justifies it as of neces- 
gity. "Where all are false we must be false too; we 

1 Yellem aliquando me sequeatrare ab hojos mondi tarbtnibas, Deoqne 
senrire et mihi vivere. £pt8t. liv. It was the Sarontana vallis ? 


must take men as they are." He adduces as authority 
for this insincerity (I hardly venture to record this) 
what he dares to call a departure from truth in Him 
that was all truth. ^ This letter embraces the whole 
comprehensive and complicated range of Imperial poli- 
tics, Austria, Bohemia, Hungary. In the great ques- 
tion .tineas has become a stem neutralist. The plan 
proposed by Charles of France, at the close of 1448, 
to compel the Council and the Pope to union, now ap- 
pears the wisest as well as the most feasible measure. 
*^ Let the temporal Sovereigns hold their Congress, 
even against the will of the Clergy, union will ensue. 
He will be the undoubted Pope, to whom all the 
Sovereigns render obedience. I see none of the Clergy 
who will suffer martyrdom in either cause. We have 
all the same faith with our rulers ; if they worshipped 
idols we should likewise worship them. If the secular 
power should urge it, we should deny not only the 
Pope but Christ himself. Charity is cold, faith is dead : 
we all long for peace : whether through another Coun- 
cil or a Congress of Princes I care not." ^ 

In the Diet of Nuremberg nothing was done in the 
A.S.1444. momentous af&ir. Germany and Frederick 
III. maintained their cold neutraUty. ^neas had sunk 
to absolute indifference. Another letter to the Pope's 
Orator Carvajal is in a lighter tone : ^^ Tou and I may 
discuss such matters, not as angry theologians, but as 
calm philosophers. I am content to leave such things 
to divines, and to think as other people think." He 

I Sed fingendam etft, poetqnua omnes fingunt. Nam et Jesus finxit se 
longius ire. Ut homines sunt ita ntamnr. iEneas should have stuck to 
his Terence. — liv. p. 539. 

* Epist. Uy. 

Chap.XYI. change m FAVOR OF EUGENIUS. 87 

does not speak with much respect of the Diet. ^^ What 
has it done ? — it has summoned another. You know 
my saying : ^ No Diet is barren : this will be Oct. 14m. 
as prolific as the rest : it has another in its womb.' " ^ 

But the tide now turned. Alfonso II., King of Ar- 
ragon, his most obstinate and dangerous ene- chuig* in 
my, made peace with Eugenius. Philippo Bugeniui. 
Maria, Duke of Milan, made peace with Eugenius: 
all Italy acknowledged Eugenius. The Italian JEneas 
had no notionX)f condemning himself to perpetual, if hon* 
orable, exile in cold, rude Germany. The churchman 
would not sever Christendom from Rome, or allow an 
Ultramontane Papacy to proclaim its independence, if 
not its superiority. Yet beyond the Alps to less keen 
eyes never might the cause of Eugenius appear more 
desperate. The Council, in its proclamations at least, 
maintained its inflexible resolution. Writings were 
promulgated throughout Germany, among others a 
strong manifesto from the University of Erfurt, calling 
on the German nation to throw off its inglorious neu- 
trality, and at once to espouse the cause of religious 
freedom and the Council of Basle. The vio- ^ ^^ i^^ 
lent act of Eugenius in threatening to depose Se^^w^!^ 
the Archbishops of Cologne and Treves had ^^^' *' ^*^' 
awakened the fears and the resentment of many among 
the haughty Prelates of Germany, and had excited 
high indignation in the German mind. But JBneas 
knew his own strength, and the weakness of the Em- 
peror. Frederick determined, or rather imagined that 
he acted on his own determination, to enter into nego- 
tiations. And now again who so fit 1X) condu(*t those 
negotiations as his faithful Secretary ? who but an 

1 Epist. Izxii. Compare ^neas Sylvius (Fea), p. 84. 


Italian, so intimately acquainted with the interests of 
Germany, so attached to the Emperor, so able, so elo- 
quent, could cope with the Prelates and Cardinals of 
Rome ? ^ .^Sneas was more true to his Imperial than 
he had been to his Papal patron ; being true to the 
Emperor he was true to himself. 

^neas arrived at his native Sienna. His kindred, 
sneu iu proud uo doubt of his position, crowded round 
^*^' him. They entreated him not to venture 

to Rome. Eugenius was cruel, unforgetful of injuries, 
bound by neither pity nor conscience.^ A man so 
deeply committed in the affairs of the hostile Council 
might expect the woi'st. JBneas boldly answered that 
the ambassador of the Emperor of Germany must be 
safe everywhere. He did not betray a more important 
secret, that already he had obtained through two 
friendly Cardinals, Carvajal and Landriano, pardcm for 
all that he had done at Basle. 

He entered Rome : he was admitted to the presence of 
At Rome. the Popc, bosido whom stood the two friendly 
Cardinals. He was permitted to kiss the foot, the 
cheek of the Pontiff. His credentials were in his hand. 
He was commanded to declare the object of his mis- 
sion. " Ere I fulfil the orders of the Emperor, allow 
me, most holy Pontiff, a few words on myself. I know 
that many things have been brought to the ears of your 
Holiness concerning me, things not to my credit, and 
on which it were better not to dwell : neither have my 
accusers spoken falsely. At Basle I have written much, 

1 To this visit to Rome belong the observations he makes in a letter to 
his patron the Bishop of Passau. Epist xcviii. The Cardinals, he sajs, 
are by no means so rich as of old. 

> Aiebant Eugenium crudelem, injoriarum memorem, nall& pietate, nuUft 
&on8cienti& teneri. — Apad Fea, p. 88. 


spoken much, done mnch ; but my design was not to 
injure you, I sought only the advantage of the Catholic 
Church. I have erred, who will deny it, but with 
neither few nor undistinguished men : Julian, the Car- 
dinal of St. Angelo, the Archbishop of Palermo, Pon- 
tanus the Prothonotary of your Court, men esteemed in 
the eyes of the law, masters of all truth. I speak not 
of the Universities and Schools throughout the world, 
almost all adverse to your cause. With such authorities 
who had not erred ? I must confess, that so soon as I 
detected the errors of those at Basle, I did not, as most 
others did, fly to you. But fearing to fall from error to 
error, from Scylla to Charybdis, I would not, without 
consultation and delay, rush from one extreme to the 
other. I sided with those called neutrals. I remained 
three years with the Emperor, heard the discussions 
between your Legates and those of Basle, nor could 
longer doubt that the truth was on your side ; not un- 
willingly ttherefore I accepted this embassy from the 
Emperor, hoping thereby, through your clemency, to 
be restored to your favor. I am in your hands : I 
have sinned in ignorance, I implore pardon. And now 
to the afiairs of the Emperor." ^ The Pope, no doubt 
well prepared for this address, had his answer ready. 
The Ambassador of the Emperor, a man of the ability 
and importance of ^neas, was not to be repelled even 
by the stubborn Eugenius. " We know that you have 
erred, with many others ; we cannot deny pardon to 
one who confesses his errors. Our holy Mother, the 
Church, withholds mercy from those only who refrise to 
acknowledge their sins. You are now in possession of 

1 Commentar. Nov. p. 11. 


the truth, look that you do not ahandon it. Show 
forth the divine grace in your good works. You are 
in a position to defend the truth, to do good service to 
the Church. We shall forget all the wrolgs commit- 
ted against us ; him that walketh uprightly we shall 
love ! " Of the Cardinals, only the virtuous Thomas 
of Sarzana, afterwards Nicolas V., looked coldly on the 
renegade, and JBneas as haughtily refused to humiliate 
himself. " O ignorance of man," writes ^neas, " had 
I known that he would be Pope, what would I not 
have borne ! " ^ But JBneas fell ill, and Thomas of 
Sarzana sent a common friend to console him, and to 
offer aid for the payment of his physicians. John Car- 
vajal, the Pope's Legate in Germany, visited him every 
day. He recovered, returned to Sienna, saw his father 
for the last time, and went back to Gennany. He was 
followed by a message from the Pope, appointing him 
his Secretary, " Wonderful and unparalleled grace <if 
God " (so writes his biographer, probably JEneas him- 
self) " that one man should be Secretary to two 
Popes " (he was continued in the office by Nicolas V.), 
" to an Emperor and an Antipope." ^ iCneas humbly 
ascribes the glory to God, as if his own craft and ter- 
giversations had no share in the marvel. 

Germany began slowly to feel and to betray the in- 
fluence of the wily Italian. He ruled the irresolute 

1 Si scisset Mneas futunim Papam, omnia tolerikaset Fea, p. 89. 

* So too in Epist. clzxxviii. p. 760. Apud tres Episcopos et totidem 
Cardinales dictandarum Epistolarum ofificium exercui. Hi tres qnoque 
Pontificefl maximi secretariorum coUegio me ascripsenint, Eugenius, Nioo- 
laus, Felix, quamvis hunc adaltemm dixerit Apud Ccesarem non 8ecr&- 
tarius modo, sed consiliarius et principatus honore auctus sum. Neqae 
ego ista fortunae imputo, quamvis nescio causam, sed ipsius rectori et do- 
minatori omnium Deo. Thus writes jEneas in his own person. 


Emperor.^^ Yet even now afiairs looked only more 
menacing and dangerous to Pope Eugenius. After 
due deliberation he had peremptorily refused the Em- 
peror's demand to convoke another Council in Ger- 
many. Not only were the two Archbishop Electors 
under sentence of deposition, new Electors' had been 
named on his sole authority ; not even Germans, but 
near relatives of the powerful Philip of Burgundy, 
sworn to place them on their thrones. Six of the 
Electors entered into a solemn Leacme, that Fnnkihrt, 
if Eugenius did not immediately annul his a.d. 1446.' 
bull of deposal against the Archbishops, limit the 
ecclesiastical burdens on the Empire, and submit to 
the decree of Constance, which asserted the supremacy 
of Greneral Councils, they would cast aside their long 
neutrality, and either summon a new Council or ac- 
knowledge the Council of Basle and Pope Felix V.* 
They sent an embassy to communicate this secret cov- 
enant to the Emperor and to six only of his Privy 
Councillors, and to demand his adhesion to the League. 
The Emperor admitted the justice of their demands 
as to the rehabilitation of the deposed Prelates, but 
reftised to join the League, '^ it was impious to com- 
pel the Pope to terms by threatening to revolt from 
his authority.*' * The Emperor, not sworn to secrecy, 
confided the whole to w£neas, by him at his discretion 
to be communicated to Rome, ^neas was ordered 

1 There were negotiations, perhaps a private treaty, between King Fred- 
erick and Engene. Canrajal was at Vienna. — Voigt, c. 6. 

^ They were Bishop John of Carabray, Philip's natoral brother, to 
I'reres; to Cologne, Prince Adolph of Cleves, his sister's son. Schmidt, vii. 

« Apod Goden. iv. 290; Schmidt, p. 8d9. 

^ There is some slight discrepancy here between the Commentaries and 
She history. 


again to Rome to persuade the Pope to cede the resti- 
tution of the Archbishops. 

He went round it seems by Frankfort, where the 
Electors held or were about to hold their diet. At 
Frankfort he found, perhaps it was his object there, 
the Papal Legates, Thomas of Sarzana (Bishop of 
Bologna), and John Carvajal. They were in dire 
perplexity. One must hasten to Rome for further 
insti*uctions, Carvajal was ill, JBneas set off in the 
company of Thomas of Sarzana. It was spring, the 
bridges were broken down. They crossed the Alps 
in three days by paths only known to mountain guides 
over precipices and glaciers. 

At Rome the Pope took the counsel of Thomas of 
Sarzana. Before he admitted the Ambassadors of the 
Electors, he had a private interview with ^neas Syl- 
vius, ^neas at his last visit had brought himself, he 
now brought the Emperor to the feet of Eugenius. 
The only concession urged on the Pope was the revo- 
cation of the &tal step, and the restoration of the 
deposed Electors. The Emperor could not endure 
French Electors. For once the obstinate Eugenius 
bowed himself to the wiser yielding policy; ^neas 
had imparted his own pliancy to the Pope. There 
was but one difficulty, how to appease Philip Duke of 
Burgundy, who might resent the dismissal of his kin- 
dred, his nephew and natural brother, the intruded 
Archbishops of Cologne and Treves. The Papalists 
had tempted, flattered, bribed the pride and ambition 
of one of the proudest and most ambitious of men ; 
they must allay that pride and ambition. Thomas 
of Sarzana was intrusted with this delicate mission: 
^neas was to return to Germany, to manage the 


Emperor and the Empire. The Pope then admitted 
the Ambassadors of the six Electors. At the head of 
these was Gregory of Heimbm*g, a bold, free-spoken, 
fearless man, the most learned lawyer in the Empire, 
but described by Sylvius as of coarse manners ; a gen- 
uine German of his age unfavorably contrasted in his 
own judgment with the supple Siennese. Heimburg^s 
address to the Pope was intrepid, haughty : " Germany 
was united ; it was imbittered by the deposition of the 
Bishops — the Princes were resolved to assert the au- 
thority of General Councils." The Pope's answer was 
cold and brief. He had deposed the Archbishops for 
good reasons : he had never shown disrespect to Coun- 
cils, but had maintained the dignity of the Apostolic 
See. He would prepare a written reply. He detained 
them in Rome in sullen indignation at their delay in 
the hot ungenial city.^ 

^neas set forth on his return with Thomas of Sar- 
zana. They travelled together, though ^neas was 
suffering from the stone, by Sienna, Pistoia, Lucca, 
^neas entered Florence, the Bishop of Bologna was 
not allowed to do so. ^neas was obliged to leave 
the Bishop ill at Parma. He hastened by Mantua, 

^Hic orationem arrogantis plenam habuit; dixit Germanise principes 
naitoa esse eadem velle et sapere, depositionem Episcoporiim amarulento 
tnlisse animo, petere at cassetur annnlletarqae, at aactoritas conciliorum 
approbetor, ut nationi opportune ooncedator. .... Eugenios ad hsec suo 
more pauca et graviter respondit. Hist. Freder. III. apud Kollar. p. 128. 
See the corioos accooat of Gregoiy's behavior. Interea legati Electorum 
affecti tcdio murmurabant, neque sine timore fuerunt quod nimis rigid^ se 
looutos sentiebant. Gregorius joxta Montem Jordan um post vesperas 
deambalare, caloribas exKStoans, qaasi et Roroanos et officium suom con- 
temneret, diinissis in terram caligis, aperto pectore, nndo capite, brachia 
disoperiens, fastibandus incedebat, Romanosqae et Eagenium et Curiam 
blasphemabat, maltaqae in calores terrsB ingerebat mala. Est enim aSr 
Bomanas Theatonicis infestissimus . . . qaia plos sanguinis habent qaam 
Ualid, et plus mernm ebibont, plus calore cmciantar. Ibid. 124. 


Verona, Trent, Memmingen, Ulm.* At Ulm he was 
stopped by fear of robbers, who infested the whole road 
to Frankfort. He fell in with the Bishops of Augsburg 
and Chiemsee, and the Chancellor Gaspar ; with them 
he reached Frankfort in safety. 

At Frankfort the Diet had met in imposing fulness. 
Sept. 1, 1446. The Emperor was represented by the Chan- 
Fnukfort. coUor, the Bishops of Augsburg and Chiem- 
see, the Marquises of Baden and Brandenburg, and by 
^neas Sylvius. The Electors were all present. The 
Pope's Legates were John de Carvajal and Nicolas de 
Cusa. Thomas of Sarzana did not arrive till he had 
successfully fulfilled his mission to the Duke of Bur- 
gundy. Louis, Cardinal of Aries, John de Lysura and 
others appeared for the Council of Basle and the Anti- 
pope. Louis of Aries claimed to have the cross borne 
before him, and to celebrate the first mass before the 
Diet as Papal Legate. His claim was supported by the 
Electors, fully determined to maintain the rights of the 
Council. The Emperor's Ambassadors remonstrated ; 
Germany was yet pledged to strict neutrality. The 
citizens of Frankfort were on that side ; they had 
sworn allegiance to the Emperor, not to the Electors ; 
the Cardinal of Aries was forced ungraciously to sub- 

The session was opened by Gregory of Heimburg, 
Aitereftiioii. ^who reported the reception of his mission at 
Rome. He described the Court of Rome as implaca- 
bly hostile to Germany ; Eugenius as harsii, haughty, 
repulsive. The Cardinals he turned into ridicule, es« 
pecially ^^ the bearded old goat," the Cardinal Bessa- 
rion. ^neas replied, rebuking the unfairness of the 

> Comment. 94. Compared with other docnmentB. 


German, and laboring to bring out the milder and 
more courteous points in the demeanor and language 
of the Pope, ^neas had to encounter some unpleas- 
ant altercation. The Cardinal of Aries reproached 
him with his tergiversations. ^' It is not I," answered 
^neas, ^* who have changed, but the Council ; they 
once offered to remove the Council from Basle, now 
they refuse ; as if all truth were contained within the 
walls of Basle." John de Lysura was even more 
pointed and personal. '^ Are you come from Sienna 
to legislate for Germany ? You had better have stayed 
at home and left us to settle our own affiiirs." ^neas 
kept prudent silence. 

The reports from Rome had made a deep and unfa- 
vorable impression. Basle appeared to tri- Banger and 
umph ; the Electors seemed determined to JSnewa. 
declare for the Council and for Felix Y. But the 
resources of ^neas were not exhausted ; he boldly 
summoned to his aid two irresistible allies — in plain • 
language, bribery, and forgery. All things, iElneas had 
said in his Antipapal days, are venal with the Court 
of Rome ; the imposition of hands, the gifts of the 
Holy Ghost are openly sold.^ Rome could buy as well 
as sell ; and the severe virtue of Germany was not 
proof against pontifical gold. No less a person than 
the Archbishop of Mentz sold himself to Eugenius: 
meaner men could not hesitate with such an example. 
The Archbishop did not actually take the money with 
his own hands, but two thousand Rhenish florins were 
distributed among his four chief Counsellors.^ 

1 Nihil eft qaod absque argento Romana Curia dedit. Nam et ipsas 
nanoB impositioues, et Spiritiis Sancti dona venundantur. Epist Ixvi. 

3 Camqne res din inutiliter tractaretur, ad pecuniam tandem recurrere 
oportet. cui nuw non obaadiunt aures, hsc domina curiarum est heec aures 


But the Archbishop Elector would maintain decency. 
He could not veer round without some specious excuse. 
MnesLS boldly took in hand the Ambassadors' instruc* 
Btibeiyand tious ; he drosscd them up, quietly discard- 
tofgory- Jug every hard or offensive word,, insinuating 
milder and more conciliatory expressions ; and with de- 
liberate effrontery presented these notes, as authorized 
by Pope Eugenius.^ He ran the risk of being dis- 
claimed by the stubborn Pontiff^, and exposed as the 
Forger of official documents. The notes declared the 
assent of the Pope to the restoration of the deposed 
Archbishops, vaguely recognized the independence of 
the German nation, saved the authority of General 
Councils, ^neas had calculated with his usual sagac- 
ity. These notes were accepted, and presented to the 
Diet, signed by the Elector of Mentz, the Marquis of 
Brandenburg, the Grand Master of Prussia, the Arch- 
bishops of Saltzburg and Magdeburg, and many other 
Princes. The Elector of Treves and the Duke of 
Saxony alone opposed ; the Elector Palatine wavered. 
The Electoral League was paralyzed, a new League 
formed between the Emperor, the Electors of Mentz, 
Brandenburg, and the rest. The Diet broke up, the 
three Electors departed in indignation ; the Ambassa- 
dors of Basle in sorrow and discomfiture. 

onmium aperit: huic omnia servluiit: hsc qnoque Moguniinum expugnavU. 
These are the words of iEneas Sylvias himself in his Hist Frederic. III. 
published by KoUar, vol. ii. p. 127. The Emperor advanced the money ; 
it was afterwards paid by Nicolas Y. Compare also Fea, p. 100. 

1 Com Legati Csesaris non possent menti Pontificis satisfacere, iEneas 
modnm commentas est, qni, recepds notulis, secundum quas se Principes 
obligaverant, nisi Eugenius illas admitteret velle se eum deserere, omne 
venenum ex eis ademit, novatque notuloi compcmdt, per quas et Archiepis- 
oopi deprivati restituerentur, et nationi opportune provideretur et auctoritas 
Conciliorum salvaretor, illasque dixit sua opinione Eugenium non negata- 
mm. — y it. Fred. III. p. 12ft. 

Chap. XYl. ^NEAS BISHOP. 97 

wSlneas and Procopius Rabensteyn, a Bohemian No- 
ble, were despatched to Rome as Imperial Ambassa- 
dors to obtain the Pope's assent to the terms thus 
framed. On his assent the Emperor and most of the 
German Princes would forswear their neutrality and 
acknowledge him for Pope. Letters had been previ- 
ously sent ; the College of Cardinals was divided ; the 
more rigid theologians would admit no concession. 
Pope Eugenius was advised to create four new Cardi- 
nals, the Archbishop of Milan, the Abbot of St. Paul, 
Thomas of Sarzana Bishop of Bologna, John Carva- 
jal. At Sienna the Imperial Ambassadors encountered 
others from the Archbishop of Mentz and the German 
Princes. The representative of Mentz was no less 
than John of Lysura, but a few days before so stem a 
Basilian, who had been so offended by the apostasy of 
j£neas, and had now trimmed his sails to the wind. 

They were received with joyous welcome as bring- 
ing the submission of Germany to the Papal See.^ 
The third day they were introduced into the private 
consistory, ^neas spoke ; all heard with rapture. No 
voice was silent in his praise ! That very day the Pope 
was seized with mortal sickness. The physicians said 
that he could not live ten days. Would he live long 
enough to ratify the Treaty ? The Ambassadors were 
only commissioned to Eugenius : delay might be fatal, 
a new schism might arise. " If" (said John of Lysura) 
" the little toe of his left foot is aUve, it is enough." 
The Pope not only lived to issue the Apostolic Bulls, 
but to reward the invaluable services of iBneas Sylvius. 
A vacancy in the Bishopric of Trieste was announced, 

1 Erat enim ingens gaudium prope sexdecim annoA Gtormaniam perditam 
Tocnper&sse. Fea, p. 105. 

VOL. vni. 7 


the Pope at once appointed ^neas to the See. The 
¥eb. 28, rejoicings at Rome were Hke those at a great 
1447. victory, bonfires blazed, the city was illumi- 

nated, the noise of trumpets, the pealing of bells rang 
through the streets. After fourteen days died Pope 
Eugenius ; his stubborn pertinacity might seem to have 
won a glorious triumph : he had deluded the Germans 
by some specious concessions, of which he himself well 
knew the hollow value (the Apostolic Bulls were called 
Concordats) ; he had almost reconquered the allegiance 
of Christendom. But he is said to have exclaimed on 
his death-bed, " Oh Gabriel, better had it been for your 
soul, if you had never been Cardinal, never Pope, but 
continued to practise the religious discipline of your 
monastery!"^ The Pope was dead, the Monk still 

^ Palatii Gesta Pontificmn apud Weissenberg, p. 465. The character of 
Eagenicu changes in the writings of ^neas with the changes in iEneaa 
himself. We have seen some illustrations of this. In the Hist Condi. 
Basil. '* Eugenius is a reed shaken by the wind " (no very apt similitude), 
an object of dislike, even of contempt In his Dialogue de Auctor. Con- 
cilii, alluded to in his Retractation, his praise of Felix passes into adulation. 
There is no grace or virtue which is not heaped upon him. In Eugenius 
the defiaiiCe darkens into vituperation: "Yexator ecclesisB, non solum 
lande indignus, sed detestatione et execratione totius humani generis dig- 
DUB proculdubio est.*' So says one of the interlocutors, unrebuked by 
^neas. Compare on the other side the high character of the de Europa, 
p. 458. So too in Tit. Frederic. III. p. 135. Fuit autem Eugenius alti ani- 
mi, injiiriarum tenax, delatoribus aurem praebuit, avaritiam calcavit, hono- 
ris cupidus fuit: ubi sententiam imbuit, non facile mutari potuit: religiosia 
viris adraodum favit In another passage — alti cordis fuit, sed nullum 
in eo vitium fuit, nisi quia sine raensurft erat, et non quod potuit, sed quod 
yoluit, aggressus est This heightens our opinion of the boldness and sa- 
gacity of ^neas in persuading such a man to accept as his own, instruc- 
tioQS which he had not given. 

Chap XVIL NICOLAS ¥• 99 



The Pontificate of Nicolas V. is the culminating 
point of Latin Christianity. The Papal power indeed 
had long reached its zenith. From Innocent III. to 
Boniface YIII. it had begun its decline. But Latin 
Christianity was alike the religion of the Popes and of 
the Councils which contested their supremacy. It was 
as yet no more than a sacerdotal strife whether the 
Pope should maintain an irresponsible autocracy, or be 
limited and controlled by an ubiquitous aristocratic 
Senate. The most ardent reformers looked no further 
than to strengthen the Hierarchy. The Prelates were 
determined to emancipate themselves from the usurpa- 
tions of the Pope, as to their elections, their arbitrary 
taxation by Rome, the undermining of their authority 
by perpetual appeals ; but they had no notion of relax- 
ing in the least the ecclesiastical domination. It was 
not that Christendom might govern itself, but that 
themselves might have a more equal share in the gov- 
ernment. They were as jealously attached as the Pope 
to the creed of Latin Christianity. The Council, not 
the Pope, burned John Huss. Their concessions to the 
Bohemians were extorted from their fears, not granted 
by their liberality. (Person, D'Ailly, Louis of Aries, 
Thomas of Corcelles, were as rigid theologians as Mar- 


tin V. or Eugenius IV. The Vulgate was their Bible, 
the Latin service their exclusive liturgy, the Canon 
Law their code of jurisprudence. 

Latin Christianity had yet to discharge some part of 
its mission. It had to enlighten the world with letters, 
to adorn it with arts. It had hospitably to receive (a 
gift fatal in the end to its own dominion) and to pro- 
mulgate to mankind the poets, historians, philosophers 
of Greece. It had to break down its own idols, the 
Schoolmen, and substitute a new idolatry, that of Clas- 
sical Literature. It had to perfect Christian art. Al- 
ready Christian Architecture had achieved some of its 
wonders. The venerable Lateran and St. Paul's with- 
out the Walls, the old St. Peter's, St. Mark's at Ven- 
ice and Pisa, Strasburg and Cologne, Rheims and 
Bourges, York and Lincoln, stood in their majesty. 
Christian Painting, and even Christian Sculpture, were 
to rise to their untranscended excellence. 

The choice of Nicolas V. was one of such singular 
Hicoitsv. felicity for his time that it cannot be won- 
1447. ' dered if his admirers looked on it as over- 
ruled by the Holy Spirit. ** Who would have thought 
in Florence," so said Nicolas to his biographer Vespa- 
siano, ^^ that a priest who rang the bells should become 
Supreme Pontiff? " * Yet it seems to have been a 
happy accident. Eighteen Cardinals met in the Con- 
clave. Ten voices were for the Cardinal Colonna ; two 
more would give him the requisite majority. Alfonso, 
King of Arragon and Sicily, encamped at Tivoli, fa- 
vored the Colonna. Already, to end the strife, the 
Cardinal of Bologna had risen to add his suffrage. He 
was checked and interrupted by the wise Cardinal of 


1 Apud Maratori, p. 279. 


Tarento. " Whom, then,'* said he, " do you nomi- 
nate ? " " The Cardinal of Bologna 1 " A sudden 
light seemed to flash on the Conclave : Thomas of Sar- 
san^ Cardinal of Bologna, was Pope.^ 

Had a turbulent, punctilious, obstinate Pope, another 
Eugenius, succeeded Eugenius IV., all might again 
have been strife and confusion. The consummate di- 
plomatic skill of iBneas Sylvius had extorted some 
concessions on his death-bed even from that impractica- 
ble Pope. Some questions had been designedly left in 
decent vagueness. 

The Cardinal of Bologna was forty-eight years old. 
His rise to honors had been rapid — Bishop, Cardinal, 
Pope, in three successive years.^ He was known as a 
lover and liberal patron of letters. As Legate he had 
been singularly active, conciliatory, popular, and there- 
fore successful. He had seemingly personal fi*iendship 
for ^neas Sylvius, and could fully appreciate his wise 
and dexterous management. He left the German ne- 
gotiations in those able hands; but a speech attributed 
to him was well-timed. ^^ The Bishops had too little, 
rather than too much power : he had no design to en- 
croach on their lawful authority." ^ This is more 
remarkable, as in all business he had the most perfect 
self-confidence : nothing was well done which he did 
not do himself.^ 

1 Vit Nicolai V., a Dominico Geoigio, p. 4. 

* 1445, 1446, 1447. 

• Weiflsenberg. 

^ See the elaborate character of Nicolas Y. by JEneaa Sylvian, — Fea, 
p. 139. He was hasty but placable ; friendly, bat there was no friend with 
whom he was not at some time angry. ** Nimium de se credidit, omnia per 
se facere vol ait. Nihil bene fieri patavit, nisi interesset. . Injuriaram neque 
nltor, neque oblitus est" 

« % 


Two years had hardly elapsed when Nicolas V. (so 
DbsoioHon ^®^^ ^^^ -^iieas Sylvius done his work in 
SbmS!'^ Germany) was sole and undisputed Pope. 
A.P. 1449. ^YiQ Council of Basle, disowned, almost for- 
gotten, had dissolved itself. Felix V. was again Ama- 
deus of Savoy, in his peaceful retreat at Ripaille. The 
Council had the wisdom to yield, the Pope the greater 
wisdom to admit the Council to an honorable capitula- 
tion. The Fathers at Basle appeared to submit to the 
friendly urgency of the Kings of France and England. 
They maintained prudent silence on the abandonment 
of their cause by the Emperor Frederick III. and his 
as yet ambiguous and disguised menaces of compulsory 
dissolution. The Prince-Pope was permitted to retire, 
not without dignity. Nicolas demanded not that in- 
sulting humiliation which had been enforced by his 
predecessors on their discomfited rivals. Felix V. 
Abdication ^^^^k iuto a Cardiualatc, and that Cardinal ate 
of F«ux. jjgj^|. jjj jjonor to the Pope. Louis of Aries 

was restored to his rank. Three out of the Cardinals 
named by Felix were advanced by Nicolas ; the rest 
were dead or content to abdicate. All the Papal cen- 
sures against the Pope and the Council were annulled ; 
the Acts of the Council, as far as promotions and ap- 
pointments^ confirmed. 

So ended the last Antipope,^ so closed the last Council 
which claimed coequal authority with the Pope. The 
peaceful treaty showed a great advance in Christian 
courtesy, in Christian forbearance, in the majesty of 
Christian gentleness ; but some decay too in the depth 
and ardor of Christian zeal. To have been an Anti- 
pope was no longer an odious and inexpiable crime -— 

1 AmadeoB lived only to Jan. 1, 1461. Montori, sab ann. 1440. 


a crime to be forgiven only after the most contumelious 
abasement, or as an ostentatious act of mercj. Felix 
may have owed something to his princely rank, more 
to the times and to the sagacious character of Nico- 
las y. Basle saw the last Council which could pretend 
to the title of (Ecumenic : that of Trent was a Council 
of Papal Christendom, and by no means the whole of 
Papal Christendom. All that had severed itself from 
Latin Christianity, part which was still in union, stood 
aloof from an assembly chiefly gathered from two na- 
tions, Spain and Italy. 

Nicolas V. retired into his serene and peaceful dig- 
nity : not so his restless colleague in all his ^^^^^ 
negotiations and in his journeys. JEneas Syl- ^y^^"*- 
vius had still years of busy life before him. Among 
the first acts of Pope Nicolas had been the confirmation 
of ^neas in his Papal Secretaryship and in his Bish- 
opric of Trieste. It was singular enough that, as Bish- 
op of Bologna, Thomas of Sarzana had been honored 
everywhere but in his own See. Bologna would not 
admit him within her walls. The Church of Trieste, 
at first refiractory, could not but receive a Bishop com- 
mended by the Emperor and the Pope. 

The Bishop of Trieste returned to Germany. No 
afiair of Frederick III. could be conducted without his 
aid. He was first sent to the Diet of Ascliaf- July 12, 1447. 
fenburg, which, under the Archbishop of Mentz, ac- 
cepted the Bulls of Pope Eugenius and acknowledged 
Pope Nicolas. Duke Philippe Maria, the last of the 
Viscontis, died,^ Milan was in confusion.^ The Em- 

1 In the castle of Porta Zobbia, Ang. 15, 1447. 

* "Incredibile allora fu la reroluzione dello Stato de Milano; tutto si 
reimpi di sedizioni, ed ognano prese V armi." — Muratori, sub ann. 


peror, among the competitors for the Dukedom,^ as an 
escheated fief of the Empire, would beyond that, put 
in his claim as actual Ruler, ^neas was among his 
ambassadors. Milan would own the suzerainty of the 
Emperor, but at the same time maintain her freedom. 
The Embassy returned, having effected nothing, from 
the impracticable city.^ JBneas attributes their failure 
to the grasping ambition of his German colleagues in 
the Embassy : demanding too much, they lost all ; his 
more subtle policy would have succeeded better. He 
returned to Vienna, was consecrated Bishop of Triaste, 
visited his diocese, was received with cordial welcome, 
and celebrated mass. But he was not long occupied 
with his peaceful duties. He was called upon to settle 
a question of frontier in Istria between the Emperor 
and the Venetians. On his return to Trieste he found 
a Count Rupert warring on the city, wasting the estates 
of the Church. He laid his complaints before the Em- 
peror, but himself hardly escaped from the hands of 
the noble freebooter. On his return to Vienna he 
found his power in the Council somewhat in danger. 
His friend and patron Gasper Schlick was in disgrace. 
He died July 16, 1449. As of the Chancellor's fac- 
tion ^neas fell under suspicion. With his usual dex- 
terity he steered his course, not absolutely renouncing 
his friend, yet not offending the Emperor. He received 
another benefice, a rich parish church in the neighbor- 
hood of Vienna. 

Milan again besieged by Francis Sforza made over- 

^ Charles, Duke of Orleans, in right of his mother, Valentina, sister of 
the late Duke ; Alfonso, King of Naples and Arragon, by the will of the late 
Duke ; Francis Sforza, husband of the natural daughter of the late Duke. 

s Commentar. Pil II., &c., pp. 19, 25. 


tares to the Emperor. Again the indefatigable ^neas 
crossed the Worm Alp, descended into the Jaiy, 1449. 
Valteline, and found the Lake of Como and its shores 
overrun by the troops of Sforza ; he reached Como 
with difficulty. That city was beset on all sides ; Sforza 
eagerly desired to seize the Imperial Ambassadors. At 
the head of a few soldiers, JSneas dashed through by 
night and reached Milan.^ Notwithstanding the open 
and the secret opposition of Sforza's partisans, he as- 
sembled and harangued the people. Three gates (quaiv 
ters) of the city would have proclaimed the Emperor 
without condition, one more had been a majority.^ 
Terms were however fi:amed, on the whole favorable to 
the Emperor, but such as ^neas had no authority to 
accept. Charles Gonzaga proposed to iEneas to seize 
the city by force. This ^neas declined as unbecom- 
ing his ecclesiastical character. The scheme was full 
of dangers, and of very doubtful issue ! ^neas re- 
tamed to the Emperor. Frederick, however, needed 
not only dexterous Ambassadors, but well- From Feb^ 

•' . to March 22, 

appointed armies and able Generals to occupy i^so. 

and protect Milan : he had neither. Milan opened her 

gates to Sforza ; Sforza was Duke of Milan.^ 

In the first year of Sforza's dukedom, that of the 
Jubilee, ^neas was engaged on a more peaceful mis- 
sion, to settle the contract of marriage between the 
Emperor and Leonora, sister of the King of Portugal. 
The agreement was readily made at Naples with the 

1 Vit. Frederic. III., p. 147. 

S n)id. p. 149. 

* ** Qui etiam insignia ducalia, tnulente populo, siucepit, qusB res neqne 
vim neqne colorem habuit jastitiie." — P. 162. Mnratori, sob ann. i. 450. 
For the personal adventures of ^neas Sylvius, see the Commentaries and 
Life of Frederick III. apud KoUar, p. UO, c( teq. 


Ambassadors of Portugal, ^neas saw Rome at the 
height of the Jubilee, his friend and Patron, Nicolas 
v., receiving the homage, the well-deserved homage, 
and the tribute of the world. 

In Nicolas V., in three short years, the Pope had 
become again a great Italian Potentate. Not that 
Nicolas V. was of one of the famous houses, or as[)ired 
to found a family of Princes. He was superior to, or 
not tempted to that Nepotism, which had already made 
some advances, some initiatory efforts, to invest the de- 
scendants or kinsmen of Popes in territorial honors or 
titles. Hitherto these families had taken no root, had 
died out, sunk into obscurity, or had been beaten down 
by common consent as upstart usurpers. Nicolas V. 
laid the foundation of his power, not so much in the 
strength of the Roman See as a temporal Sovereignty, 
as in the admiration and gratitude of Italy, which was 
rapidly reported over the whole of Christendom. He 
kept in pay no large armies, his Cardinals were not 
Condottieri generals ; he declared that he would never 
employ any arms but those of the Cross of Christ.^ 
But he maintained the Estates of the Church in peace, 
he endeavored (and the circumstances of the times fa- 
vored that better policy) to compose the feuds of Italy, 
raging at least with their usual violence. He was 
among the few Popes, really a great Pacificator in 
Italy. Four mighty Powers were now mingled in 
open war, or in secret intrigue. Alfonso, King of 
Arragon and the two Sicilies, the Dukes of Milan, 
the Venetians and the Florentines. Eugenius had 
had the wisdom, or good fortune, to abandon the 
French pretensions to the throne of Naples, that fatal 

^ Yespasiano, p. 279. 

Chap.XVIL character OF NICOLAS V. 107 

claim by which the Popes had for centuries entailed 
the miseries of war upon Italy, and servitude upon 
themselves. The strife for the Dukedom of Milan, 
notwithstanding the pretensions of the Emperor, and 
all the arts of ^neas Sylvius, the claims of the King 
of Arragon, and of the House of Orleans, had termi- 
nated in the establishment of the Sforzas. Pope Nico- 
las almost for the first time entered openly into Italian 
politics, as a true Mediator — not as a partisan — and, 
so doing, was for the first time (to a certain extent at 
least) successful in his mediation. Even in the wars 
of these powers Romagna was respected and escaj)ed 
devastation. The warlike chieftains who had usurped 
the cities and domains of the Church, were glad to be- 
come her subjects. The Malatestas accepted the recog- 
nition of their title as Lords of Rimini, Fano, and other 
cities of Romagna, and from their tribute the Pope 
received a revenue, if not equal in amount, more sure 
and less invidious than his own taxation. The re- 
trenchments insisted upon by the Council of Basle, 
were eluded by a Concordat, drawn with all the subt- 
lety of -Sneas Sylvius, and received by his obsequious 
master Frederick. In remote regions there were still 
deep murmurs at the avarice, the venality of Rome ; 
Nicolas and his Court escaped not, and did not deserve 
to escape, the common charge of rapacity ; but such 
murmurs died away in those distant quarters, or had 
lost their effect.^ 

1 Stimmen, p. 116. The unbaMador, credited with 1225 dacat«, ia in- 
ttrocted to give 1000 ducats either in gold or in some rich present — 225 
are for the Cardinal patron. But if the Pope is not content with the 1000, 
be must have it all, and the Protector wait The close of the affair is even 
more discreditable to the Pope. It is a very curious detail on the process 
of Papal bribery. In 144B, a collector and vender of Indulgences levied 


All this was not done, but it was well begun before 
the Jubilee ; and no Jubilee had been more splendid, 
more peaceiul, attended by greater numbers,^ produc- 
tive of more immense wealth.^ A new coin for the 
Jubilee was struck. From every part of Europe came 
pilgrims of the highest rank, strangers swarmed like 
ants in the streets of Rome and Florence. The throng 
was so great that above 200 persons were crushed to 
death on the bridge of St. Angelo.^ The Bank of the 
Medici alone had 100,000 florins belonging to the 
Church,^ and during the whole time poured in riches, 
which aided in the restoration of the dilapidated finances 
of the Popedom. The Pilgrims carried back through- 
out Europe accounts of the resuscitated majesty of the 
Roman Pontificate, the unsullied personal dignity of 
the Pope, the reenthronement of religion in the splen- 
did edifices, which were either building or under resto- 

in Prassia 7845 marks: for Indulgences, 3241; for Peter's Pence, 4604. — 
P. 137. 

1 " Dopo il primo Ginbileo del Anno 1300 forse non fa mai vendato on si 
gran flusso e riflusso di gente in Roma, de modo che le strade Maestro d* 
Italia pareano tante Fiere." — Muratori, Ann., sub ann. ^ Licet quadrin- 
genta et amplius millia diebus singulis per urbem templa foraque vaderent.** 
— Vit. Freder. III., p. 172 

^ The Teutonic Order tried to suppress the Bull, and to discourage the 
wasteful journey to Rome. The Pope was furious, and only appeased by a 
great offering. — Stimmen, p. 140. 

< Infessura, Chron. de Rimini ; J£neas Sylvius, Yit. Ftederic. p. 172. 
* Vespasiano, Vit. Nicol. V. 

< The Jubilee was interrupted by the plague, the fear of which had 
driven many in devotion to Rome (Sanuto says 60,000 died in Milan; 
hardly a man was left alive in Piacensa). — Muratori. The Cardinals, the 
Pope himself, were obliged to fly from Rome. " His Holiness goes from 
one castle to another with a small Court, and very few followers, seeking 
to find anywhere an uninfected place. His Holiness is now in a castle 
called Fabriano, where he was last year for some time ; an'^ it is said haa 
forbidden, under pain of death, that any one, of any rank whatever, who is 


Among those who would disseminate the fame of 
Nicolas v., none would be more loud, as none had 
stronger reasons to be grateful, than JSneas Sylvius. 
He had just reached the Alps on his return from Rome 
(he had hardly escaped drowning in a swollen stream), 
when he was overtaken by the pleasant intelligence that 
he had been named by the Pope, Bishop of his native 
city of Sienna, ^neas had never contemplated the 
passing the rest of his life in the cold ungenial region 
of Germany. " I yearn," he writes, " for my native 
Italy ; I dread nothing so much as to lay my bones in 
a foreign land, though the way to heaven or to hell lies 
open alike from both. But it would be less painful, I 
know not why, to die in the arms of brothers, sisters, 
sons, grandsons."^ It should seem* that he turned 
hack, saw the Pope again, entered Sienna, was wel- 
comed with the joyfril acclamations of the inhabitants, 
proud to receive a native Siennese as their Bishop. But 
the Bishop of Sienna returned to his Imperial Master : 
Germany must still be held in its close alliance with 
Borne. His next embassy, in the following year, was 
into Bohemia. Both on his journey towards Prague 
and on his return, he was hospitably received in Tabor, 
the city of the most extreme disciples of John Huss. 
In a letter to John Carvajal,^ the Cardinal of St. An- 
gelo, he gives a striking description of that inexpugna- 
ble fortress. Over the gates were two shields : on one 

at Rome, shall come aecretly or openly to Fabriano, or within seven miles 
of it: the Cardinals alone are excepted, who are limited to four servants.** 
— Voigt, from the Despatches of the Teutonic Knights. Stimmen, p. 70. 
This is not a very high view of the Pope's courage. 

1 Epist Ixv. 

s The account is not clear. 

• Epist. 


was painted an Angel with the Sacramental Cup ; on 
the other the blind old Ziska, their leader in war while 
alive, whose skin, stretched on a drum, after his death, 
had inspirited them to certain victory. The Bishop of 
Sienna had strong misgivings in entering this head- 
quarters of Satan. The Churchman held the auda- 
cious sectaries, who disdained the Primacy of Rome 
(the head of their offending, which included all other 
heresies), in the devoutest horror. " The Emperor 
Sigismund, instead of granting terms of peace to this 
most wicked and sacrilegious race, ought to have exter- 
minated them, or reduced them to hewers of stone for 
the rest of mankind." ^neas had forgotten the irre- 
sistible valor, the splendid years of victory, which had 
extorted these terms from the Emperor. But the rude, 
poor Taborites treated the Bishop with perfect courtesy. 
At a town about twenty-five miles from Prague (a pes- 
tilence was raging in Prague, and to his regret he dared 
not approach that ancient and noble city), he met the 
heads of the Bohemian nation. The object of his 
mission was soon despatched ; the summons of a gen- 
eral Convention in the following year, with the Am- 
bassador of the Emperor, and the Pope's Legate, at 
Leutmeritz. In that city he held a long theological 
discussion with George Podiebrad ; a second at Tabor 
with Nicolas, the Bishop of the sect. He acknowledged 
that all his eloquence made no impression on the stub- 
born Utraquists. The Taborites stuck to the Scripture, 
iBneas to the power of the Church ; no wonder that 
they came to no conclusion. But whatever might be 
the secret thouglits of each party as to the fate of his 
antagonist on the Day of Judgment, they parted with 
seeming mutual respect. 


Nicolas V. was to behold, as it were, the final act of 
homage to the Popedom, from the majesty of ooionatfon 
the Empire. He was to be the last Pontiff smiwror. 
who was to crown at Rome the successor of Charle- 
magne ; Frederick III. the last Emperor who was so to 
receive his crown from the hands of the Pope. ^Eneas 
Sylvius is again in Italy; he is the harbinger of the 
Emperor, who is about to descend into Italy to meet 
his Portuguese bride, to consummate his marriage, and 
at the same time to celebrate his Coronation at Rome. 
The Free cities were always troubled, and were thrown 
into a tumult of intrigue, if not of feud, by the appear- 
ance of the Emperor in Italy. Guelph turned pale, 
Ghibelline brightened. Sienna was under popular gov- 
ernment. Would the Emperor's favorite, the favorite 
of the Pope, the heir of the proud but fallen house of 
Piccolomini, now their Bishop, forego the opportunity 
of seizing for his own family the lordship of the city ? ^ 
Sienna, which the year before had thronged out to meet 
^neas, received him in sullen silence ; no one visited 
him, his name was heard muttered with low curses in 
the streets, ^neas, as he says, smiled at the sudden 
change (did not his vanity magnify his own unpopu- 
larity, and the jealousy of the city?). He assembled 
the Senate, assured them of the peaceful and unambi- 
tious views of himself, his family, and of the Emperor. 
The Siennese suppressed, but could not conceal their 
mistrust, ^neas having splendidly buried his col- 
league in the Embassy, who died at Sienna, thought it 
most prudent to go down to Telamona, in order to be 
in readiness to receive the Portuffuese Princess. 

Pope Nicolas himself began to look with alarm at 

1 Vit. Frederic. III. p. 244. 


the approach of the Emperor. There were suspicious 
movements at Rome ; more than suspicions, of the dire 
designs of Stephen Porcaro and his partisans, which 
broke out during the next year.^ 

• The pride and the fehcity of Nicolas V. was in the 
undisturbed peace of Italy, at least of Roman Italy ; 
who could foretell what strange or unexpected tumults 
might arise at the appearance of the Emperor? He 
sent to delay the march of Frederick, at least till the 
summer ; he urged the want of provisions, of prepara- 
tion, the dangers of a winter journey. JBneas was 
indignant at this timid vacillation of the Pope ; " it be- 
came not the supreme Pontiff to say one thing to-day, 
another to-morrow." He assured Pope Nicolas of the 
pacific intentions of the Emperor. He appealed to the 
conduct of the Emperor to the Church ; if he had been 
an enemy to the Church, the whole majesty of the 
Clergy had been crushed ; we had not had the joy of 
beholding you in your present state of power and au- 
thority.^ He wrote courteous letters to urge the imme- 
diate descent of Frederick .^ 

Tumults in Austria detained the Emperor ; stormy 
weather his bride. Mneas Sylvius spent sixty weary 
days at Telamona.^ At length, on the same day, the 
Emperor entered Florence, his bride Leghorn. They 
met at Sienna. Sienna thought it well to appear to be 
fiiU of joy, was delighted with the urbanity and conde- 

^ Si voluisset tantura pe9*ium ihat Eccle^ia : cleri majestas omnis extjngue- 
batur; nee tn hodie in hoc statu esses, in quo te videntes Isptamur, p. 191. 

s The most full account of this affair, with the letter of JSneas to the 
Pope, is in the Hist. Frederic. III. aptid Kollar, p. 187 et teq. 

' He whiled away his time by visiting the old Etrurian cities in the 
neighborhood, ^neas had a remarkable, almost a premature, taste for 
antiquities and for the beauties of nature. 

Chap.XYII. emperor AT ROlCE. 113 

scension of the Emperor, renounced her suspicions of 
^neas, recalled all his kindred, some of whom, with 
other nobles, were in exile ; and entreated the Bishop, 
whom the people now called the father of his country, 
to represent the City before the Pope. 

The imperial cavalcade set off for Rome. As they 
descended the Ciminian hill, which overhangs Viterbo, 
the Emperor called ^neas to his side. ^^ I shall live 
to see you Cardinal, I shall live to see you Pope." 
^neas, with proper modest}^, protested that he did not 
aspire to either of these perilous dignitiesi At Rome 
the marriage was solemnized by the PopOj^j^^^ig 
himself,^ afterwards the Coronation with great ^*®' 
magnificence.^ ^neas Sylvius made a speech for the 
Emperor. The day after, during an interview at which 
^neas was present, the Emperor and the Pope com- 
municated two extraordinary dreams.® The Emperor, 
the last time that the Cardinal of Bologna left Vienna, 
had dreamed that he was crowned not by a Roman, but 
by the Cardinal of Bologna. "It is the privilege," 
said the Pope, " of those set up to rule the people to 
have true dreams. I myself dreamed that my pred- 
ecessor Eugenius, the night before his death, had ar- 
rayed me in the Pontifical dress and mitre, and placed 
me on the throne. Take thou my seat, I depart to 
St. Peter." The humble Thomas of Sarzana had not 
been without his ambition!^ The prediction of the 
Emperor, as to the advancement of ^neas Sylvius, noi^ 

1 Mneas Sylvius describes the whole at great length, p. 277 e< seq. 
* The cautious Pope had arrayed all the militia of the city, and occupied 
St. Angelo and the other strongholds with an imposing force to keep the 

* Mnratori, snb ann. 
4 Yita Frederic, p. 296. 

VOL. vin. 8 


on such amicable terms with the Pope, might have been 
expected to meet its own immediate accomplishment, 
as fer as the Cardinalate. iBneas, however, received 
only a barren promise, which Pope Nicolas did not live 
to fulfil. But he returned to Germany Papal Ambas- 
sador and Legate to Bohemia, Silesia, Austria, Moravia, 
Styria, Carinthia, Camiola, — afterwards, at the Em- 
V peror's request, to Hungary. The Legatine character 

gave him great weight, he .exercised it with his accus- 
tomed sagacity, and in perfect fidelity to Frederick. 
He was armed, as Legate, with Papal censures against 
all the enemies of Frederick. But these Austrian 
afikirs belong not to our history. 

Throughout Christendom, except in the narrow cor- 
ner of Bohemia, Pope Nicolas V. mled supreme. Yet 
even Nicolas V. was not secure against the inextin* 
guishable turbulence of the Roman people. The r^ 
publicanism of the Crescentii, of Arnold of Brescia, 
of Brancaleone, of Rienzi, of Baroncelli, had still its 
champions and its martyrs. Stephen Porcaro was the 
last heir, till very modem times, of this dangerous and 
undying race. Stephen Porcaro was of equestrian 
family, of powerful and kindling eloquence. On the 
death of Eugenius ^Eugenius himself had been driven 
from Rome by popular insurrection) Porcaro had urged 
the rising of the people, the proclamation of the Re- 
public.^ Pope Nicolas, anxious to conciliate all orders, 
appointed the dangerous demagogue on a mission in the 
Roman territory. On his return Porcaro renewed his 
agitation. He boldly avowed his opinions, and almost 

1 Dicens omnem servitatem turpem, foedissimam autem qu» pnesbjterit 
pnestaretar, rogabatqne Romanos, dam Cardinales cUasi easent, aliqnod 
audere pro libertate. Maeag Sylvius, V. Fred. IQ. p. 135. 


aoinoanced himself as defender of the liberties of the 
Boman people. He was sent in honot*able exile to Bo- 
logna, under the sole restraint that he slwuld present 
himself every day before Bessarion, the Cardinal • Leg- 
ate. He returned secretly to Rome. A conspirax;y 
had been organized in which the nephew of Porcaro 
took the lead. Stephen Porcaro harangued the con- 
spirators, inveighed ag^nst the tyranny of the rulers, 
the arbitrary proscription, the banishment, even the 
execution, of Roman citizens. He declared that it was 
ignominious that the city which had ruled the world 
should be subject to the dominion of priests, who were 
women rather than men.^ He would east off forever 
tb« degrading yoke. He had at his command three 
hundred hired soldiers. Four hundred noble Romans 
were ready to appear in arms. He appealed to their 
cupidity as to their patriotism : to-mon*ow they might 
be in possession of a million of gold pieces.^ If the 
aims of Porcaro were noble, his immediate designs, the 
desigps with which be was charged, and with seeming 
tmtb,^ were those of the robber, the bloody and cow* 
ardly assassin.^ The contenvplated mode oi insurreo 
tion had the further horror <^ impious sacrilege. The 
Pope and the Candinals were to be surprised while sol- 
emnizing the mass on the festival of the Epiphany* 
The Papal stables near the church were to be set on 

1 Tarpe esse dictitans earn urbem, qum totum sibi subjecerit orbem, nunc 
sacevdotam imperio subjacere* quoe mcUub fceminaa quant viios quisqiie 
appellaverit. ^neas Sylvius, Europa, p. 459. 

^ Zantfliet, Stephen InfiaBSura, Platiiia. 

9 Vita NicoUi V. p. 128. 

4 8iai»e»di, true to his repubUcaa bias, raises Stephen Porcaro to a hero 
and a martyr; and while he perhaps exaggerates the cruelty of the Pope, 
Dardiy tevehes on its jnstiSGation, the atrocity of the plot. When will 
Italian freedom forswear assassination as its fint and favorite weapon? 


fire. In the tumult Porcaro was to appear in purple 
and with the ensigns of magistracy, to force or gain his 
way as a worshipper towards the altar. The Pope was 
to be seized ; it was said that the chains were found, ^ 
chains of gold, which had been displayed to the insur- 
gents, which were to fetter his holy person,^ only, 
however, to be thrown into a dungeon as a hostage to 
compel his brother to surrender the Castle of St. An- 
gelo. His after^fate was perhaps to be that of his 
brethren the Cardinals, who were to be massacred with- 
out mercy. The shaven crown was no longer to be an 
object of fear or respect in Rome.* The insurgents 
had nicely calculated the amount of plunder : from the 
Palace of the Pope 200,000 florins ; from the Sacred 
College 200,000 : from the merchants and public offi- 
cers 200,000 ; from the magazines and salt depots 
200,000 ; from the confiscated property of the enemies 
o£ the revolution 100,000. 

The conspiracy was detected or betrayed.* The 
house where the conspirators assembled was surrounded 
with troops. Porcaro escaped, but was found next 
day, hidden by his sister in a chest. Sciarra Porcaro, 
the nephew, cut his way through the soldiers and fled. 
Many servants and quantities of arms were found in 
the house. The very day of his capture the bodies of 
Stephen Porcaro and nine of his accomplices were 
seen hanging from the battlements of the Castle of St. 
Angelo. They had in vain implored confession and 

1 Ad colligandnm ait prsesulem, catenam aoream secum attalit, a se 
Jampridem paratam quam congregatis ostendit ^n. Syl. Enropa, p. 460. 

s Telle enim aiebat se id agere, ut aeteniuin intra hiec mcenia capitis raai 
dentes vereri non oporteret Leo Alberti. 

* According to Stelano Infesaura they attacked one hundred of the Pope's 
gnards, and killed the Marescallo. 


the last sacrament. Many other executions followed. 
Two Canons of St. Peter's were involved in the plot : 
one was found innocent and released ; the other fled to 
Damascus, where he remained till after the death of 
the Pope. Large rewards were offered for some who 
had escaped: one thousand ducats if produced aUve, 
five hundred if dead. Some were allowed to he seized 
in Padua and Venice. The Cardinal of Metz inter- 
ceded for Battista Persona ; it was alleged that he was 
guiltless. The Pope promised mercy : whether on new 
evidence or not, he was hung the next morning : the 
indignant Cardinal left Rome. 

The Pope was bitterly mortified at this ingratitude 
of the Roman people for his mild government, the 
peace which they enjoyed, the wealth which had poured 
into the city, the magnificent embeUishments of Rome. 
He became anxious and morose. Remorse for blood, 
if necessarily, too prodigally shed, would weigh heavily 
on a Pope who had shrunk from war as unchristian.^ 
The famous architect Leo Alberti (employed, it is true, 
by Nicolas V. in his splendid designs for St. Peter's) 
describes the unexampled state of prosperity enjoyed 
under Nicolas, for which the conspirators would have 
made that cruel return. ^^ The whole of Latium was 
at peace : the last thing to be expected was that any 

1 See in Collier (i. p. 672) the curious account of Porcaro's conspiracy 
giren in England by the Pope's Nuncio Clement Vincentio: "It was 
drawn/* said the Nuncio, " from the brothels and profligates of Rome." 
The Nuncio suggests a form of public thanksgiving for the Pope's deliver- 
ance, and intimates that a letter from the English clergy would be accept- 
able, denouncing Rome as degenerating to the licentiousness of old Babylon, 
and advising the Pope to leave the wicked city, and reside In some other 
country. The Nuncio and Collector was also to hint the expediency of a 
subsidy to enable the Pope to leave Rome and Italy. The form of prayer 
Was issued, says Collier, but no more done. 


Koman coald think to change the state of afiairs for the 
better by a revolution. The domain of the Chnrch 
was in a high state of cnltiyation ; the city had become 
a city of gold through the Jubilee ; the dignity of the 
citizens was respected ; all reasonable petitions were 
granted at once by the Pontiff. There were no exac- 
tions, no new taxes. Justice was fairly administered. 
It was the whole care of the Pope to adorn the city." 
The more devout and the more wealthy were indignant 
at the design to plunder and massacre the foreigners 
whose profuse wealth enabled the Romans to live in 
ease and luxury ; at the profanation of the Church by 
promiscuous slaughter, of the altar itself by blood ; the 
total destruction of the Cardinals, the priesthood, of 
religion itself; the seizure of the Pope, whose feet 
distant potentates crowded to kiss on his sublime func- 
tion of sacrifice; the dragging him forth, loaded 
with chains, perhaps his death ! The calmest looked 
on the suppression of the conspiracy and the almost 
total extirpation of the conspirators with satisfiic- 

Now came that event which, however foreseen by 
the few wiser prophetic spirits, burst on Europe and on 
Christendom with the stunning and appalling effect of 
absolute suddenness — the taking of Constantinople by 
the Turks. On no two European minds did this disas- 
ter work with more profound or more absorbing terror 
than on Pope Nicolas V. and ^neas Sylvius: nor 
Could any one allege more sound reasons for that terror 
than the Pope and the Bishop of Sienna. Who could 
estimate better than ^Sneas, from his intimate knowl- 

1 L«o B«ttisU Albert!. PoicariA Gonjimtio apnd Ifanitori, zxr. p» 



edge of all the countries of Europe, of Italy, Germany, 
France, England, the extent of the danger which im- 
pended over the Latin world ? Never since its earlier 
outburst might Mohammedanism seem so likely to sub- 
jugate if not to swallow up distracted and disunited 
Christendom, as under the Turks. By sea and land 
they were equally formidable. If Christendom should 
resist, on what frontier? All were menaced, all in 
danger. What city, what kingdom, would arrest the 
fierce, the perpetual invasion ? From this period 
throughout the affairs of Germany (at Frankfort he 
preached a crusade) to the end of his Legatine power, 
of his Cardinalate, of his Papacy, of his life, this was 
the one absorbing thought, one passion, of ^neas Syl- 
vius. The immediate advance of the victorious Ma- 
hommed through Hungary, Dalmatia, to the border, 
the centre of Italy, was stopped by a single for- 
tress, Belgrade; by a preacher, John Capistrano; by 
a hero, John Huniades. But it was not a.b. 1472. 
till, above a century later, when Don John of Aus- 
tria, at Lepanto by sea, and John Sobieski, before 
Vienna, by land, broke the spell of Mohammedan 
conquest, that Europe or Christendom might repose 
in security.^ 

The death of Nicolas V. was hastened, it was said, 
by the taking of Constantinople. Grief, shame, fear 
worked on a constitution broken by the gout. But Ni- 
colas V- foresaw not that in remote futurity the peace- 
ful, not the warlike, consequences of the fall of Con- 
stantinople would be most fatal to the Popedom — that 
what was the glory of Nicolas V. would become among 
the foremost causes of the ruin of mediaeval religion : 

1 Compare Gibbon, ch. Ixrii. xii. p. 162. 


that it would aid in shaking to the base, and in severing 
forever the majestic unity of Latin Christianity.^ 

1 1 cannot refrain, though my Histozy closes with Nicolas V., from sab- 
joining a few sentences on the end of JBneas Sylvius Piccolomini. 

On the death of Nicolas V., the Cardinal Bessarion, for learning, dignity, 
character, stood high above the whole College of Cardinals. The election 
had been almost declared in his favor. The Cardinal of Avignon was 
seized with indignation. " Would they have for a Pope a Greek, a recent 
proselyte, a man with a beard ? Was the Latin Church fallen so low that 
it must have recourse to the Greeks? " The jealousy of the West was 
roused : a Spaniard, the first of the fatal house of Borgia, was raised to the 
Papal throne, Callistus III. j£neas was at Frankfort, pressing on reluc- 
tant Germany a crusade against the Turks. The Germans thought more 
of their contest with the Pope than of the security of Christendom. Fred- 
erick III. was urged to seize the opportunity of the election of a new Pope 
to assert the liberties of the Empire and of the German Church, ^neaa 
averted the strife, and persuaded the Emperor Uiat he had more to hope 
than fear from the Pope. He was sent with the congratulations of the Em- 
peror to Callistus III. A promotion of Cardinals was expected. The name 
of Maeas was in all men's mouths : he received congratulations. The 
Pope named but three, one his nephew, Borgia, the future Alexander V£. 
^neas was about to return to Germany, but his presence was needed in 
Italy: Sienna was besieged by James Piccinino : war threatened between 
the Pope and Alfonso King of Naples. .£neas, as ambassador to Naples, 
secured an honorable treaty. The Pope would not lose, and was obliged 
to reward the indispensable JSneas. He was created Cardinal of Sienna 
(Dec. 1456). 

So, without dishonor or ingratitude, .£neas Sylvius was released from 
the service of his Imperial master. The Cardinal must devote himself to 
the interests of the Church; the Italian to those of Italy. He need breathe 
no more the thick and heavy air of Germany. 

A year and a half has passed, and J&neas Sylvius Piccolomini (Aug. 21, 
A. D. 1458) is Pope Pius II. 

Few men of more consumnuite ability had sat on the throne of St. Peter; 
few meu more disposed to maintain the Papal power to the height of its 
supremacy. He boldly, unreservedly, absolutely condemned the heretical 
tenets of iEneas Sylvius. He reproached the King of France for the au- 
dacious Pragmatic Sanction : it was not less sacrilegious, not less impious 
than the decrees of the Council of Basle. But Pius II. had the sagacity to 
know that the days of Innocent III. and Boniface VII f. were passed. He 
learnt by bitter experience that those too of Urban II. were gone by. It 
was not for want of exertion, or of eloquence far surpassing that which 
wrapt the Council of Clermont to frenzy, that Pius II. did not array Chris- 
tendom in a more politic, more justifiable crusade against advancing Mo- 
hammedanism. Even the colder Council of Mantua seemed to kindle to 


Nicolas Y. aspired to make Italy the domicile, Rome 
the capital, of letters and arts. As to letters, his was 

•nthosiasm. Against the Turks Germany would ftimish 42,000 men; Hmi- 
gary, 20,000 horse, 20,000 foot Burgundy 6000. The Duke of Burgundy 
accepted the command. Even the Italian kingdoms, dukedoms, republics, 
consented to be assessed. The Prince of Este threw down 300,000 florins. 
Italy was to raise a great fleet; France and Spain promised aid. 

The proclamation of the Universal League of Christendom might seem 
a signid for a general war throughout Christendom. The war of the Roses 
raged in England; all Germany was in arms, bent on civil strife; the 
French fleet set sail, not against the Turks, but against Naples ; Piccinino 
and Malatesta renewed the war in the Roman territory; the Savelli were 
in insurrection in Rome. 

Pope Pius was not satisfied with endeavoring to rouse all Christendom 
to a crusade against the Turks : he undertook a more Christian, if a more 
desperate enterprise, the conversion of the Sultan. He published a long 
elaborate address to Mahomet II. Throughout this singular document the 
tone is courteous, conciliatory, almost flattering; not till its close, denuu' 
ciatory ^^inst the imposture of the Koran. " Nothing was wanting to 
make Mahomet the mightiest sovereign the world had ever seen, nothing 
but a little water for his baptism, and belief in the Gospel. The world 
would bow down before Mahomet the Christian Emperor." '* The great 
Sultan is no careless Atheist, no Epicurean; he believes in God and in the 
immortality of the soul. What has been the end of all great conquerors, 
— Semiramis, Hercules, Bacchus, Nebuchadnezzar, Cyrus, Alexander, 
Julius Csesar, Attila, Tamerlane ? They are all burning in the flames of 
hell. Tour law allows all to be saved by their own religion, except rene- 
gades from Islam; we maintain, on the contrary, that all who believe not 
oar creed must be damned.** From this dangerous argument the Pope 
proceeds to enlarge on the Christian as contrasted with the Mohammedan 
fiuth. However justly he might argue on Christianity, the stem predesti- 
narians of Islam must have been surprised at finding themselves charged 
with supposing the world ruled by chance, not by Providence. There is 
much more strange lore on Mohammedan superstitions and Arabian priest- 
craft. The Turks were of a noble Scythian race: the Pope marvels that 
they can fDlIow Egyptians and Arabians in their religion: Christianity had 
been a far more congenial faith. 

How strangely, how nobly did Pius U., at the close of his life, redeem 
tbe weaknesses, the treachery, the inconsistency, the unblushing efironteiy 
of self-interest of his earlier years. Pius II. was the only Pope who, in his 
deep and conscientious devotion, would imperil his own sacred person in 
the Crusade against the Turks, and engage in a war, if ever justifiable in 
a Pope, justifiable when the liberty, the Christianity of Europe might seem 
on the hazard. At Ancona (a.d. 1463), amid the total desertion of the 
leaders pledged to the Holy War; amid the host of common soldiers, mur- 


not the ostentations patronage of a magnificent Sov- 
ereign ; nor was it the sagacious policy which would 
enslave to the service of the Church that of which it 
might anticipate the dangerous rebellion. It was Qot 
the religion of authority seeking to make itself master 
of all which might hereafter either confirm or contest 
that authority. In Nicolas it was pure and genuine, 
almost innate, love of letters. In his lowlier station 
the ambition^ pride, pleasure, passion, avarice of Thomas 
of Sarzana had been tlie study, the collection, of books. 
In every country into which he followed the train of 
the Cardinal Legate, his object was the purchase of 
manuscripts or copies of them. The Cardinal di Santa 
Croce (Albergati) encouraged him by his munificence ; 
but the Cardinal *s munificence could not keep pace 
with the prodigality of his follower. In his afiluenco 
Thomas devoted all he possessed to the same end, as in 
his poverty his most anxious fear had been lest he 
should be compelled to part with his treasures. So 
great was his reputation, that when Cosmo de' Medici 
proposed to open the Library of St. Marco at Flor- 

maring that they had heen paid only in Indulgences, in which they had 
eeased to trust, not in hard money; a host starving for want of sustenanoi^ 
Which the Pope, once the cool and politic statesman, now become a 8ai»> 
gnine, enthnsiaetic old man, had not thought of providing; Pins II« alone 
maiDtained his courage. As the &ith of others waxed cold, his became 
more ardent. He offered with one of his Cardinals to embark and throw 
himself into Ragusa, threatened by the Turks. And this refined and accom- 
plished man died, as Peter the Hermit or St. Bernard might have died. The 
fiuthful Cardinal of Pavia watched his last moments. The sight of the sails 
of the Venetian fleet had for a moment kindled up all his ardor, but mads 
him feel more deeply his failing strength. The Cardinal has described hit 
end with the tonching simplicity of real affection and reverence. " * Pray 
for me, my son,* were his last words." His friends bewailed and honored 
faim as a martyr in the cause of Christianity.* 

• Oonment. Gsfd. Pavieatis, p. 869. 


ence, endowed with the books of Nicolo Nicoli, Thomas 
of Sarzana was requested to furnish a plan for the ar- 
rangement and for the catalogue. This became the 
model adopted in the other great libraries — that of 
the Badia at Florence, that of the Count of Montefel- 
tro at Urbino, of Alexander Sforza at Pesaro. No 
sooner was Nicolas Pope than he applied himself to 
the foundation of the Vatican Library. Five thou- 
sand volumes were speedily collected. The wondering 
age boasted that no such library had existed since the 
days of the Ptolemies. 

The scholars of Italy flocked to Rome, each to r^ 
ceive his task from the generous Pope, who rewarded 
their labors with ample payment. He seemed deter- 
mined to enrich the West with all which survived of 
Grecian literature. The fall of Constantinople, long 
threatened, had been preceded by the immigration of 
many learned Greeks. Some, as the Cardinal Bessa- 
rion, had been naturalized after the Council of Flor- 
ence.^ France, Germany, even England, the Byzantine 
Empire, Greece, had been ransacked by industrious 
agents for copies of all the Greek authors. No branch 
of letters was without its interpreters. Notwithstand- 
ing the bold writings of Laurentius Valla, who had 
already startled the world by his discovery of the fraud 
of Constantino's donation, he was intrusted with the 
translation of Herodotus and Thucydides. Poggio 
undertook the Cyropaedia of Xenophon and Diodorus 
Siculus ; Nicolas Perotto, Polybius. Guarino of Ve- 
rona and Gteorge of Tifema, Strabo, the latter four 
books of Dion Prusaeus, Pietro Candido, Appian. 

1 Cofflpsn Disqniiiitio de Nicolao V. Pont. Max. erga literas et literariM 
firoB patrocinio. Ad calc. Vit Nicol. V. a Dominico Georgio. Roma, 1749. 


Of the philosophers, Perotto sent out the Enchiri- 
dion of Epictetus ; Theodore of Gaza some of the 
works of Theophrastus, and of Aristotle : George of 
Trebisond, the Laws of Plato. On George of Trebi- 
sond was imposed the more arduous task, the Almagest 
of Ptolemy. Lilius -^gidius contributed some of the 
works of the Alexandrian Philo. From Rinuccio of 
Arezzo came the Life and Fables of ^sop and the 
letters of Hippocrates ; from John Aurispa, the Com- 
mentary of Hierocles on the golden verses of Pythag- 
oras.. Nicolas had an ardent desire to read the two 
great poems of Homer in Latin verse. They were 
only known by the prose version of Leontius Pilatus, 
executed under the care of Boccaccio. Philelpho, 
whom the Pope had received with eager cordiality, 
and bestowed on him, as a first gift, 500 golden ducats, 
relates, that just before his death, the Pope offered him 
a fine palace in Rome, and farms in the Roman terri- 
tory, which would maintain his whole family in ease 
and honor, and to deposit ten thousand pieces of gold, 
to be paid when he should have finished the Iliad and 
the Odjrssey.* 

Nor were the Fathers of the Greek Church without 
due honor. Basil, the two Gregories, Cyril, the Evan- 
gelic Preparation of Eusebius by George of Trebisond, 
a new version of Dionysius the Areopagite, opened the 
theology of the Greeks to the inquiring West.^ 

There was not as yet any awful apprehension of im- 

1 Epist. Philipp. quoted in the Disqaisitio, p. 194. iBneas Sylviiu says 
that a certain Horace of Rome was employed on the Iliad. Part of the 
flnt book in Latin verse, with a dedication to Nicolas V., is in the Vatican. 

3 Nicolas obtained a copy of the Commentaries of Chrysostom on St. 
Matthew, which had been so rare in the west, that Aqoinas had said he 
would rather possess it than the city of Paris. 


pairing the sacred majesty of the Vulgate Bible. Ma- 
notti, a Florentine, in his day the most famous for his 
erudition, was authorized and urged to execute a new 
version of the whole Scriptures from the Hebrew and 
the Greek. He completed the Psalms from the Syriac, 
the whole New Testament, except perhaps the Acts of 
the Apostles. 

Thus to Nicolas V., Italy, or rather Latin Christian- 
ity, mainly owes her age of learning, as well as its fatal 
consequence to Rome and to Latin Christianity, which 
in his honest ardor he would be the last to foresee. It 
was the splendid vision of Nicolas V. that this revival 
of letters, which in certain circles became almost a 
new religion, would not be the bondslave but the 
handmaid or willing minister of the old. Latin Chris- 
tianity was to array itself in all the spoils of the ancient 
world, and so maintain as a natural result (there was 
nothing of policy in his thought), and with increasing 
and universal veneration, her dominion over the mind 
of man. The rebellion of Letters, and the effects of 
that rebellion, we must hereafter endeavor to explain. 

But Rome under Nicolas V. was not to be the centre 
of letters alone, she was to resume her rank Progmis 

-I A A • 11 /» 1 • of human 

as the centre of Art, more especially or archi- intellect. 
tectural magnificence. Rome was to be as of old the 
Lawgiver of Civilization ; pilgrims from all parts of 
the world, from curiosity, for business or from religion, 
were to bow down before the confessed supremacy of 
her splendid works. 

The century from the death of Boniface VIII. to 
the accession of Martin V., during the Avignonese 
exile, and the Schism, had been a period of disaster, 
neglect, decay, ruin ; of that slow creeping, crumbling 

126 LATIN CHBTBTUNriT. Book Zm. 

ruin, which is perhaps more fatal to ancient cities than 
conflagration, usually limited in its ravages, or the 
irruption of barbarous enemies,^ Martin V. had made 
some advances to the restoration of the financial pros* 
perity of the Popedom ; Eugenius IV. had reasserted 
the endangered spiritual aupremacy. Both had paid 
some attention to the dilapidated chiurches, palaces, 
walls of the city. Under Nicolas V. Rome aspired 
to rise again at once to her strength and to her splen- 
dor. The Pope was to be a great Sovereign Prince, 
but above the Sovereign Prince he was to be the suc- 
cessor of St. Peter. Rome was to be at once the strong 
citadel, and the noblest sanctuary in the world, onas^ 
sailable by her enemies both without and within from 
her fortifications ; commanding the world to awe bj 
the unrivalled majesty of her churches. Th€ Jubilee 
had poured enormous wealth into the Treasury of the 
Pope ; his ordinary revenues, both from the Papal terw 
ritory and from Christendom at large, began to flow in 
with peace and with the revival of his authority. That 
wealth was all expended with the most liberal magnif- 
icence. Already had it dawned upon the mind of 
Nicolas y. that the Cathedral of the Chief of die 
Apostles ought to rival, or to surpass all the churches 
in Clmstendom in vastness and majesty. It was to be 
entirely rebuilt from its foundations.^ Jnlras II. and 
Leo X. did but accomplish the design of Nicolas V* 

1 Read Petrarch's well-known letter —Gibbon. Bonsen and PUtner, 
Roms Be)K;hreibung. 

« GeorjK^io, in his Life of Nicolas V., says (p. 166), Banlicam vero 8t. 
P«tri Priacipis Apostolontm a fondaraentia magnifice inchoare ei peifioeif 
meditabatur. In the Life of Manetti (Muratori, L B. T.) vol. iii. is a long 
description of the plan of the church, and the design of the Pope. See 
alao Bonpumi TempU Yaticani Historia, c xL, with the refeiencea. 

Cbap.ZVII. ST. PETER'S. 127 

Had Nicolas lived, Bramante and Michael Angelo 
might have been prematarely anticipated bj Rosellini 
of Florence and Leo Battista Alberti. He had even 
erected an august and spacious Tribune, to be swept 
away with the rest of the building by his bolder and 
more ambitious successors. The mosaic pavement in 
tlie apse, begnn by Nicolas Y., was completed by 
Paul II., at the cost of more than 5000 pieces of 

By the side, and under the shadow of this noblest of 
churches, the Supreme Pontiff was to have his most 
stately palace. The Lateran, and the Palace near St. 
Maria Maggiore, sumptuously restored by Nicolas V«, 
were to bow before this more glorious edifice. The 
description may still be read of its spacious courts, its 
eool green gardens, its dashing fountains, its tlieatre, 
its hall for public ceremonies, for the conclave and the 
Pontifical coronation, the treasury, the library; this 
chamber, perhaps as dearest to the tastes of Nicolas, was 
the first part, if not the only part achieved. 

The Palace had its three stories for sammer, for win- 
ter, and for spring, even to the offices and kitchens.^ 
The Cardinals were to dwell around the Pope, if in 
less lofty, yet sdll in noble Palaces. The Vatican was 
to be the Capital of the Capital of Christendom. The 
whole Leonine city, which had too long lain almost 
open to the invading stranger, and was not safe from 
the turbulent Romans, was to expand in security as 
well as splendor around the residence of St. Peter and 
liifi successors. The bridge of St. Angelo was bordered 
with turrets for defence and ornament ; the Castle of 
St. Angelo, the citadel which commanded the bridge, 

1 Georgio, p. 167. > In Manetti^s Life of Nicolas Y. 


was strengthened by outward bulwarks, and by four 
towers at the comers, within laid out into halls and 
chambers. It was connected by strong walls with the 
Vatican ; a huge tower began to rise, the commence- 
ment of formidable works of defence beyond the gar- 
dens of the Vatican. From the bridge of St. Angelo 
three broad streets, with open porticoes, and shops 
within them, were to radiate ; the central one led 
direct to the portico of St. Peter's, before which Ni- 
colas V. designed to set up the famous obelisk, which 
Sixtus V. at infinite cost, and with all the science 
of Fontana, hardly succeeded in placing on its base. 
The street to the left' ran along the Tiber ; that to the 
right, to the Vatican and the Palatine Grate. 

Nor did the PontiflF design to expend all his munifi- 
cence on St. Peter's and the Vatican. Decay, from 
violence or want of repair, had fallen on the forty 
churches called the Stations, visited by the more sol- 
emn processions, especially those which, with St. Pe- 
ter's, made the more Holy Seven, the Lateran, St. 
Maria Maggiore, St. Stephen on Monte Celio, the 
Apostles, St. Paul and St. Lorenzo beyond the walls. 
All shared more or less in his restoring bounty. Three 
other churches, St. Maria beyond the Tiber, St. Theo- 
dore, St. Prassede were rebuilt; the Pantheon, now 
consecrated to the Virgin and all Saints, was covered 
with a roof of lead. 

The Pontiff would secure the city from foreign foes, 
who for centuries, either through the feuds, the perfidy, 
or the turbulence of the Romans themselves, or from 
their own ambition or hostility, had desolated the city. 
In the whole circuit, from the Porta Flumentana to the 
Pyramid of Cestius, and so all round the city, the walls 


were strengthened, towers erected, fosses deepened. 
The Capitol was restored to its ancient strength and 
solidity. In order to convey his building materials to 
the city, perhaps provisions, he cleansed the channel of 
the Anio; he repaired the stately aqueduct which 
brought the Acqua Vergine to the Fountain of Trevi. 
He restored the Milvian bridge. 

The munificence of Nicolas confined not itself to 
Rome. Everywhere in the Roman territory rose 
churches, castles, public edifices. Already the splen- 
did church of St. Francis, at Assisi, wanted repair: 
Nicolas built a church dedicated to St. Francis, at his 
favored town of Fabriano ; one at Gualdo in Umbria, 
to St. Benedict. Among his princely works was a cas- 
tle at Fabriano, great buildings at Centumcellae, the 
walls of Civita Castellana, a citadel at Narni, with bul* 
warks and deep fosses; another at Civita Yecchia; 
baths near Viterbo ; buildings for ornament and for 
defence at Spoleto.^ 

The younger Arts, Sculpture and Painting began 
under his auspices still further to improve. Fra An- 
gelico painted at Rome at the special command or 
request of Nicolas V. 

Nicolas v., on his death-bed, communicated to the 
Cardinals, who stood around in respectfiil sorrow, his 
last Will and Testament. This solemn appeal, as it 

1 On the astonishment and admiration excited by the buildings of Nico- 
las v., read the passages of ^neas Sylvius, Vit Frederic. III. ** Quantum 
▼ero aniino hie valeret, et quam vastus sit ejus animus, ejus sedificia mon- 
strant, quo nemo aut magnificentius aut celerius aut splendidius quam ipse 
edificavit. Nam turres et muri per eum constructi nulli priscorum arte 
yd magnitadiiM cednnt.'' — P. 18S. ** Namque ut priscorum Cae^amm 
molfls toluis urbis stmctura superat, sic sedificia Nicolai Papao, quicquid 
nbiqoe esset, modem! laboris excellnnt" — P. 282. The Emperor Fred- 
erick, himself an excellent architect, stood in amazement. 

▼OL. YXU. 9 


were, to God and man, after a copious and minute con- 
fession of faith, turned to his architectural works. 
These holy and worldly edifices he had raised not from 
ambition, from pride, from vainglory, or for the per- 
petuation of his name, but for two great ends, the 
maintenance of the authority of the Church of Rome, 
and her more commanding dignity above all Christian 
people, as well as her security against lawless persecu- 
tion. The majesty of such sacred imperishable monu- 
ments profoundly impresses the mind of man with the 
perpetuity, the eternity of religion. As to the secular 
buildings, the walls, towers, citadels, he recounts the 
dangers, the persecutions of Popes from early days; 
Popes insulted, Popes dethroned. Popes imprisoned, 
Popes banished, Popes murdered, from Eugenius II. 
through all the darker ages, down to the conspiracy of 
Stephen Porcaro against himself. These were his mo- 
tives for the conception and execution of so many 
sumptuous and so solid edifices. He proceeds to that 
sad burden on his weary soul, the taking of Constanti- 
nople. He boasts with some, but surely blameless 
pride, of the peace of Italy ; he had restrained, allayed, 
appeased the fierce wars among all the Princes and all 
the Republics.^ 

Nor does he speak with less satisfaction or delight of 
his own labors in the cause of Letters ; the purchase of 
books, the copying of manuscripts, the encouragement 
of scholars ; he appeals to the personal knowledge of 
the Cardinals, to the world, even to higher judgment. 

1 ** BeHa ipsa, qnibus nndiqae firementibus jampridem tota hinc inde Italia 
▼ezabatnr, ita compescnimus, ita deniqne sedavimnii, ut omnes Prindpes, 
Baspublicas, et ItaloB Populos ad mazimam concordiam sammamque pa- 
oem indaceremus.'* 


on his acquisition and his employment of the wealth of 
the Pontificate: "all these and every other kind of 
treasure, were not accumulated hy avarice, not by 
simony, not by largesses, not by parsimony, as ye 
know ; but only through the grace of the most merci- 
ful Creator, the peace of the Church, and the perpetual 
tranquillity of my Pontificate." ^ 

Thus in Nicolas V. closed one great age of the Pa- 
pacy. In Nicolas the Sovereign Italian Prince and the 
Pontiff met in serene and amicable dignity ; he had no 
temptation to found a princely family. But before long 
the Pontiff was to be lost in the Sovereign Prince. Nor 
was it less evident that the exclusive dominion of Latin 
Christianity was drawing to a close, though nearly a 
century might elapse before the final secession of Teu- 
tonic Christianity, and the great permanent division of 
Christendom. Each successive Pontificate might seem 
determined to advance, to hasten that still slow but 
inevitable revolution; the audacious nepotism of Six- 
tus IV., the wickednesses of Alexander VI., which 
defy palliation ; the wars of Julius II., with the hoary 
Pope at the head of ferocious armies ; the political in- 
trigues and disasters of Clement VII. 

1 "Hsc omnia pleraque alia divitiarnm et gazanun genera nobis non ex 
ayariti&, non ex simoni&f non ex largitionibus, non ex paraimonift ut scitis, 
aed ex divin4 dantaxat benigniasimi Creatoris gratis, et ex pace Ecclesiastic^ 
perpetudqae Pontificatus noster tranqnillitate provenisse non dubitamus.** 
— Ibid. Manetti seems to assert that tiiis long testament was read by the 
dying Pope. The improbability of this throws no doubt on its authen- 





Fbom the reign of Nicolas V. and the close of our 
history, as from a high vantage ground, we must survey 
the whole realm of Latin Christendom — the political 
and social state, as far as the relation of Latin Christi<- 
anity to the great mass of mankind, the popular religion, 
with its mythology; the mental development in phi- 
losophy, letters, arts. 

Eight centuries and a half had elapsed since the 
Pontificate of Gregory the Great — the epoch of the 
supreme dominion of Latin Christianity in the West. 
The great division of mankind, which at that time had 
become complete and absolute, into the clergy (includ- 
ing the monks, in later days the friars) and the rest of 
mankind, still subsisted in all its rigorous force. They 
were two castes, separate and standing apart as by the 
irrepealable law of God. They were distinct, adverse, 
even antagonistic, in their theory of life, in their laws, 
in their corporate property, in their rights, in their im- 
munities. In the aim and object of their existence, in 
their social duties and position, they were set asunder 
by a broad, deep, impassable line. But the ecclesiasti- 
cal caste being bound, at least by its law, to celibacy, 

Chap. L BUBYXY. 188 

in general conld not perpetuate its race in the ordinary 
course of nature; it was renewed by drawing forth 
from the laitj men either endowed with or supposed to 
be trained to a peculiar mental turn, those in whom the 
intellectual capacity predominated over the physical 
force. Religion, which drove many out of the world 
within the sacred circle, might be a sentiment, a pash 
sion, an unthinking and unreasoning impulse of the 
inward being : holy ignorance might be the ambition, 
the boast, of some monks, and of the lower friars ; but 
in general the commission to teach the religion implied 
(though itself an infused gift or grace, and the insepa* 
rable consequence of legitimate consecration to the 
office) some superiority of mind. At all events the 
body was to be neglected, sacrificed, subdued, in order 
that the inner being might ripen to perfection. The 
occupations of the clergy were to be in general seden- 
tary, peaceful, quiescent. Their discipline tended still 
further to sift, as it were, this more intellectual class : 
the dull and negligent sunk into the lower offices, or, 
if belonging by their aristocratic descent to the higher, 
they obtained place and influence only by their race 
and connections, wealth and rank by unclerical powers 
of body and of mind. These were ecclesiastics by 
profession, temporal princes, even soldiers, by charact^ 
and life. But this, according to the strict theory of the 
clerical privilege, was an abuse, an usurpation. Almost 
all minds which were gifted with or conscious of great 
intellectual capacity, unless kings, or nobles, or knights, 
whose talents might lead to military distinction, ap-» 
peared predestined for, were irresistibly drawn into, 
or were dedicated by their prescient parents or guar- 
dians to the Church. The younger sons, especially the 


illegitimate sons, even of kings, far more of princes and 
nobles, were devoted, as the Church became wealthy 
and powerful, to this career as a provision. But even 
with this there either was, or according to general 
opinion there ought to have been, some vocation and 
some preparation : many of these were among the 
ablest, some even among the most austere and pious of 
churchmen. The worst, if they did not bring the 
more fitting qualifications, brought connection, famous 
names (in feudal times of great importance), and thus 
welded together, as it were, the Church with the 

Education, such as it was (and in many cases for the 
idiicatioii. times it was a high education), had become, 
with rare exceptions, their exclusive privilege. Who- 
ever had great capacities or strong thirst for knowledge 
could neither obtain nor employ it but in the peaceful 
retirement, under the sacred character, with the special 
advantages of the churchman, or in the cloister. The 
whole domain of the human intellect was their posses- 
sion. The universities, the schools, were theirs, and 
theirs only. There the one strife was between the 
secular clergy and the regulars — the monks, or the 
friars the disciples of St. Dominic and St. Francis. 
They were the canon lawyers, and for some centuries, 
as far as it was known or in use, the teachers and pro^ 
fessors of the civil law. They were the historians, the 
poets, the philosophers. It was the first omen of their 
endangered supremacy that the civil lawyers in France 
rose against them in bold rivalry. When in the Em- 
pire the study of the old Roman law developed princi- 
ples of greater antiquity, therefore, it was asserted, of 
greater authority than the canon law, it was at once a 

cshap.l intellectual education. 136 

aign and a proof that their absolute dominion was 
drawing towards its close — that human intellect was 
finding another road to distinction and power. Physi- 
cal science alone, in general, though witli some famous 
exceptions, they unwisely declined: they would not 
risk the popular suspicion of magical and forbidden 
arts — a superstition which themselves indulged and 
encouraged. The profound study of the human body 
was thought inconsistent with the fastidious modesty of 
their profession.^ The perfection of medicine and of 
all cognate inquiries, indeed in general of natural phi- 
losophy itself, was left to Jews and Arabs : the great 
schools of medicine, Montpellier and Salerno, as they 
derived their chief wisdom from these sources, so they 
freely admitted untonsured, perhaps unbaptized stu- 
dents. It is difficult to calculate the extent of this 
medical influence, which must have worked, if in se- 
cret, still with great power. The jealousy and hatred 
with which Jews or supposed unbelievers are seen at 
the courts of kings is a secret witness to that influence. 
At length we find the king's physician, as under Louis 
XI., the rival in authority of the king's confessor. In 
this alone the hierarchical caste does not maintain 
its almost exclusive dominion over all civil as well as 
ecclesiastical transactions. 

For it is not only from their sacred character, but 
from their intellectual superiority, that they are in the 
courts, in the councils, of kings ; that they are the ne- 
gotiators, the ambassadors of sovereigns ; they alone 
can read and draw up state papers, compacts, treaties, 

1 The observant Chaucer gives the conyerse. Physicians were then un- 
der the evil fame of irreligion. " His studie was but littel on the Bible." 
Prologue on the Doctor of Physiqae. 


or &ame laws. Writing is almost their special mys- 
tery ; the notaries, if not tonsured, as they mostly were, 
are directed, ordered by the Clergy : they are in gen- 
eral the servants and agents of ecclesiastics. In every 
kingdom of Europe the Clergy form one of the estates, 
balance or blindly lead the nobles ; and this too not 
merely as churchmen and enrolled in the higher service 
of God, but from their felt and acknowledged preem- 
inence in the administration of temporal afiairs. 

To this recognized intellectual superiority, arising out 
of the power of selecting the recruits for their army 
according to their mental stature, their sole possession 
of the discipline necessary to train such men fur their 
loftier position, and the right of choosing, as it were, 
their officers out of this chosen few — must be added 
their spiritual authority, their indefeasible power of 
predeclaring the eternal destiny of every living layman. 

To doubt the sentence of that eternal destiny was 
now an effort of daring as rare as it was abhorrent to 
the common sense of men. Those who had no relig- 
ion had superstition ; those who believed not trembled 
and were silent ; the speculative unbeliever, if there 
were such, shrouded himself in secrecy from mankind, 
even from himself: the unuttered lawless thought lay 
deep in his own heart. Those who openly doubted the 
unlimited power of the clergy to absolve were sects, 
outcasts of society, proscribed not only by the detesta- 
tion of the clergy, but by the popular hatred. The 
keys of heaven and hell were absolutely in the hands 
of the priesthood — even more, in this life they were 
not without influence. In the events of war, in the 
distribution of earthly misery or blessing, abundance 
or famine, health or pestilence, they were the ^ter- 

gbap.i. spmrruAL power. 187 

cessors with the saints, as the saints were intercessors 
with heaven. They were invested in a kind of omni- 
science. Confession, since the decree of the Lateran 
Council under Innocent III., an universal, obligatory, 
indispensable duty, laid open the whole heart of every 
one, from the Emperor to the peasant, before the priest- 
hood ; the entire moral being of man, undistinguish- 
able from his religious being, was under their super- 
vision and control, asserted on one side, acknowledged 
on the other. No act was beyond their cognizance, no 
act, hardly any thought, was secret. They were at 
once a government and a police, to which every one 
was bound to inform against himself, to be the agent of 
the most rigid self-delation, to endure the closest scru- 
tiny, to be denied the least evasion or equivocation, 
to be submitted to the moral torture of menaced, of 
dreaded damnation if he concealed or disguised the 
truth, to undergo the most crushing, humiliating pen- 
ance. Absolution, after which the soul thirsted with 
insatiable thirst, might be delayed, held in suspense, 
refused ; if granted it was of inestimable price. The 
sacraments, absolutely necessary to spiritual life, were 
at their disposal. Baptism to the infant would hardly 
be refused ; but the Eucharist, Christ himself offered 
on the altar, God made by consecrated hands, God mar 
terialized down to the rudest apprehension, could be 
granted or withheld according to the arbitrary, irre- 
sponsible judgment of the priest. The body, after 
death, might repose in consecrated ground with the 
saints, or be cast out, to be within the domain, the un- 
contested prey of devils. The Excommunication cut 
the man off, whatever his rank or station, from the 
Church, beyond whose pale was utter impossibiUty of 


salvation. No one could presume to have hope for a 
man who died under excommunication. Such were the 
mculcated, by most recognized, at least apprehended, 
doctrines. The Interdict, the special prerogative of 
the Pope, as the antagonist, the controller of Sover- 
eigns, smote a kingdom with spiritual desolation, dur- 
ing which the niggardly and imperfect rites, the baptism 
sparingly administered, the rest of the life without any 
religious ceremony, the extreme unction or the last 
sacrament coldly vouchsafed to the chosen few, the 
church-yard closed against the dead, seemed to consign 
a whole nation, a whole generation, to irrevocable pei^ 

Thus throughout the world no man could stand 
alone ; the priest was the universal lord of the univer* 
sal human conscience. The inward assurance of faith, 
of rectitude, of virtue, of love of man or love of God, 
without the ratification of the confessor ; the witness 
of the spirit within, unless confirmed, avouched by the 
priest, was nothing. Without, the passport to everlast- 
ing life, everlasting life must recede from the hopes, 
from the attainment of man. And by a strange yet 
perhaps unavoidable anomaly, the sacredness of the 
priest was inalienable, indelible, altogether irrespective 
of his life, his habits, his personal holiness or unholi- 
ness. There might be secret murmurs at the avarice, 
pride, licentiousness of the priest : public opinion might 
even in some cases boldly hold him up to shame and 
obloquy, he was still priest, bishop, pope ; his sacra- 
ments lost not their efficacy, his verdict of condemna- 
tion or absolution was equally valid ; all the acts of 
John XXIII., till his depiisal, were the acts of the suc- 
cessor of St. Peter. And if this triumph over the 

Chip. I. MONKS AND FRIAB8. 139 

latent moral indignation of mankind was the manifes- 
tation of its strength, so its oppugnancj to that indig- 
nation was its fall ; it was the premonition, the procla* 
mation of its silent abrogation in the hearts of men. 
The historian lias to state the iact, rather than curiously 
and judicially to balance the good and evil (for good 
there undoubtedly was, vast good in such ages of class 
tyrannizing over class, of unintermitting war on a wide 
or a narrow scale, of violence, lawlessness, brutality) 
in this universal sacerdotal domination. 

It is impossible to estimate the fluctuating proportion 
between these two castes of the Christian jj^q^ ^n^i 
population to each other. The number of ''*^' 
the Secular Clergy was of course, to a certain extent, 
limited by the spiritual wants of the community and the 
means of maintenance. But it comprehended within 
the saci'ed circle of immunity and privilege a vast host 
of unenroUed and subordinate retainers, those who had 
received for some purpose of their own, some who in 
the ruder ages had been compelled to take the simple 
tonsure, some admitted to what were called the lower 
orders, and who in all large churches, as sub-deacons, 
acolytes, singers, were very numerous, down to those 
who held more menial offices, sacristans, beadles, ser- 
vants of all classes. But there was absolutely nothing 
to limit the number of Monks, still less that of the 
Friars in their four Orders, especially the disciples of 
St. Dominic and St. Francis. No one was too poor or 
too low to become a privileged and sacred Mendicant. 
No qualification was necessary but piety or its sem- 
blance, and that might too easily be imitated. While 
these Orders in the Universities boasted of the most 
erudite and subtile, and all-accomplished of the School- 


men, they could not disdain or altogether reject those 
who in the spirit, at least of one of their Foundera, 
maintained the superiority of holy ignorance. Instead 
of being amazed that the Friars swarmed in such hordes 
over Christendom, it is rather wonderful that the whole 
abject and wretched peasantry, leather than be trampled 
to the earth, or maddened to Flagellantism, Jacquerie, 
or Communism, did not all turn able-bodied religious 
Beggars, so the strong English sense of Wycliffe desig- 
nates the great mass of the lower Franciscans in En^ 
land. The Orders themselves, as was natural when 
they became wealthy and powei'fid, must have repressed 
rather than encouraged the enrolment of such persons ; 
instead of prompting to the utmost, they must have 
made it a distinction, a di£Sculty, a privilege, to be 
allowed to enter upon the enjoyment of their compar- 
atiyely easy, roving, not by all accounts too severe life. 
To the serf inured to the scanty fitre and not infre- 
quent famine, the rude toil and miserable lodging ; and 
to the peasant with his skin hard to callousness and his 
weather-beaten frame, the fast, the maceration, even 
the flagellation of the Friar, if really religious (and to 
the religious these self-inflicted miseries were not with* 
out their gratification), must have been no very rigor- 
ous exchange ; while the freedom to the serf, the power 
of wandering from the soil to which he was bound 
down, the being his own property, not that of another, 
must have been a strong temptation. The door must 
have been closed with some care ; some stem examina- 
tion, probation, or inquiry, must have preceded the 
initiation and the adoption of brethren into the frater- 
nity, or the still enlarging houses had been too narrow ; 
they would have multiplied into unmanageable num* 

Obaf. l friabs. 141 

bers. Yet, if more cold and repulsive in the admission 
of those iinmbler yotaries, the protests of the Universi- 
ties, and other proofs, show that the more promising 
and higher yoath were sought with ardent proselytr 

The property, especially the territorial and landed 
property of the Hierarchy and the Monastic Orders, it 
is equally impossible to estimate. It varied, of course, 
in different ages, and in every kingdom in Christen- 
dom. Nor if we knew at any one time the proportion- 
ate extent of Church lands to that not under mortmain, 
would it be any measure, or any sure criterion, of their 
rdative value. This property, instead of standing 
secure in its theoretic inalienability, was in a constant 
fluctuation : the Papal territory itself was frequently 
during the darker centuries usurped, recovered, granted 
away, resumed. Throughout Christendom the legal 
inalienability of Church lands was perpetually assailed 
in earlier times by bold depredators, and baffled by in- 
genious devices of granting away the usufruct. We 
have heard perpetual complaints against these kinds of 
endowments of their sons or descendants by the mar- 
ried clergy ; the unmarried yet dissolute or extravagant 
beneficiaries, were no doubt as regardless of the sanc- 
tity of ecclesiastical property, and as subtle in convey- 
ing away its value to their kinsmen, or for their own 
immediate advantage. Besides all these estates, held 
in absolute property, was the tithe of the produce of 

1 On the degenerate state ti the Frinn the serious prose and the satiri- 
oal poetrj are fall of details. Read too the Supplication of Beggars (a 
later productionf temp. Henry Vm.)) and the inimitable Colloquies of 
Brasmus. One of the reasons alleged at the Council of Trent against sab> 
mitting the regulars to episcopal discipline was their ** numero ecoessiyo.*' 
— Sarpi, 111. p. 15S. Ed. Helmstadt 


all Other landsJ The whole sacerdotal system of Latin 
Christianity, first from analogy, afterwards %ls direct 
precedent, assumed all the privileges, powers, rights, 
endowments of the Levitical priesthood ; and thus ai^ 
raying itself in the irrefragable authority of God's 
older Word, of which it did not acknowledge the abro- 
gation where its interests were so nearly concerned, 
claimed the tithe as of inherent, perpetual, divine law. 
From an early period Christians had been urged to de- 
vote this proportion of their wealth to religious uses; 
a proportion so easy and natural that it had prevailed, 
and had obtained a prescriptive authority, as the rule 
of sacred oblation to the temples among the customs 
of many Heathen nations.^ The perpetual claim to 
tithes was urged by Councils and by Popes in the sixth 
century. Charlemagne throughout his empire. King 
Ethelwolf, and, later, Edward the Confessor in Eng- 
land, either overawed by the declared authority of the 
Old Testament, or thinking it but a fair contribution 
to the maintenance of public worship and for other re- 
ligious uses, gave the force of civil law to this presumed 
sacred obligation. During several centuries it was 
urged by the preachers, not merely as an indispensable 
part of Christian duty, but as a test of Christian per- 

1 Hallam has summed up (Middle Ages, c vii.) with his usual judgment 
and accuracy what is most important on this subject, in Father Paul, Mu- 
ratori, Giannone, Fleury, and Schmidt 

> In the controversy which arose on the publication of Selden's book on 
Tithes, the High-Church writers, Montague and Tildesley, were diffuse and 
triumphant in their quotations from Heathen writers, as though, by show- 
ing the concurrence of universal religion with the Mosaic institutes, to 
make out tithes to be a part of Natural Beligion. See abstract of their 
arguments in Collier. 

* Paolo Sarpi, quoted by Mr. Hallam. 

Cbaf. I. TITHE. 148 

Tithe was first received by the Bishop, and distrib- 
uted by him in three or in four portions ; to himself, to 
the clergy, for the fabric of the churches, for the poor. 
But all kinds of irregularities crept into the simple and 
stately uniformity of this universal tax and its admin- 
istration. It was retained by the Bishop ; the impov- 
erished clergy murmured at their meagre and dispro- 
portionate share. As the parochial divisions became 
slowly and irregularly distinct and settled, it was in 
many cases, but by no means universally, attached to 
the cure of souls. The share of the fabric became un- 
certain and fluctuating, till at length other means were 
found for the erection and the maintenance of the 
Church buildings. The more splendid Prelates and 
Chapters, aided by the piety of Kings, Barons, and 
rich men, disdained this fund, so insufficient for their 
magnificent designs ; the building of churches was ex- 
acted from the devotion or the superstition of the laity 
in general, conjointly with the munificence of the eccle- 
siastics. So, too, the right of the poor to their portion 
became a free-will contribution, measured by the gen- 
erosity or the wealth of the Clergy ; here a splendid, 
ever-flowing largess ; there a parsimonious, hardly-ex- 
acted dole. 

The tithe suflered the fete of other Church property ; 
it was at times seized, alienated, appropriated by vio- 
lence or by fraud. It was retained by the Bishops or 
wealthy clergy, who assigned a miserable stipend to a 
poor Vicar ; it fell into the hands of lay impropriators, 
who had either seized it, or, on pretence of farming it, 
provided in the cheapest manner for the performance 
of the service ; the Monasteries got possession of it in 
large portions, and served the cures fi:om their Abbey 


or Cloister. In England it was largely received by 
foreign Beneficiaries, who never saw the land from 
wliich they received this tribute. 

Still, however levied, however expended, however in- 
vaded by what were by some held to be sacrilegious 
hands, much the larger part of this tenth of all the 
produce of the land throughout Christendom, with no 
deduction, except the moderate expense of collection, 
remained in the hands of the Hierarchy. It was grad- 
ually extended &om the produce of land to all other 
produce, cattle, poultry, even fish. 

The High Aristocracy of the Church, from the 
Pope to the member of the capitular body, might not 
disdain to participate in this, which ought to have been 
the exclusive patrimony of the parochial and laboring 
clergy: but their estates, which were Lordships, Bar- 
onages, Princedoms, in the Pope a kingdom, were what 
placed them on a level with, or superior to, the Knights, 
Barons, Princes, Kings of the world. 

These possessions throughout Latin Christendom, 
both of the Seculars and of the Monasteries, if only cal- 
culated fi*om their less clerical expenditure, on their per- 
sonal pomp and luxury, on their wars, on their palaces, 
and from their more honorable prodigality qn their cathe- 
drals, churches, monastic buildings, must have been enor- 
mous ; and for some period were absolutely exempt from 
contribution to the burdens of the State. ^ We have seen 
the first throes and struggles of Papal nepotism ; we have 
seen bold attempts to quarter the kinsmen of Popes on 
the territories of the Papacy, to create noble patrimonies, 
or even principalities, in their favor ; but there is no 

1 Some estates of the Church vere held on the tenure of militaiy mt- 
▼ioe, most in Franealmoigne. — ff*ii*m- 


Papal family of the time preceding Nicolas V. which 
boasts its hereditary opulence or magnificent palace^ 
like the Riarios, Fameses, Barberinis, Corsinis, of later 
times. The Orsinis and Colonnas were Princes created 
Popes, not descendants of Popes. The vast wealth of 
the Archbishopric of Milan has shone before us ; an 
Archbishop was the founder c^ the Ducal House of 
Visconti. In Italy, however, in general, the Prelates 
either never possessed or were despoiled of the vast 
wealth which distinguished the Ultramontane Prelates. 
Romagna had become the Papal domain; Ravenna 
had been compelled to yield up her rival territory. 
The Crusades had not thrown the lands into their 
hands by the desertion of their lords. In the commer* 
dal wealth of Venice, Genoa, Pisa, Florence, they had 
no share. At Constance, as it has appeared, the Ultra- 
montanes feared that the poverty of the Italian Bishops 
would place them at the command of the Pope. In 
Germany the Prince-Archbishops, the Electors, were 
not scrupulous in extending the wide pale of their ec- 
clesiastical principalities. The grant of estates, of ter- 
ritories, was too common a bribe or a reward from a 
doubtful aspirant to the Imperial throne. How many 
fiefs held by Mentz, by Treves, and by Cologne, dated 
from the eve of, or firom the coronation of an Emperor, 
raised to the throne after a severe contest I Among 
the other Prince-Prelates of the Empire, distracted as 
Germany was for centuries by wars between the Popes 
and the Emperors, wars between the Emperor and his 
refiractory subjects, their power was perpetually in- 
creasing their wealth, their wealth aggrandizing their 
power. They were too useful allies not to be subsi- 
dized by the contending parties ; and those subsidies, 
VOL. vm. 10 


being mostly in grants of lands, enhanced the value of 
their alliance. 

In France, the prodigality of the weaker Kings of 
each race, and each race successively, from the fai- 
neant Merovingians, seemed to dwindle down into inevi- 
table weakness, had vied with each other in heaping 
estates upon the clergy, and in founding and endowing 
monasteries. If the later Kings, less under strong re* 
ligious impulses, and under heavier financial embarrass- 
ments, were less prodigal ; if the mass of secular eccle- 
siastical property is of earlier date,^ few reigns passed 
without the foundation of some religious houses. The 
Mendicant Orders had their spacious and splendid 
convents in Paris,^ and in the other great cities of 

In England the Statute of Mortmain had been the 
National Protest against the perpetual encroachment of 
the Church on the landed property of the realm. At 

^ The Abb^ Maury, in the debate on the confiscation of church property, 
aaserted that the tenure of some of their estates vas older than Clovis. 
(Lamartine, Les Constitnants, Hi. p. 113.) In the debates on the confisca- 
tion of Church property in the National Assembly in 1789, 1790, M Tal- 
leyrand estimated the income of the clergy from tithes at eighty millions 
of francs, from the lands at seventy millions; total one hundred and 
Afty millions. This, I presume, did not include the lands, at least not the 
houses of the monasteries. (Buchon et Roux, Hist. Parlementaire de la 
R^v. Fran^aise, iii. p. 156.) In the proposal for the suppression of the re- 
ligious houses, M. Treilhard declared that four hundred millions might be 
produced by the sale of the monastic houses, which might be secularized. 
Those in Paris alone might be sold for one hundred and fifty millions. A 
calculation was produced, made in 1776, that at 150 livres the toise, they 
would yfeld 217,309,000 livres. In another report it was stated that the 
clergy held one fifth of the net revenue from land in France, amounting to 
two hundred millions, exclusive of the tithe. (T. v. p. 328.) 

> See Dulaure, Hist, de Paris, a book with much valuable information, 
bat hostile to the clergy. 

s At the Revolution six Orders had three houses in Paris, some others 
two. They must have amounted to between forty and fifty. 

Chap. L DOOMSDAY. 147 

length the subtlety of the Lawyers baffled the subtlety 

of the Churchmen; the strong, stern Law could be 
neither infringed nor eluded. But it left the Church 
in possession of all which had been heaped at her feet 
by the prodigal Anglo-Saxon Kings, and the Normans 
hardly less prodigal. If it had not passed down abso- 
lutely undiminished, it had probably on the whole been 
constantly enlarging its borders ; if usurped, or its usu- 
fruct, if not the fee, fraudulently made away,^ it had in 
many cases widely extended itself by purchase, as well 
as by donation and bequest.^ 

There are four periods at which public documents 
seem at first sight to throw a steady and distinct light 
on the extent and value of church property in Eng- 
land, its actual if not its relative value. Tet on ex- 
amination the result of the inquiry becomes dim, con- 
fused, and contradictory. It offers no more th%n a 
very rude and uncertain approximation to positive con- 

I. D&omsday-Book gives the lands in the possession 
of ecclesiastics, as well as lay holders, those of bishops, 
chapters, churches, monasteries. The first inspection 
of Doomsday may seem to present startling facts. In 
the whole County of Kent, besides the King (with 
whom the Churches of St. Martin in Dover and the 

1 Churches were leased to ]a3rmen, and without doubt became their 
actual property; as such were bought and sold. 

* The Church bought largely. The statute " Quia Emptores " shows 
abundantly that the poesessions of the Church were greatly increased by 
purchase as well as by donation and bequest. It was a very common 
practice to purchase an estate in reversion, or to purchase and grant the 
estate to the former Lord fbr his life: on his death (si obire contigerit) it 
(ell to the Church. Few rich men entered a monastery without bringing 
some estate or provision with them, which became the inalienable property 
•f the Community. See instances in Taylor's Index Monasticus. 


Church of Canterbury share those towns), appear as 
land-owners: — 1. The Archbishop of Canterbury; 
2. His Monks (Christchurch) ; 3. The Bishop of 
Rochester; 4. The Bishop of Bayeux;^ 5. The Ab- 
bey of Battle; 6. St. Augustine's; 7. Abbey of St. 
Peter's, Ghent. Only four knights, and Albert the 
Chaplain. In Middlesex are the King, the Archbishop, 
the Bishop of London, his Canons (of St. Paul's), the 
Abbot of Westminster, the Abbot of the Holy Trinity 
in Rouen, the Abbot of Barking, with eighteen others, 
barons and knights. In Worcestershire the King, the 
Church of Worcester, the Bishop of Hereford, the 
Church of St. Denys near Paris, the Church of Corm^ 
lies, the Abbeys of Westminster, Pershore, Evesham ; 
the Bishop of Bayeux, the Church of St Guthlac, the 
Clerks of Wrehampton, with fifteen laymen. In Berk- 
shire, among sixty-three holders, are the Eling, five 
Bishops, among them Durham and Coutances, ten 
Abbots and Abbesses. In Devonshire, of fifty-three, 
are the King, two Bishops, Exeter and Coutances, ten 
abbeys, among them Rouen, Mont St. Michael, St. Ste* 
phen and Holy Trinity at Caen. During the reign of 
our Norman sovereigns these transmarine monasteries 
held their lands in England. They were either cells or 
dependent priories which sent their revenues across the 
sea. As England and France became hostile powers 
they were gradually seized, till at length, in the time 
of Henry V., they were confiscated by the strong hand 
of the law, and vested by Act of Parliament in the 
Crown.^ Our history has dwelt, on more than one 

1 Odo, Bishop of Bsjreuz, held lands in sixteen counties. -« Sir H. Ellis, 

2 EUiSi Introdnction to Doomsday. Collier, i. p. 660. 

Cbap. l doomsday. 149 

occasion, on the estates and benefices held by foreign 
prelates, chiefly Italians. 

II. The valuation made in the reign of Edward I., 
by order of Pope Nicolas IV. The whole ecclesiastical 
property was assessed at rather more than 200,000/., a 
valuation much higher than had been admitted before ; 
the tenth levied was above 20,000/.^ 

III. The remarkable petition of the Commons to 
Henry IV.,^ for the confiscation of the whole Church 
property and its appropriation to the maintenance of a 
nobility, knighthood, squirehood, burghership, and alms* 
houses, retaining only a priesthood of 16,000, without 
distinction of Orders, and on the annual stipend of 
seven marks each. This wild revolutionary scheme 
estimated the temporalities of the Church at 822,000 
marks a year.^ They were thrown together in large 
masses, each of 20,000, as •'—1. The see of Canter- 
bury, with the abbeys of Christchurch, St. Augustine, 
Shrewsbmry, Coggleshal, St. Osyth. 2. York (not 
including Fontaines, Rivaux, and some other abbeys^, 
3. Six of the larger abbeys, Dover, Battle, Lewes, 
Coventry, Daventry, and Toumay (Thomey ?) make 
up another 20,000.^ The total estimate of the Church 
property may seem to have been based on the valuation 
of Pope Nicolas, the established cataster which had 
been acted upon for above a century. It is curious, 

I See Tol. yi. p. 258, and note, for the details, A. d. 1299. 

s WaluDgham, p. 879. Introd. Fox, ii. p. 726, a. d. 1410. 

s That is (calculating a mark at two thirds of a pound, 18«. 4dL), nearlj 
the same as the Papal valuation. 

^ Walsingliam seems to say that they were set to prove this vast wealth 
of the clergy, and ihiled : ** Sed cam niterentnr oetendere de qaibus locis 
tarn grandes snmmie levari possent, unde prsemissi dotarentnr vel dltaren- 
tor, defocerunt scrutantes scrutinio et dam diligunt vanitatem quasivere 


howeyer, as setting down the annual income necessary 
to maintain the state of an Earl at 8000 marks ; of a 
Knight at 100, with four plough-lands ; an Esquire 40, 
with two plough-lands. How the poor Priest was to 
live on his seven marks, unless by the bounty and hos- 
pitality of his parishioners — certainly with no hospi- 
tality or almsgiving of his own — these early levellers 
seem not to have thought.^ About this period, accord- 
ing to another statement, there were in England 46,822 
churches, 52,285 villae, 53,225 military fiefe, of which 
the ecclesiastics and religious held 28,000. Thus they 
were in possession of above one half of the knights* 
fees in the realm.^ 

IV. The valuation of the whole church property, 
immediately before the suppression of the larger mon- 
asteries,^ as compared with that of Nicolas IV., might 
be expected to furnish at once a positive and a relative 

^ This concurrence, which is at least approximate, may appear to be of 
higher authority than the calculation drawn from a passage of Knighton, 
which would more than double the amount of church property. In the 
year 1837 two Cardinal Legates came to England. They received for their 
expenses 50 marks a day, which was raised by four pennies Arom every ben- 
efice, exempt or not exempt. The revenue of the Church would thus 
amount to 2000 marks a day; multiplied by 365, 730,000 marks; nearly 
500,000/. Macpherson's Annals of Commerce, i. 519; Hallam. But the 
Valor of Pope Nicolas was framed by those who wished as much as possi- 
ble to elude or lighten their taxation. 

s This rests on a passage in the Appendix to Heame*s Avebury. Mr. 
Sharon Turner, v. 166, quotes it. Mr. Hallam appears to accept its results, 
Middle Ages, ii. p. 506. Other authorities, quoted in Taylor, p. xxiii., 
make 60,215 knights* fees; those held by the clergy 23,115. Spelman 
brings down the proportion to a third; so too Sir W. Temple. 

* Ann. Hen. VHI. 26 A. d. 1534, published by the Becord Commission, 
to be compared with Speed's Catalogue of Religious Houses, Benefices, &c 
On the revenues of the monasteries, see Dugdale and Stevens, Mr. Ka- 
smyth's excellent edition of Tanner's Notitia. No book is more instructive 
than the Index Monasticus of the Diocese of Norwich, by Mr. Richd. Tay- 
lor, London, 1821. 


estimate of the Church possessions. In the Act for the 
suppression of the smaller monasteries,^ those with an 
income under 2001, a year, it was supposed that about 
380 communities would be dissolved (about 100 then 
escaped or eluded dissolution), and that the Crown 
would derive 32,000Z. of yearly revenue from the con- 
fiscation, with 100,0002. in plate, jewels, money, and 
other valuables. After the suppression of the larger 
monasteries,^ the amount of the whole ^revenue es- 
cheated to the Crown was calculated at 161,0002.^ 
A little before this period the revenue of England 
from lands and possessions had been calculated at 
4,000,000/. : ^ the monastic property, therefore, was not 
more than a twentieth part of the national property. 
To this must be added the whole Church property that 
remained, that of the Bishops, Chapters, Colleges, and 
Parochial Clergy.* The Valor Ecclesiasticus of Henry 
YIII. offers no sum total ; but, according to Speed, the 
whole value was 320,160/. 10«. If of this, 186,512/. 
88. ll^d, was the gross value of that of the monasteries 
(the sum escheated to the King, 161,000/.), the secular 
property was about half the whole. Together the two 

1 Baniet, 193, 222. Rymer, ziy. 674. Stevens, Appendix to Dagdale. 
Lingard, c iv. Burnet gives ldl,607i. 6«. id, for the larger monasteries, 
but adds, ** it was cU hatt ten timet tkt turn in true vahitJ'^ 

s Loid Herbert; Speed; Hume, c. 81. 

* It is singular that these two sums amount to near 200,000/. The whole 
property of the Church, according to the valuation of Nicolas IV., stood 
at about 204,000/., so that the value of Monastic proper^ was then near 
that of the whole Church property wider Edward I. 

4 This is stated by Hume, and on such a subject Hume was likely to be 
accurate, but he does not g^ve his authority. 

* One insulated point of comparison has offered itself. According to 
the Valor of Nicolas, Christ Church, Canterbury, was assessed at 856/. 
19«. 2dL, under Henry VHI. at 2,349/. 8<. 6<2., an increase of about seven 


sums would amount to a tenth of the revenue of the 
kingdom as estimated by Hume.^ 

But this estimate is very iallacious,^ both as to the 
extent and the actual value ' of the Church property. 
As to the extent, in London and the neighboring coun- 
ties of Middlesex, Surrey, Essex, the Church lands, or 
at least the lands in which the Church had some ten- 
ure, must have been enormous. Hardly a parish in 
Middlesex did not belong, certainly so far as manorial 
rights, to the Bishop of London, the Dean and Chapter 
of St. Paul's, the Abbot and monks of Westminster, 
and other religious houses — the Carthusians, St. John's 
Clerkenwell (the Hospitallers), Sion, and many smaller 
foundations. The Chapter of St. Paul's swept in a 
broad belt round the north of London till they met the 
Church of Westminster at Hampstead and Padding- 

1 When, by Bishop Barnet's advice (Bornet's Own Times, edit. Oxford, 
T. p. 118), the FiiBt-Fraits and Tenths were made over to the Board, called 
Qaeen Anne's Bounty, the tenths were reckoned at 11,000^, which has 
now remained unaltered, according to the valuation of Henry YIII. This 
would make the property 111,0002. Speed gives 111,207/. 14s. 2d., bat a 
certain portion had been appropriated to the Bishops and Chapters, which 
makes up the totaL 

3 Some of the richer monasteries had sunk to a small oligarchy. Chert- 
sey with 14 monks, had 7402. a year; Funiess, with 30, 966iL It is curious 
to compare Hume and Lingard. Both select Fumess as their example 
(Hume puts Fumess in Lincolnshire). Hume gives the small number of 
monks as compared with the great income ; on the signal iniquity of the 
mode in which the suppression was enforced he is silent. Lingard is coldly 
eloquent, as is his wont, on the iniquity — of the small number of monks 
not a word. 

< On the important question of the relative value of money at that time 
and the present, taking in the joint oonsideraticm of weight of silver and 
price of provisions, Mr. Taylor, in 1821, would multiply by 15 times. Land 
in Norfolk let from Is. 6c2. to 2s. 6dL an acre; wages for a haymaker were, 
during Heniy VII. and Heniy VIIL, Id. to Ud. a day. The whole ec- 
clesiastical revenues in the diocese of Norwich would be worth 510,0002. 
a year. 


ton.^ The Abbot of Westminster was almost a prince 
of Westminster.^ 

On the other hand, the estates and manors of the 
Church and of the monasteries, though, as probablj 
having been the longest under cultivation, the best cul- 
tivated, in productive value were far below their imag- 
ined wealth. The Church was by usage, perhaps from 
interest, an indulgent landlord. Of the estates, a large 
part had become copyhold, and paid only a moderate 
quit-rent, and a small fixed fine on renewal. Of those 
on which the Church reserved the full fee, the fines on 
renewals, whether on lives or for terms of years, were 
no doubt extremely moderate. They had become he- 
reditary in &milies, and acquired the certainty of actual 
possession. The rents were paid in money, usually of 
small amount, in services to the landlord (the Preben- 
dary or the Church), in the cultivation of their lands, 
and to a considerable extent in kind. Probably the 
latter contribution was not taken into the account of 
their value. But not only had each monastery its com- 
mon refectory, each Chapter had its common establish- 
ment, its common table, its horses, and other conven- 
iences, largely supplied by the growers ; hay and straw, 
beasts, poultry furnished at specified times by the ten- 
ants. Each had its mill, its brewhouse, its bakery; 
and no doubt the annual expenses of the House, or 
Domus, were to a large extent supplied from these un- 

1 Archdeacon Hale has printed, not yet published (for the Camden So- 
cietj), what he calls the Domesday of St Paul; the Visitation of the man- 
ors of the Dean and Chapter (not the separate estates of the prebendir* 
ries). It throws great light on this point, as well as on the tenure and con- 
dition of the Church property. 

* At the Dissolution, Westminster was the most wealthy monastery ^il 
was estimated at 3977^ ; St John's, Clerkenwell, the richest of the militair 
orders, 23862. ; Sion, the richest nunnery, 19442. — Speed. 


reckoned sources.^ Yet on the whole the tenants, no 
doubt, of the Church shared a full portion of the wealth 
of the Church, so secure and easy was their tenure ; 
and it was not uncommon for ecclesiastics to take ben- 
eficiary leases of the lands of their own Church, which 
they bequeathed as property to their kindred or heirs, 
not infrequently to their children. Besides this, over 
all their property the Church had a host of oflScera and 
retainers, stewards of their courts, receivers, proctors, 
lawyers, and other dependents, numberless in name and 

But of the wealth of the Clergy, the landed prop- 
erty, even with the tithe, was by no means the whole ; 
and, invaded as it was by aggression, by dilapidation, 
by alienation through fraud or violence, limited in its 
productiveness by usage, by burdens, by generosity, 
by maladministration, it may be questioned whether it 
was the largest part. The vast treasures accumulated 
by the Avignonese PontiiFs when the Papal territories 
were occupied by enemies or adventurers, and could 
have yielded but scanty revenues, testify to the volun- 
tary or compulsory tribute paid by Western Christen- 
dom to her Supreme Court of Appeal. If the Bishops 

I All this throws light on a very curiooa state of things at St Paul's; 
DO doubt not peculiar to St PauPs. The Chapter consisted of 80 Preben- 
daries, each with his separate estate, and originally his right to share in the 
common ftind, on condition of performing certain services in the Church. 
The Prebendaries withdrew each to the care and enjoyment of his Prebend, 
or, if a Pluralist, of many Prebends, leaving the duties to be performed 
by certain Residentiaries; ^o when the daily mass, the perpetual office was 
imposed as a burden, it was difficult to keep up the number of Residen- 
tiarie.4. Tn process of time the Common Fund grew larger, the emoluments 
and advantages from oblations, obits, and other sources increased in value ; 
there was then a strife and a press to become a Residentiary. It was 
necessary' (the exhausted fund was the plea) to obtain Papal or Archiepia- 
oopal decrees to limit the number of Residentiaries. 

Chap. I. OBLATIONS. 155 

mainly depended on their endowments, to the Clergy, 
to the monastic churches, oblations (in many cases now 
from free gifts hardened into rightftil demands) were 
pouring in, and had long been pouring in, with incal- 
culable profusion. Not only might not the altars, 
hardly any part of the church might be approached 
without a votive gift. The whole life, the death of 
every Christian was bound up with the ceremonial of 
the Church ; for almost every office, was received from 
the rich and generous the ampler donation, from the 
poorer or more parsimonious was exacted the hard- 
wrung fee. Above all, there were the masses, which 
might lighten the sufferings of the soul in purgatory ; 
there was the prodigal gift of the dying man out of 
selfish love for himself;' the more generous and no less 
prodigal gift of the bereaved, out of holy charity for 
others. The dying man, from the King to the peasant, 
when he had no further use for his worldly riches would 
devote them to this end;^ the living, out of profound 
respect or deep affection for the beloved husband, par- 
ent, brother, kinsman, friend, would be, and actually 
was, not less bountiftd and munificent.^ Add to all 

1 1 am able to illustrate this fVom the records of St Paal's, which have 
been investigated with singular industry and accuracy by my fHend Arch- 
deacon Hale, to whom I am indebted for much valuable information. 

3 There is another curious illustration of the wealth of the Clergy. The 
inventory of the effects of Richard Gravesend, Bishop of London, from 
1990 to 1303. It measures 28 feet in length : it gives in detail all his pos- 
sessions, his chapel (plate of the chapel), jewels, robes, books, horses, the 
grain and stock on each of his manors, with the value of each. The total 
amounts to 28711 7s. 10\d. Com was then 4f. per quarter. 

s We have in St. PauPs an account of the obits or anniversaries of the 
deaths of certain persons, for the celebration of which bequests had been 
oiade in the fourteenth century. The number was 111. The payments 
made amounted in the whole to 9678s. 5W., of which the Dean and Ca- 
nons Residentiaiy (present) received 1461s., about 732. ; multiply by 16, to 
bring to present value, 10752. 


this the oblations at the crosses of the Redeemer, or the 
shrines of popular and famous saints, for their interces- 
sory prayers to avert the imminent calamity, to assuage 
the sorrow, or to grant success to the schemes, it might 
be, of ambition, avarice, or any other passion, to obtain 
pardon for sin, to bring down blessing: crosses and 
shrines, many of them supposed to be endowed with 
miraculous powers, constantly working miracles.^ To 
most of these were, made perpetual processions, led by 
the Clergy in their rich attire. From the basins of 
gold or the bright florins of the King to the mite of 
the beggar, all feU into the deep, insatiable box, which 
unlocked its treasures to the Clergy.^ 

Besides all these estates, tithes, oblations, bequests to 
the Clergy and the monasteries, reckon the subsidies in 

1 £. g., Richard Preston, citizen and grocer, gave to the shrine of St 
Erkenwald his best sapphire stone, for caring of infirmities of the eyes, ap- 
pointing that proclamation should be made of its virtues. — Dugdale, p. 

< We have an aocount of the money found in the box under the great 
Cross on the entrance of the Cathedral (Recepta de pixide Crucis Borealis). 
In one month (May, a. d. 1344) it yielded no less than 60/. (pmter arg^n- 
turn firactum). This was more than an average profit, but taken as an aver- 
age it gives 6002. per annum. Multiply this by 15 to bring it to the present 
value of money, 90002. This, by an order of the Pope's Commissary, a. d. 
1410 (Dugdale, p. 90), was divided among the Dean and Canons Residen- 
tiary. But this was by no means the only box of ofierings — perhaps not 
the richest. There was one at the magnificent shrine of St. Erkenwald; 
another at that of the Virgin, before which the offerings of wax tapers 
ak>ne were so valuable, that the Dean and Chapter would no longer leave 
them to the vergers and servants of ^e Qmrch. They were extinguished, 
carried to a room behind the chapter-house, and melted, for the use of the 
said Dean and Canons. Archbishop Arundel assigned to the same Dean 
and Canons, and to their successors forever, the whole profits of the oblit- 
tion box. Dugdale recounts gifts by King John of France, especially to 
the shrine of St. Erkenwald. The shrine of St Thomas at Canterbury 
received in one year 8322. Us. id. ; in another, 9542L (U. 8dL — Bnmet, Hist 
Reformat., vol. i. See Taylor, Index ibr our Lady of Walsingham. Our 
Chauntry accounts are full and well preserved, and would furnish a veiy 
carious illustration of the oflce and income of the Mass Priest. 

Gbai>.I. UNTTT of the CLERGY. 167 


kind to the Mendicants in their four Orders — Domini- 
cans, Franciscans, Angustiniana, Carmelites. In eveiy 
country of Latin Christendom, of these swaims of 
Friars, the lowest * obtained sustenance : the higher 
means to build and to maintain splendid churches, 
cloisters, houses. All of these, according to their 
proper theory, ought to have lived on the daily dole 
from the charitable, bestowed at the gate of the palace 
or castle, of the cottage or hovel. But that which was 
once an act of charity had become an obligation. 
Who would dare to repel a holy Mendicant ? The 
wealth of the Mendicants was now an object of bitter 
jealousy to the Clergy and to the older monastic Or- 
ders. They were a vast standing army, &r more vast 
than any maintained by any kingdom in Christendom, 
at once levying subsidies to an enormous amount, and 
living at free quarters throughout the land. How on- 
erous, how odious they had become in England, may be 
seen in the prose of Wycliffe and in the poetry of 
Piers Plouglunan.^ 

The Clergy, including the Monks and Friars, were 
one throughout Latin Christendom ; and through them, 
to a great extent, the Latin Church was one. u^}^ ^ 
Whatever antagonism, feud, hatred, estrange- ^^'••^•'^y- 
ment, might rise between rival Prelates, rival Priests, 
rival Orders — whatever irreconcilable jealousy there 
might be between the Seculars and Regulars — yet the 
Caste seldom, and but on rare occasions, betrayed the 
interest of the Caste. The high-minded Churchman, 

I Liter, Speed, ftom the SappUcatioii of Beggaiv, asserts, as demon- 
itnted, that, reckoning that every honeeholder paid the five Ordete five- 
pence a jear only, the sum of 48,000i. 6f. 8d was paid them by the year, 
beaidee the revenues of their own lands. 


who regarded his country more than the Church, was 
not common ; the renegade, who pursued his private 
interests by sacrificing those of his Order, might be 
more so ; but he stood alone a hated and despised apos- 
tate. There might be many traitors from passion, ig- 
norance, obstinacy, blindness to its interests — few 
premeditated and deliberate deserters of its cause. The 
Clergy in general (there were noble exceptions) were 
first the subjects of the Pope, then the subjects of the 
temporal Sovereign. The Papal Legate, the Proconsul 
of the Pope, the co-Ruler with the King, was not de- 
pendent on the reception of a cold perhaps or hostile 
Court ; he could almost command, rarely did not re- 
ceive, the unlimited homage of the Clergy : to him 
was due their first obedience. The Pope claimed and 
long maintained the sole right of taxation of ecclesias- 
tical property ; only under his authority could that 
property be assessed by the State. This general taxa- 
tion by the Pope began during the Crusades, for that 
holy purpose ; it was continued for all other Crasades 
which he might command, and was extended to his 
general uses ; he condescended from time to time to 
throw some part, in his bounty, to the temporal Sover- 
eign ; ^ but, in theory, the right was in him and in him 
alone. It was asserted over the whole of Christendom, 
and made him, as the guardian, so in some respects the 
Suzerain of Church property throughout the world. 
The allegiance of the hierarchy to the Church was at 
once compulsory and voluntary ; the Pope's awful 
powers held in check the constant inevitable tendency 

I It is curious to see the words ** caritativum subBidiom " creep into the 
more weak demands of the Popes daring the schism. — MS., B. M. passim 
at that period. 


to rebellion and contumacy, which was usually that of 
individual Prelates or small factions. Among them- 
selves the Clergy could not but at times split into par- 
ties on temporal or religious subjects; but if the Papal 
or hierarchical authority lost ground by their turbu- 
lence or their divisions, they were soon driven back to 
an unanimity of dependence on the Papal power by 
the encroachments of the State, or to settle their own 
disputes. They fled from ruder tyrants to the throne 
of St. Peter ; the Pope was at least a more impartial 
judge than their rival or antagonist — mostly than the 
civil ruler. On the whole the Order of the Cler^ 
was one from the utmost East to the ferther West, 
from the North to the South. 

The universal fraternity of the Monastic Orders 
and of the Friars was even more intimate. Every- 
where, from the Scottish islands to the Spanish frontier 
of Christendom, the Benedictine, the Clugniac, the 
Cistercian, might find a home ; the abbey of his breth- 
ren opened to him its hospitable doors. This was of 
less importance to the elder and more sedentary' Ordera 
(they, too, travelled, a few in search of learning — 
most who did leave their homes, as pilgrims to Rome, 
to other famous shrines, or to the East) : but to the 
wandering Friars, who spread all over Europe, of what 
incalculable advantage to find everywhere brethren 
connected with them by a closer, as they thought a ho- 
lier tie, than that of kindred or consanguinity ; a ready 
auditory prepared by the tertiaries of the Order ; allies 
in their invasion on the parishes of the secular priests ; 
a crawd of admirers of their learning, which added 
feme and so strength to their Order, and of their zeal 
or eloquence, which brought in new proselytes ; abetp- 


tors and maintainers of their influence, which was still 
wringing further wealth for the Order from the timid 
living or the remorseful dying man. This all-compre- 
hending fraternization had the power, and some of the 
mystery, without the suspicion and hatred which at- 
taches to secret societies. It was a perpetual campaign, 
set in motion and' still moving on with simultaneous im- 
pulse from one or from several centres, but with a single 
aim and object, the aggrandizement of the Society, with 
all its results for evil or for good. 

The Clergy had their common language throughout 
oommon Wcstem Chiisteiidom. In their intercourse 
clergy. with cach Other they needed no interpreter. 
This was far more than their bond ; it was among the 
most lasting guarantees of their power. It was not 
from their intellectual superiority alone, but from their 
almost exclusive possession of the universal European 
language, that they held and retained the administration^ 
of public afiairs. No royal Embassy was without its 
Prelate, even if the Ambassadors were not all Prelates, 
for they only could converse freely together without 
mutual misunderstanding of their barbarous jargon, or 
the precarious aid of an interpreter. The Latin alone 
was as yet sufficiently precise and definite in its terms 
to form binding treaties ; it was the one language cur- 
rent throughout Europe ; it was of necessity that of all 
negotiations between distant kingdoms. 

Hence, too, in some respects, the Churchman was of 
all countries. His knowledge, at least the knowledge 
of the Churchman who moved beyond the bounds of 
his narrow parish, of the universal Latin — the ability 
(in theory possessed by all) to officiate in the unchange- 
able service of the Church — was the only indispensa- 


ble qualification for any dignity or benefice throughout 
Christendom. Latin Christianity had invaded the East, 
and planted Latin Bishops to celebrate Latin services 
almost throughout the Byzantine Empire. German 
Popes, French Popes, one English Pope, a Portuguese, 
a Greek or Calabrese Antipope, have occupied or have 
aspired to the throne el St. Peter : none of them were 
foreigners in tongue. All Christendom, especially Eng- 
land, saw their richest benefices held by strangers,^ igno- 
rant of the native language, and these did not always 
hold their remote cures as honors and appendages to 
their Italian dignities, but visited them at least occa- 
sionally, and had no difficulty in going through the 
routine of religious service.^ There might be bitter 
complaints of the imperfect fulfilment of duty : con- 
scientious men might refuse preferment among a people 
ci strange language ; but there was no legal or canoni- 
cal disqualification; all that could be absolutely de- 
manded was the ability to recite or chant the Latin 
breviary ; no clergyman was a stranger or foreigner 
among the Clergy in any European kingdom. 

That ubiquity of the Clergy, as belonging to one 
Order, under one head, imder one law and discipline, 
speaking a common language, to a certain extent with 
common habits of life, was of inestimable importance, as 
holding together the great commonwealth of European 
nations, in antagonism to the Eastern races, aggregated 
into one horde by the common bond of the Koran. Had 
the Christian kingdoms grown up separate, isolated, ad- 

1 1 hmve noticed (toI. v. p. 316) the pluralist who held the archdeaconiy 
of Theasalonica with benefices in Norfolk. 

s Michael Scott is a rare instance of scmpalonsness in refusing the Arch- 
bisbopric of *Cashel, on account of his ignorance of Irish. The olirjection 
does not seem to have occurred to his patron the Pope. 

VOL. vm. 11 


Terse, even if each with its independent national hie- 
rarchy, still with hardly any communication but by the 
war of neighboring States with neighboring States, and 
with commerce restricted, precarious, unenterprising, 
there must have been either one vast Asiatic despotism, 
founded by some mighty conqueror — a Charlema^e, 
without his sagacious religious as well as civil organiza- 
tion — or a disruption into hard repulsive masses, a 
shifting and conflicting aggregate of savage tribes. 
There could have been no confederacy to oppose the 
mighty invading league of Mohammedanism. Chris- 
tendom could only have a religious Capital, and that 
Capital in all the early period was Rome; to Rome 
there was a constant ebb and flow from the remotest 
borders of Europe, and this chiefly of the Clergy ; 
through them, knowledge, arts, whatsoever remained 
of the older civilization, circulated to the extremities. 
The Legate, the Nuncio, if he came to bow kings and 
nations to an imperious yoke and to levy tribute, brought 
with him the peaceful pomp, the courtly manners, the 
knowledge, the refinement of the South : his inaliena- 
'ble character was that of an emissary of peace ; he had 
no armed retainers ; he found his retainers, except the 
few who accompanied him, in the land which he visited 
— the Clergy. He might, as he too often did, belie his 
character of the Angel of Peace ; ^ he might inflame 
civil wars, he might even set up rebellious sons against 
Others, but his ostensible office was always moderation : 
his progress through interjacent realms, where he passed 
safe, respected, honored by the deferential veneration 
of all the hierarchy, was an homage to the representa- 

i This is the title perpetnally introdaced into the instnictions and powen 
given to the Cardinal or other Legates. 

Chap. I. SOCUL EFFECTS. 168 

tive of one whose office at least was to promote peace ; 
it was an universal recognition of the blessings, the 
sanctity of peace. However the acts of Popes, of 
worldly or martial Prelates, or of a rude or fierce 
Clergy, might be at issue with the primal principles 
of the faith, yet, at the same time that they practised 
this wide apostasy, they condemned their own apos- 
tasy ; their language could not entirely throw off, far 
from throwing off, it dwelt ostentatiously, though 
against themselves, on the true and proper aim of 
their interference. Where war was the universal occu- 
pation, though swept away by the torrent, they were 
constantly lifting up their voice against war, at least 
against war of Christian against Christian ; they would 
divert the whole martial impulses of Christendom against 
the Mohammedan. Thus for centuries, through the 
length and breadth of Latin Christendom, was propa- 
gated and maintained, even by those who were con- 
stantly violating and weakening their own precepts, a 
sympathy for better and more Christian tenets — a 
feint yet undying echo of the angelic annunciation of 
Christianity, appealing to the whole Christian priest>- 
hood, and through the priesthood to universal man; 
" peace on earth, good-will to men." Through the 
Hierarchy Christian Europe was one ; and Christian 
Europe was at least brooding over the seeds of a richer 
harvest ; it was preparing for a generous rivalry in 
laws, letters, arts, even in religion. 

Another result of the ubiquitous Hierarchical influ- 
ence, though not so much a result of its ubi- ^g^^ ^ 
qnity as of its inalienable character, must not •***■' "'*• 
be passed by. It was not only a bond which held to- 
gether the Christian nations, of different races and of 


different tongues, but in every nation of the Christian 
commonwealth the Clergy, and the Clergy alone, held 
together the different ranks and classes. The old Ro- 
man prejudice of the inefl&iceable distinction between 
the free man and the slave lurked in the minds of the 
aristocratic Hierarchy of the South. The Clergy 
could not but be deeply impregnated with the feudal 
respect for high birth,^ but they could not efface from 
the i*ecord of the faith, from the older traditions, to do 
them justice they never lost sight of, the saying of the 
Saviour, that the poor were their especial charge ; pov- 
erty was, as it were, consecrated by the humble lives 
of the Lord and his Apostles. Many Popes have been 
seen rising from the meanest parentage to the Pontifical 
throne. In every kingdom some of the highest exam- 
ples of Christian piety and ability, canonized Saints, 

1 In the Papal dispensations we constantly find " nobilitas generis ** 
spoken of with " scientia et honestas; '* as a justification of the permission 
to hold benefices in plurality. — MS., B. M. passim. 

I select one illustration as in every way remarkable, not the less as pro- 
ceeding from Nicolas V. It is an answer to a petition firom Greorge Ne- 
ville, Canon of York, son of his beloved son Richard Earl of Salisboiy. 
** The nobility of his descent (he was even, as he said, of royal lineage) in- 
duced the Pope to grant him a dispensation (he being fourteen years old) 
to hold a canonry in the Church of Salisbury, with one in York. More- 
over, the gracious favor of the Pope (tuorum intuitu meritornm), the merit 
of a boy of fourteen ! allowed him to hold those or any other two incom- 
patible benefices, with or without cure of souls; even Parish Churches, or 
any dignities, below the highest; to hold them together, or to exchange 
them at his will during his whole life (quoad vixeris). The provision 
must be added, that the benefices were to be properly served, and the cure 
of souls not neglected." —Rome, a. d. 1447, July 7. 

At twenty-three yean old the same Gkorge Neville was appointed Bishop 
of Exeter; as he could not be consecrated for four years, he had a Bull to 
receive the profits. — Collier, i. 674. He was afterwards Archbishop of 
York. See Collier, 682. I would add on pluralities that, though not noble, 
Wykeham, before he was Bishop, held the archdeaconry of Buckingham, 
the Provostship of Wells, twelve other prebends or canonries, sacerdotiaqae 
eum curA plus quam satis. — Godwin, p. 286. 


were constantly drawn up from the humblest of man- 
kind. Once a Churchman, the hallowed man took his 
position from liis ecclesiastical rank, not from his birth 
or descent ; that higher nobility had cancelled all the 
want of noble ancestry. There might be at some pe- 
riods a closer brotherhood — a kind of separate corpo- 
rate spirit — between ecclesiastics of high or generous 
lineage, but it rarely dared to be exclusive ; other 
qualities, either worldly or religious, were allowed to 
dress the balance. The Bishop with royal blood in his 
veins was no more a Bishop than he who had sprung 
from the dregs o£ the people ; he wore the same dress ; 
according to his possessions, might display the same 
pomp ; was often not less proud in the cathedral ; not 
only in the cathedral, even in the royal Council he 
occupied the same seat ; had almost as fair a chance of 
canonization. The power of overleaping the Une, 
which lay so broad and deep, between the high and 
low, the noble and the peasant, the lord and the serf, 
must have been a perpetual consolation and hope in 
the conscious abasement of the poor man and of the 
serf — a drop of sweetness in his bitter cup. 

This, indeed, could be but the lot of few ; and there 
might in the lower orders be much envy and jealousy 
of those who rose from their ranks to the height of 
Churchmanly dignity, as well as pride and emulation 
to vie with their success. Men do not always love or 
honor those who have outstripped them in the race of 
fortune or distinction ; but, whether objects of envy or 
of encouragement, these were but rare : and most, no 
doubt, of the humbler classes who were admitted into 
the Hierarchy rose no higher than the meanest frino- 
tions, or the privilege of becoming Holy Mendicants. 


Bat, in the darkest periods, when all other Christian 
virtnes were nearly extinct, charity, in its form of 
almsgiving, survived, and was strong ; and, indeed, in 
institutions for the poor, hospitals, leper-houses, charity 
was not only recognized as a duty especially incumbent 
on Churchmen ; it was a duty ostentatiously discharged. 
The haughtiest Pope condescended to imitate the Lord 
in washing the feet of poor men. Many of the most 
worldly Prelates were the most munificent ; perhaps 
satisfied their consciences in the acquisition of nnapos- 
tolic pomp and wealth by applying it to apostolic uses. 
The donation, th^ bequest, prodigally bestowed or un- 
graciously yielded by the remorseful sinner to the 
Priest or Bishop, as it was made to God and his Poor, 
however much of it might linger in the hands of the 
Clergy, and be applied to less hallowed purposes, nev- 
ertheless did not all lose its way ; part of it strayed to 
its proper object — the assuagement of human indi- 
gence and misery. This was especially the case with 
the monastic establishments : it has been said that they 
were the poor-houses of the Middle Ages ; but if poor- 
houses, like our own by no means wisely or providently 
administered, still they had those twofold blessings of 
acts of mercy — some softening of the heart of him 
who gave, some consolation to the victim, in those days 
probably more often of the hard times, than of his own 
improvidence. Latin Christianity may point to still 
surviving Foundations for the good — the temporal, the 
intellectual good — of mankind ; her Hospitals and 
her Brotherhoods, her Universities and her Schools, 
her Churches and her Missions, in large part owing to 
the munificence or the active agency of her universal 
Hierarchy ; and may thus calmly and securely appeal to 


the sentence of the most enlightened Christianity which 
will ever, as it may be hoped, prevail in the world. 

And if the Hierarchy drew too imperiously, too 
sternly, too deeply the line of demarcation Bqumuty of 
between the hallowed and unhallowed castes "»»°"°'*- 
of mankind, it had the inestimable merit ofi asserting 
the absolute spiritual equality of all not in sacred or- 
ders. On the floor of the Church, before the Priest, 
before God (however there might be some and not al- 
ways unwise distinction in place and in the homage to 
rank), the King and the Serf, in all essential points, 
stood on the same level. The same Sacraments were 
the common right of all. They were baptized in the 
same font, heard the same masses, might listen to the 
same sermons, were married by the same rites, knelt at 
the same altar, before the throne of the same Saint, 
received the body and blood of the same Redeemer, 
were even buried •(though with very different pomp of 
funeral) in ground equally consecrated. The only dis- 
tinction was excommunication or non-excommunica- 
tion. The only outlaw was, it was believed, self-out- 
lawed by wandering beyond the pale of the Church. 
The faithiul were one people. Who shall estimate the 
value, the influence, the blessing of this perpetual 
assertion, this visible manifestation, of the only true 
Christian doctrine of equality — equality before God ? 

One subject we would willingly decline, but the 
historian must not shrink from truth, however repul- 
sive. Celibacy, which was the vital energy of the 
Clergy, was at the same time their fiital, irremediable 
weakness. One half, at least a large portion, of human- 
kind could not cease to be humankind. The universal 
voice, which arraigns the state of morals, as regai*ds 


sexual intercourse, among the Clergy, is not that of 
their enemies only, it is their own. Century after cen- 
tury we have heard throughout our history the eternal 
protest of the severer Churchmen, of Popes, of Leg- 
ates, of Councils. The marriage, or, as it was termed, 
the concubinage, of the Clergy was the least evil. The 
example set in high places (to deny the dissoluteness 
of the Papal Court at Avignon, would be to discard 
all historical evidence) could not be without frightful 
influence. The Avignonese Legates bore with them 
the morals of Avignon. The last strong effort to break 
the bonds of celibacy at the council of Basle warned 
but warned in vain. It is the solemn attestation to the 
state of Germany and the northern kingdoms.^ Even 
in his own age, no doubt, Henry Bishop of Liege was 
a monster of depravity. The frightful revelation of 
his life is from an admonitorv letter of the wise and 
good Pope Gregory X. His lust was promiscuous. 
He kept as his concubine a Benedictine Abbess. He 
had boasted in a public banquet that in twenty-two 
months he had had fourteen children bom. This was 
not the worst — there was foul incest, and with nuns. 
But the most extraordinary part of the whole is that 
in the letter the Pope seems to contemplate only the 
repentance of the Prelate, which he urges with the 
most fervent solemnity. Henry's own prayers, and 
the intercessory prayers of the virtuous — some such, 
no doubt, there must be in Liege — are to work the 
change ; and then he is to administer his Pontifical 

1 See vol. Tii. p. 562. Before the Council of Trent, the Elector of Ba- 
varia declared in a public document, that of 50 Clergv very few were not 
ooncubinarii. — Sarpi, viii. vii p. 414. See for Italy references to Justini- 
ani, Patriarch of Venice ; St. Antoninus, Archbishop of Florence ; Weissen- 
berg, Kirchen VerBammlnngeni ii. p. 229 ; again for GermanVi ii. p. 228. 

Obap L morals of the CLEB6T. 169 

office, so as to be a model of holiness, as he had been 
of vice, to his subjects. As to suspension, degradation, 
deposition, there is not a word. The Pope's lenity 
may have been meant to lure him to the Council of 
Lyons, where he was persuaded to abdicate his See.^ 
Hardly less repulsive, in some respects more so, as it 
embraces the Clergy and some of the convents of a 
whole province, is the disclosure, as undeniable and 
authentic, of sacerdotal morals, in the Register of the 
Visitations of Eudes Rigaud, Archbishop of Rouen, 
firom 1248 to 1269.^ We must suppose that only the 
Clergy of notorious and detected incontinence were 
presented at the Visitation. The number is sufficiently 
appalling : probably it comprehends, without much dis- 
tinction, the married and concubinarian, as well as 
looser Clergy. There is one convent of females, which 
might almost have put Boccaccio to the blush. I am 
bound to confess that the Records of the Visitations 
firom St. Paul's, some of which have been published 
not without reserve, too fully vindicate the truth of 
Langland, Chaucer, and the Satirists against the Eng- 
lish Clergy and Friars in the fourteeilth century.^ And 

1 ** Circft diriniim qaoqae et pontificaie officium sic te Bednlnm et devo- 
tmn ezhibere ** '* Subditi.*' Henry of Liege was of prmcelj race, of tho 
botiM of Queldres, Cousin - German to the Priest - Emperor, William of 
Holland: he became Bishop when a mere boy. Concilia sub ann. 1274. 
Hocsemios, Vit. Episcop. Leodens. p. 399. 

^ Registrum Archep. Rotomagensium, published by M. Bonnin, Bonen, 

1546. It is full of other curious and less unedifying matter. 

- * Precedents in Criminal Causes edited by Archdeacon Hale, London, 

1547. Then is enough in these, the Visitations themselves make matters 
worse. It is cnrious that much earlier under the reign of K. Stephen, 
the Dean Ralph de Diceto speaks of the ** focarise,'* of the canons. Mr. 
Vroude has published from the Records (in Eraser's Magazine, Feb. 
1867) the visitation of a later time, of Archbishop Morton. The g^reat 
Abbey of St Alban's was in a state which hardly bears description. 


these '.Visitations, which take note only of 
licly accused, hardlj reached, if tbey did reach, the 
lowest and the loosest. Only some of the Monks, none 
of the Wandering Friars, were amenable to Episcopal 
or Archidiaconal jurisdiction. Whether we call it by 
the holier name of marriage, or the more odious one 
of concubinage, this, the weakness or the sin of the 
Clergy, could not be committed by the Monks and 
Friars. They, mostly with less education and less 
discipline, spread abroad through the world, had far 
greater temptations, more fatal opportunities. Though 
they had, no doubt, their Saints, not only Saints, but 
numberless nameless recluses of admirable piety, un- 
impeachable holiness, fervent love of God and of man, 
yet of the profound corruption of this class there can 
be no doubt. But Latin, Roman Christianity, would 
not, could not, surrender this palladium of her power.^ 
Time and^ the vicissitudes in political affairs had 
made a great difference in the power of the Clergy in 
the principal kingdoms of Europe. In Italy, in his 
double character of Italian potentate and as the PontiflF 
of Christendom, the Pope, after the discomfiture of the 
Council of Basle, had resumed in great measure his 
ascendency. He now aspired to reign supreme over 
Letters and Arts. But from this time, or from the 
close of this century, the Italian Potentate, as has been 

1 The Boman view is thus given in an argument before the Pope by the 
Cardinal de Carpi. " Del matriinonio de' Preti ne seguirk che avendo ca- 
Ba, moglie, figli, non dipenderanno del Papa, ma del buo Principe, e la 
caritadella prole gli fara condescendere ad ogni pregiudizio della Chiesa; 
cercaranno anco di far i benefici ereditari, ed in brevissimo spatio la Sede 
Apostolica si ristrinj^ra a Roma. Innanzi che fosse instituto il celibato 
non cavava frutto alcuno la Sede Komana deir altre citUi e regioni; per 
qucllo e fatta padrona de tanti benefizif di quali il matrimonio il privarebbe 
In breve tempo." — Sarpi, L. v. Opere, v. ii. p. 77. 


said, began to predoniBnte ever the Pope. The suo- 
cessor of St. Peter was either chosen finm one of the 
great Italian families, or aspired to found a great iain- 
ilj. Nepotism became at once the strength and the 
infirmity, the glory and the shame, of the Papacy : the 
strength, as converting the Popes into the highest rank 
of Italian princes ; the weakness, as inducing them to 
sacrifice the interests of the Holy See to the promotion 
of their own kindred: the glory, as seeing their de- 
scendants holding the highest offices, occupying splen- 
did palaces, possessors of vast estates, sovereigns of 
principalities ; the shame, as showing too often a feeble 
fondness for unworthy relatives, and entailing on them- 
selves some complicity in the guilt, the profligacy or 
wickedness of their favored kindred. 

While the Pope thus rose, the higher Prelates of 
Italy seemed to sink, with no loss, perhaps, itaiy. 
of real dignity, into their proper sphere. The Arch- 
bishops of Milan, Florence, Genoa, Ravenna, are ob- 
scured before the Yiscontis and Sforzas, the Medicis 
and Dorias, the hereditary Sovereigns, the princely 
Condottieri, the republican Podestas, or the Dukes. 
Venice adhered to her ancient jealous policy ; she 
would have no ambitious, certainly no foreign, Prelate 
within her lagoons. She was for some time content to 
belong to the province of an Archbishop hardly within 
her territory ; and that Archbishop, if not a stranger 
within her walls, had no share in Venetian power or 
wealth. The single Bishop ip Venice was Bishop of 
one of the small islands, Castello. Venice was first 
erected, and submitted to be erected, into a patriarch- 
ate by Nicolas V.* When she admitted a Bishop or a 

1 Ughelli, Italia Sacra. 


Patriarch (perhaps because no one of inferioi dignity 
must appear in St. Mark's}, that Bishop received his 
investiture of his temporal possessions, his ring and pas- 
toral staff, from the Doge. No Synods could be held 
without permission of the Council. It was not till after 
her humiliation by the League of Cambray that Venice 
would admit the collation of Bishops to sees within her 
territories ; even then they must be native Venetians. 
The Superiors of the Monasteries and Orders were 
Venetians. Even Papal vacancies were presented to 
by the Venetian Cardinals. The Republic maintained 
and exercised the right of censure on Venetian Bishops 
and on Cardinals. If they were absent or contuma- 
cious their offences were visited on their families ; they 
were exiled, degraded, banished. The parish priests 
were nominated by the proprietors in the parish. There 
was a distinct, severe, inflexible prohibition to the 
Clergy of all Orders to intermeddle in political affairs. 
Thus did Venice insulate herself in her haughty inde- 
pendence of Papal as of all other powers.^ Paolo 
Sarpi could write, without fear of the fulminations of 
Rome : he had only to guard against the dagger of the 
papalizing fanatic. There was a complete, universal 
toleration for foreign rites ; Greek, Armenian, and Mo- 
hammedan were under protection. Prosecutions for 
heresy were discouraged. 

Ravenna had long ceased to be the rival of Rome ; 
the Malatestas, not the Archbishop, were her Lords. 
The younger branches of the great princely families, 
those who were disposed to ease, lettered affluence, and 
more peaceful pomp, by no means disdained the lofly 

1 Daru, Hist, de Venise, L. xxviii. c. xi. The saying — Siaino Yeneti- 
•ni, poi Cbristiani — was their boast or their reproadL 

Chap. I. FRANCE. 178 

titles, the dignity, the splendid and wealthy palaces of 
the Prelature : some aspired to the Popedom. Those 
too, and they were by no means wanting, who were 
possessed with a profound sense of religion, rose, from 
better motives and with the noblest results, to the hon- 
ors of the Church. The Roman Golonnas, the Vene- 
tian Contarinis, the Lombard Borromeos, some of the 
holiest men, were of famous or Papal houses. The 
Medicis gave two Popes, Leo X. and Clement VII., 
princes rath^ than Saints, to the throne of St. Pe- 
ter. Few Prelates, however, if any, excepting Popes, 
founded princely families. The Republics, the Tyrants 
who overthrew or undermined the Republics, the great 
Transalpine powers which warred for the mastery of 
Italy, warred by temporal arms alone. No Prelates 
took the field or plunged into politics, except the Pope 
and his Cardinals ; even from them excommunications 
had lost their power. They warred with the ordi- 
nary instruments of war, soldiers, lances, and artillery. 
Every other Prelate was content if he could enjoy his 
revenues and administer his diocese in peace. In gen- 
eral, even the least religious had learned the wisdom or 
necessity of decency ; the more accomplished indulged 
in the patronage of letters and arts, often letters and 
arts Pagan rather than Christian; the truly religious 
rarely wrought their religion to fanaticism ; they shone 
with the light of the milder virtues, and spent their 
superfluous wealth on churches and on ecclesiastical 
objects. Christian Art had its papal, its prelatical, its 
monastic impulses. 

In France the Pragmatic Sanction, not repealed till 
the reign of Francis I., left the disposal of the Fnnoe. 
great preferments in the power of the Crown. But, as 


has been said, the Pragmatic Sanction was no bold 
assertion of religious freedom, no generous effort for 
the emancipation of the universal Church. The Gral- 
lican liberties were throughout a narrow, national claim 
to a special and peculiar exemption from that which was 
acknowledged to be elsewhere an unlimited autocracy. 
The claim rested on its own grounds, was more en- 
deared to France because it was distinctive ; it was a 
perpetual appeal to the national vanity, the vindication 
of a privilege of which men are more fond than of a 
common right. As Bxt exceptional case, though in di- 
red contradiction with its first principle, it affirmed in 
all other countries the plenary indispensable power of 
the Pope.^ 

The civil wars of the Armagnacs and the Burgun- 
dians, the wars with England, threw the hierarchy of 
France, as it were, into the shade ; more violent im- 
pulses agitated the realm than struggles for power 
between the Church and State.^ The Churchmen 
were divided in these fatal quarrels : like the nobles of 
France, there were Orleanist and Burgundian Bishops. 
The King of England named Bishops, he had Bishops 
for his unscrupulous partisans, in the conquered prov- 
inces of France. It was the Bishop of Beauvais — 
with the Inquisitors of France — who condemned Joan 
of Arc as a witch, and burned her at the stake. In 
this wicked, contemptible, and hateful process the 

^ Gioberti has somewhere declared the Gallican Liberties a standing 

^ The Parliament of Poitiers compelled Charles VII. to renounce an ordi- 
nance, Feb. 14, U24, which they refused to register, restoring to the Pope 
the nomination to the Benefices. This weak concession had been obtained 
from the King by the Queen of Sicily. The Parliament declared the ordi- 
nance surreptitious, and contrary to the rights of the Bishops. — Ordon- 
nances des Rois, Preface, t. xiii. Sismondi, Hist, des Fran9ai8, xiii. 64. 

Chap. I. SPAIN — GERMANY. 175 

Church must share the guilt with England. High 
feudal names during all this period are found in the 
hierarchy of France, but the rich prelacies and abba- 
cies had not yet become to such an extent as hereafter 
the appanages of the younger branches of the noble 
families. So long as the King possessed the inappre- 
ciable prerogative of rewarding the faithful, or pur- 
chasing the wavering loyalty of those dangerous, once 
almost coequal, subjects by the bestowal of benefices, 
this power had no inconsiderable influence on the 
growth of the royal authority. At all events, the 
Church offered no resistance to the consolidation of 
the kingly power ; the ecclesiastical nobles were most- 
ly the obsequious partisans of the Crown. 

In Spain the Church had not begun to rule her 
Kings with absolute sway, or rather her 8|wd». 
Kings had not yet become in mind and heart Church- 
men. The Crusade still continued against the Mo- 
hammedan, who was slowly and stubbornly receding 
before the separate kingdoms, Castile, Arragon, Portu- 
gal. Spain had not yet begun — might seem unlikely 
to begin — her crusade against the rising religious liber- 
ties of Europe. She aspired not to be the Champion, 
and, as the Champion, the Sovereign of Latin Christen- 
dom ; she had given to the Church St. Dominic, she had 
yet to give Ximenes, Philip II., Torquemada, Loyola. 

In Germany the strife of the Papacy and the Empire 
seemed altogether worn out ; the Emperor oennany. 
was content to be a German Sovereign, the Pope to 
leave the German sovereignty to the German Electors. 
The Concordat and the Articles of Aschaffenburg had 
established a truce which might settle down into peace. 
If the Pope had been satisfied to receive, Germany 


would hardly have been unwilling to pay, the stipu- 
lated, before long the customary, tribute. The Bishop- 
Electors no longer took the lead, or dictated to the 
Prince-Electors. In general they were quietly magniii- 
cent, rather than turbulent or aggressive Prelates. Still 
the possession of three out of the seven suffrages for the 
Empire maintained at once the dignity of the Church, 
and made these prizes objects of ambition to the prince- 
ly houses of Germany.^ Nor did these archbishoprics 
stand alone. Metropolitans like those of Saltzburg, 
Prague, Olmutz, Magdeburg ; Bishops in the flourish- 
ing cities of the Rhine, Worms, Spiers, Strasburg, or 
in its neighborhood, Wurtzburg, Bamberg, Passau, 
Batisbon, were, in their domains, privileges, feudal 
rights, and seignoralties, principalities. Yet all was 
apparent submission, harmony, mutual respect; per- 
haps the terrors of the Turkish invasion, equally formi- 
dable to Pope and Emperor, aided in keeping the 
peace. The balance of power was rather that of the 
Prince Electors and Princes of the Empire against the 
Emperor and the Pope, than of Emperor against Pope.' 
The estrangement from the Papal dominion, the once 
clamorous demand for the reformation of the Church, 
the yearning after Teutonic independence, had sunk 
into the depths of the national mind, into which it could 
not be followed by the most sagacious political or re- 
ligious seer. The deep, silent, popular religious move- 
ment, from Master Eckhart, from the author of the 

1 In the fifteenth century, indeed, the BUboprics began to be commoolj 
bestowed on the yo anger sons of Sovereign Princes; the Court of Borne 
&vored this practice, from the conviction that the Chapters could only be 
kept in order by the strong hand and the authority of Sovereign power 
&c. — Ranke's Germany, Mrs. Austen^s Translation, i. p. 68. . 

s Compare the Introduction of Ranke. 

Chap. I. EKGLAND. 177 

Book on the Imitation of Christ, and from Tauler, 
above all, from the author of the German Theology 
and his disciples, might seem as if it was amassing 
strength upon the foundation of Latin Christianity and 
the hierarchical system ; while these writers were the 
monitory signs, and as far as showing the uncongeni- 
ality of the Latin and Teutonic mind, the harbingers 
of the coming revolution. 

England had long ceased to be the richest and most 
obedient tributary province of the Holy See. The 
Statutes of Mortmain, Provisors, Praemunire, had be- 
come the law of the land. Peers and Conmions had 
united in the same jealousy of the exorbitant power 
and influence of the Pope. The remonstrances of the 
Popes against these laws had broken and scattered like 
foam upon the rocks of English pride and English jus- 
tice.* The Clergy, as one of the estates of the realm, 
hold their separate Parliament, grant their subsidies or 
benevolences ; but they now take a humbler tone, 
meekly deprecate rather than fulminate anathemas 
against those who invade their privileges and immuni- 
ties. Trembling for their own power, they care not to 
vindicate with offensive haughtiness that of the Pope. 
The hierarchy, awed by the spreading opinions of the 
Lollards, had thrown themselves for protection under the 
usurping hoase of Lancaster, and had been accepted as 
&ithful allies of the Crown under Henry IV. Though 

^ Under Hcniy IV., the Parliament resolves that the Pope*8 collector, 
though he had the Pope's Ball for this purpose, hath no jurisdiction within 
this realm. — 1 Henry IV. The Prasmunire is confirmed against unlawftil 
communication with Rome, at the same time that the Act against heresy 
is passed; and this act is not a Canon of the Church, but a Statute of the 
Bealm. — Parliamentary History. 
VOL. viu. 19 


the Archbifiliop of York is at the head of the great 
Northern insurrection, on Henry's side are tlie sacces* 
sive Primates of Canterbury, Arundel, and Conrtenay. 
It might seem that the Pope and the CroTrn, by ad* 
Tancing Englishmen of the noble houses to the Pri* 
macy, had deliberately determined on a league with 
the Lords against the civil and spiritual democracy — * 
on one side of Wat Tyler and Jack Straw, on the other 
of the extreme followers of Wyclifle. The first act of 
this tacit league was to establish the throne of Henry 
Bolingbroke and put in execution the burning statute 
against heretics. It cannot be doubted that Archbishc^ 
Chicheley, in his suppoii; of the French war, sought 
less to propitiate the royal favor than to discharge on 
France some of the perilous turbulence which was fer- 
menting in England. At the commencement of H«iry 
VI. the Cardinal Beaufort of Winchester is striving 
for supreme power with the Duke of Gloucester ; but 
Beaufort is a Prince of the blood, uncle of the King, 
as well as Bishop and Cardinal.^ In the French wars, 
and the civil wars, the Bishops seem to have shrunk 
into their proper and more peacefiil sphere. Chicheley 
was content with blowing the trumpet in the Parlia- 
ment in London ; he did not follow the King with the 
armed retainers of Canterbury. The high places of 
the Church — though so many of the younger as well 
as the elder sons of the nobility found more conge- 
nial occupation in the fields of France — were rarely 
A.i).i448. left to men of humbler birth. Stafford, 
who succeeded Chicheley, was of the house of the 

^ Among the Ambassadors of England to Basle were the Bishops of 
London, Lisieux, Rochester, Bayeux, and Aix, and other English and Nor- 
man divines. —See Commission, Fuller's Church History, p. ITS. 

Chap.L high places OF THE CHURCH. 179 

Counts of Stafford, Bourchier of the Earls of Essex.^ 
Neville, brother of the Earl of Warwick, a.d. 1464. 
was Archbishop of York.* In the wars of the Roses, 
the Nobles, the Somersets, Buckinghams, Warwicks, 
Cliffords — not the Canterburies, Yorks, or Londons—- > 
are at the head of the conflicting parties. The ban- 
ners of Bishops and Abbots wave not over the fields of 
Barnet, Towton, Wakefield, St. Alban's, Tewkesbury, 
It is not till the war is over that they resume their seat 
or authority in the Parliament or Council board. They 
acknowledge and do homage to the conquers, York or 
Lancastrian, or, like Henry YII.,^ blending the two 
titles. From that time the Archbishop is the first sul>- 
ject in the realm, but in every respect a subject Some 
of the great English Prelates, firom Wykeham to Wol- 
sey, seem to have been more prescient than those in 
other kingdoms of the coming change. It is shown in 
their consecration of large masses of ecclesiastical 
wealth and landed property for the foundation of col- 

1 Chicheley was said to be the son of a tailor. — Fuller, p. 182. His bi- 
ographer rather confirms thiSf speaking respectfulljr of It as a reputAbte 
tiade, p. S. 

3 The Pope still maintained the form of the appointment to the Primacy. 
As in a case cited abore of York, the monks of Canterbury elected Chi- 
ebeley (no doubt under royal influence). The Pope refused the nominatiim, 
but himself appointed Chicheley by a Papal proWsion. Chicheley would 
not accept the Primacy till authorized by the King. Stafford's successor, 
Kemp, was in like numner elected by the Honks, refVued, and then nomir 
oated of his own authority by the Pope. — Godwin, in Chicheley and Kemp. 
The Pope confirmed the election of Bourchier. — Godwin, in 'Bourchier. 
The Pope was thus content with a specious maintenance of his right, the 
more practical English with the possession of the real power. 

' " This king's reign «fforded little Church storie," says Fuller. He fills 
It up with an account of an enormous banquet given by Neville, Archbish- 
op of York. Neville could not help being a politician, when Edward, after- 
wards the I, was a prisoner. He was in the custody of Neville, who 
docj* not seem to have watched him too carefully. Neville was seized and 
■ent priaoaer to Calais by Edward IV. 


leges rather than monasteries, by Wykeham, Wainfleet, 
Fox, Wolsey. It can hardly be doubted that some 
wise Churchman suggested the noble design of Henry 
VI. in the endowment of King's at Cambridge and of 
Eton. Wolsey's more magnificent projects seem, as it 
were, to be arming the Church for some imminent con- 
test ; they reveal a sagacious foreknowledge that the 
Church must take new ground if she will maintain her 
rule over the mind of man. 

Still on the whole throughout Christendom the vast 
Power of fiibric of the hierarchy stood unshaken. In 
nnflhAken. England aloue there was suppressed insurrec- 
tion among the followers of Wycliffe, now obscure and 
depressed by persecution ; and in Bohemia. There the 
irresistible armies of Ziska and Procopius had not only 
threatened to found an anti-hierarchical State, but for 
the mutual antipathy between the Sclavonian and Teu- 
tonic races, they might have drawn Grermany into the 
revolt. But Bohemia, again bowed under hierarchical 
supremacy, was brooding in sullen sorrow over her lost 
independence. In no other land, except in individual 
minds or small despised sects, was there any thought, 
any yearning for the abrogation of the sacerdotal au- 
thority. The belief was universal, it was a part of the 
common Christianity, that a mysterious power dwelt 
in the hierarchy, in'espective of the sanctity of their 
own lives, and not dependent on their greater knowl- 
edge, through study, of Divine revelation, which made 
their mediation absolutely necessary to escape eternal 
perdition and to attain eternal life. The keys were in 
their hands, not to unlock the hidden treasures of 
Divine wisdom in the Gospels, or solely to bind and 
loose by the administration of the great Sacraments; 


but the keys absolutely of Heaven or Hell. Not, 
indeed, T;hat death withdrew the soul from the power 
of the Priest; not even after it departed fit)m the 
body was it left to the unerring judgment, to the 
inexhaustible mercy, of the one All-seeing Judge. 
In purgatory the Priest still held in his hands the 
doom of the dead man. This doom, in the depths of 
the other world, was hardly a secret. The torments of 
purgatory (and the precincts of purgatory were widened 
infinitely — very few were so holy as to escape, few so 
desperately lost as not to be admitted to purgatorial 
probation) might be mitigated by the expiatory masses, 
masses purchased by the wealthy at the price dictated 
by the Priest, and which rarely could be gained with- 
out some sacrifice by the broken-hearted relative or 
friend. They were more often lavishly provided for 
by the dying sinner in his will, when wealth clung to 
with such desperate tenacity in life is thrown away 
with as desperate recklessness. This religion, in which 
man ceased to be the guardian of his own soul — with 
all its unspeakable terrors, with all its unspeakable 
consolations (for what weak mind — and whose mind 
on such points was not weak? — would not hold as 
inestimable the certain distinct priestly absolution, or 
the prayers of the Church for the dead), — this vicari- 
ous religion was as much part of the ordinary faith, as 
much an article of Latin Christianity, as the retribu- 
tive judgment of God, as the redemption through 

It is difficult (however vain it may be) not to specu- 
late how far the conservative reformation in the Pope 
and in the Hierarchy, urged so earnestly and elo- 
quently by Gerson and D'Ailly, more vehemently 


and therefore more altrminglji by the Council of 
Basle, might have averted or delayed the mcfre revo- 
lutionary reform of the next century. Had not the 
Papacy, had not the Hierarchy, with almost judicial 
blindness, thrown itself across the awakening moral 
sense of man ; had it not, by the invidious possession, 
the more invidious accumulation, of power and wealth, 
with all the inevitable abuses in the acquisition, in the 
employment, of that power and wealth, aggravated 
rather than mitigated their despotic yoke ; had they 
not by such reckless defiance as the lavish preaching 
of Indulgences by profligate and insolent men, in- 
sulted the rising impatience, and shown too glaringly 
the wide disruption and distance between the moral 
and the ritual elements of religion ; had not this fla- 
grant incongruity of asserting the Divine power of 
Christ to be vested in men, to so great an extent 
utterly unchristian, compelled reflection, doubt, dis^ 
belief — at length indignant reprobation — would the 
crisis have come when it came? Who would have 
had the courage to assume the responsibility for his 
own soul ? Who would have renounced the privilege 
of absolution ? Who would have thrown himself on 
the vaguer, less material, less palpable, less, may it be 
said, audible mercy of Grod in Christ, and in Christ 
alone? Who would have withdrawn from what at 
least seemed to be, what was asserted and believed to 
be, the visible Church, in which the signs and tokens 
of Divine grace and favor were all definite, distinct, 
cognizable by the senses ; were seen, heard, felt, and 
not alone by the inward consciousness ? Who would 
have contented himself with being of that Invisible 
Church, of which the only sign was tlie answer of the 


good conscience within, faith and hope nngnaranteed 
by any earthly* mediator, unassured by any authoritar 
tive form of words or outward ceremony? Who 
would have rested in trembling hope on the witness 
of the Spirit of God, concurrent with the testimony 
of the spirit within ? We may imagine a more noise- 
less, peaceful, alas, we must add, bloodless change I 
We may imagine the Gospel, now newly revealed, as 
it were, in its original language (the older Testament 
in its native Hebrew), and illustrated by the earlier 
Greek Fathers, translated into all living languages, 
and by the new art of Printing become of general 
and familiar use, gradually dispersing all the clouds 
of wild allegoric interpretation, of mythology, and 
materialism, which had been gathering over it for 
centuries, and thus returning to its few majestic pri- 
mal truths in the Apostolic Creed. We may even 
imagine the Hierarchy receding into their older sphere, 
instructors, examples in their families as in themselves, 
of all the virtues and charities ; the religious adminis- 
trators of simpler rites. Yet who that calmly, philo- 
sophically, it may almost be said religiously, surveys 
the power and strength of the Latin religion, the re- 
ligion of centuries, the religion of a continent — its 
extraordinary and felicitous adaptation to all the wants 
and necessities of man — its sympathy with some of 
the dominant Acuities of our being, those especially 
developed at certain periods of civilization — its unity 
— its magisterial authority — the depth to which it 
had sunk in the human heart — the feelings, affections, 
passions, fears, hopes, which it commanded : wlio that 
surveys it in its vast standing army of the Clergy, and 
Monks and Friars, that had so long taken service in 


its defence, with its immense material strength of 
Churches, Monasteries, Established Laws, Rank ; in 
its Letters, and in its Arts; in its charitable, educa- 
tional. Institutions: who will not rather wonder at 
its dissolution, its abolition in so large a part of Chris- 
tendom, than at its duration ? It is not so marvellous 
that it resisted, and resisted with success ; that it threw 
back in some kingdoms, for a time, the inevitable 
change; that it postponed in some until a more re- 
mote, more terrible and iatal rebellion some centuries 
after, the detrusion from its autocratic, despotic throne. 
Who shall be astonished that Latin Christianity so 
long maintained a large part of the world at least in 
nominal subjection ; or finally, that it still maintains 
the contest with its rival Teutonic Christianity with- 
out, and the more dangerous, because unavowed, re- 
volt within its own pale — the revolt of those who, in 
appearance its subjects, either altogether disdain its 
control, and, not able to accept its belief and disci- 
pline, compromise by a hollow acquiescence, or an 
unregarded, unpunished neglect of all discipline, for 
total inward rejection of belief? 




Latin Christendom, or rather tmiyersal Christen- 
dom, was one (excepting those who were u„,^ ^ 
self-outlawed, or outlawed by the dominant**^ 
authority from the Christian monarchy), not only in 
the organization of the all-ruling Hierarchy and the 
admission of Monkhood, it was one in the great system 
of Belief. With the exception of the single article of 
the procession of the Holy Ghost, the Nicene formulary 
had been undisturbed, and had ruled with undisputed 
sway for centuries. The procession of the Proc«Mion 
Holy Ghost from the Son as well as the ohMt. 
Father was undoubtedly the doctrine of the early Latin 
writers ; but this tenet stole noiselessly — it is not quite 
certain at what time — into the Creed. That Creed, 
framed at the great Council of Nicea, had been re- 
ceived with equal unanimity by the Greek and Latin 
Churches. Both Churches had subscribed to the anath- 
emas pronounced by the second Council of Constan- 
tinople, and ratified by the first Council of Ephesus, 
against any Church which should presume to add one 
word or letter to that Creed. Public documents in 
Rome showed that Pope Leo III. had inscribed on a 
silver tablet the Creed of Rome without the words 
^^ from the Son," as the authorized faith of the Latin 


Clmrch. In the great quarrel with Photius, the 
Greeks discovered, and charged against the Latins, 
this audacious violation of the decrees of the Councils, 
this unauthorized impious addition to the unalterable 
Creed of Nicea. The Patriarch of Constantinople 
charged it, justly or unjustly, against his own enemy, 
Nicolas I.^ In the strife with Michael Cerularius, 
at the final disruption between the two Churches, 
this was one of the inexpiable offences of the Latin 
▲.».i06]k Church, The admission of the obnoxious 
article by the Greeks at the Council of Florence waa 
indignantly repudiated, on the return of the Legates 
from the Council, by the Greek Church. But tho 
whole of Latin Christendom disdained to give ear 
to the protest of the Greeks ; the article remained^ 
with no remonstrance whatever from the West, in the 
general Latin Creed. 

But the Creeds — that of the Apostles, that oi 
Unity of Nicea, or even that ascribed to St. Athan»> 
religion. sius, and chanted in every church of tho 
West — formed but a small part of the belief of Latiti 
Christendom. That whole world was one in the pop* 
ular religion. The same vast mythology commanded 
the general consent ; the same angelology, demonol- 
ogy ; the same worship of the Virgin and the Saints, 
the same reverence for pilgrimages and relics, the same 
notions of the life to come, of Hell, Purgatory, Heav- 
en. In general, as springing out of like tendencies and 
prepossesuons of mind, prevailed the like or kindred 

1 1 knpw BO more brief or better luminarr of the controveny than tha 
common one in Pearson on the Creed. I have some doubts whether the ao- 
cQsation of Photiuf^ as to its infioduction, ia personal against Pope Nicolaa 
or against the Roman Chnwb. unity of populak religion. 187 

traditions ; the world was one in the same vulgar su* 
perstitions* Already, as has been seen, at the close of 
the sixth century, during the Pontificate of Gregory 
the Great, the Christianization not only of the specu-' 
lative belief of man, of that which may justly be called 
the religion of man, was complete : but no le^s com- 
plete was the Christianization, if it may be so said, of 
the lingering Paganism. Man had divinized all those 
objects of awe and veneration, which rose up in new 
forms out of his old religion, and which were inter^ 
mediate between the Soul and God, '^ God,'* that is, 
^^in Christ," as revealed in the Gospels. Tradition 
claimed equal authority with the New Testament. 
There was supposed to be a perpetual power in the 
Church, and in the Hierarchy the Ruler and Teacher 
of the Church, of infinitely expanding and multiplying 
the objects of faith ; at length, of gradually authorizing 
and superinducing as integral paits of Christianity the 
whole imaginative belief of the Middle Ages. Even 
where such belief had not been canonically enacted by 
Pope or Council, the tacit acceptance by the general 
practice of Priest as well as of people was not less au- 
thoritative ; popular adoration invested its own objects 
in uncontested sanctity. Already the angelic Hierar- 
chy, if not in its full organization, had taken its place 
between mankind and God ; already the Virgin Mary 
was rising, or had fully risen, into Deity ; already 
prayers rarely ascended directly to the throne of grace 
through the one Intercessor, a crowd of mediate agen« 
cies was almost necessary to speed the orison upward, 
and to commend its acceptance, as it might thwart its 
blessing. Places, things, had assumed an inalienable 
holiness, with a concentred and emanative power of 


imparting or withholding spiritual influences. Great 
prolific principles had been laid down, and had only to 
work in the congenial soil of the human mind. Now, 
by the infusion of the Barbaric or Teutonic element, 
as well as by the religious movement which had stiiTed 
to its depths the old Roman society, mankind might 
seem renewing its youth, its spring-time of life, with 
all its imaginative creativeness, and its unceasing sur- 
render to whatever appeared to satisfy the yearnings 
of its hardly satisfied faith. 

There was unity in the infinite diversity of the pop- 
ular worship. Though each nation, province, parish, 
shrine, had its peculiar and tutelar Saint, none was 
without a Saint, and none denied the influence of the 
Saints of others. Christianity was one in this mate- 
rialistic intercommunion between the world of man and 
the extramundane ; that ulterior sphere, in its purer 
corporeity, yet still, in its corporeity, was perpetually 
becoming cognizable to the senses of man. It was one 
in the impersonation of all the agencies of nature, 
in that universal Anthropomorphism, which, if it left 
something of vague and indefinite majesty to the Pri- 
mal Parental Godhead, this was not from any high 
intellectual or mental conception of the incongruity of 
the human and divine ; not from dread of the dispar- 
agement of the Absolute and the Infinite ; from no 
predilection for the true sublimity of higher Spiritual- 
ism ; but simply because its worship, content to rest on 
a lower sphere, humanized all which it actually adored, 
without scruple, without limit ; and this not in lan- 
guage only, but in its highest conception of its real 

All below the Godhead was materialized to the 

Obap. n. ANGELS. 189 

thought. Even within the great Triune Deity the 
Son still wore the actual flesh which he had assumed 
on earth ; the Holy Ghost became a Dove, not as a 
symbol, but as a constantly indwelt form. All beyond 
this supercelestial sphere, into which, however contro- 
versial zeal might trespass, awful reverence yet left in 
it some majestic indistinctness, and some confessed mys- 
terious transcendentalism ; all lower, nearer to the world 
of man, angels and devils, the spirits of the condemned 
and the beatified Saints, were in form, in substance 
however subtilized, in active only enlarged powers, in 
affections, hatred or attachment, in passions, nothing 
more than other races of human beings. 

There was the world of Angels and of Devils. The 
earlier faith, that of Gregory the Great, had Angei*. 
contented itself with the notions of Angels as dimly 
revealed in the Scriptures. It may be doubted if any 
names of angels, except those in the Sacred Writings, 
Michael, Gabriel, Raphael, or any acts not imagined 
according to the type and precedent of the angelic vis- 
itations in the Old and New Testament, will be found 
in the earlier Fathers. But by degrees the Hierarchy 
of Heaven was disclosed to the ready faith of mankind, 
at once the glorious type and with all the regular grada- 
tions and ranks of the Hierarchy upon Earth. There 
was a great celestial Church above, not of the beatified 
Saints, but of those higher than human Beings whom 
St. Paul had given some ground to distinguish by 
different titles, titles which seemed to imply different 
ranks and powers. 

Latin Christendom did not give birth to the writer 
who, in this and in another department, influenced 
most powerfully the Latin mind. The author of those 


extraordinarj treatises "which, from their obscure and 
doubtful parentage, now perhaps hardly maintain their 
fame for imaginative richness, for the occasional beautj 
of their language, and their deep piety — those trea- 
tises which, widely popular in the West, almost created 
the angel-worahip of the popular creed, and were also 
the parents of Mystic Theology and of the higher 
Scholasticism — this Poet-Theologian was a Greek. 
The writings which bear the venerable name of 
iMonyninBthe Diouysius the Areopagite, the proselyte of 
▲reopogite. gj.^ Paul, first appear under a suspicious and 
suspected form, as authorities cited by the heterodox 
Severians in a conference at Constantinople.^ The 
orthodox stood aghast : how was it that writings of the 
holy Convert of St. Paul had never been heard of 
before ? that Cyril of Alexandria, that Athanasim 
himself, were ignorant of their existence? But tlieae 
writings were in themselves of too great power, too 
captivating, too congenial to the monastic mind, not to 
find bold defenders.^ Bearing this venerable name in 
their front, and leaving behind them, in the Ektst, if at 
first a doubtiul, a growing faith in their authenticity,' 
they appeared in the West as a precious gifl from the 
Byzantine Emperor to the Emperor Louis the Piou& 

^ Concilia sub ann. 638. Compare the Preface to the edition of Cor- 

3 Photius, in tbe first article io his Bibliotheca, describes the work of a 
monk, Theodorus, who had answered four out of the unanswerable argu- 
ments against their authenticity, as the writings of the Areopagite ; but 
about the answers of Theodoras, and his own impression of the authonly 
and value of the books, Photius is silent — Photii Biblioth. p. 1, ed. Bek- 

* There is a quotation from them in a Homily of Gregoiy the Great, Lib. 
K. Horn. 94, Oper. i. p. 1907. Gregory probably picked it up during bii 
controversy in Constantinople. — (See vol. i. p. 435.) There is no other 
trace of an earKer version, or of their earlier influence in the West 


France in that age was not- likely to throw cold and' 
jealous doubts on writings which bore the hallowed 
name of that great Saint, whom she had already boast- 
ed to have left his primal bishopric of Athens to con- 
Tert her forefathers, whom Paris already held to be her 
tutelar Patron, the rich and powerful Abbey of St. 
Denys to be her founder. There was living in the 
West, by happy coincidence, the one man who at that 
period, by his knowledge of Greek, by the congenial 
speculativeness of his mind, by the vigor and richness 
of his imagination, was qualffied to translate into Latin 
the mysterious doctrines of the Areopagite, both as 
to the angelic world and the subtile theology. John 
Erigena hastened to make known in the West the 
** Celestial Hierarchy," the treatise " on the Name of 
God," and the brief chapters on the " Mystic Philoso- 
phy." These later works were more tardy in their 
ftcceptance, but perhaps more enduring in their influ- 
ence. Traced downwards through Erigena himself, 
the St. Victors, Bonaventura, to Eckhart and Tauler 
in Germany, and throughout the unfailing succession 
of Mystics, they will encounter us hereafter.^ 

The ** Celestial Hierarchy " would command at once, 
and did command, universal respect for its ^j^^ c^,^^,^ 
authority, and universal reverence for its doc- ^«"«*y' 
brines. The " Hierarchy " threw upward the Primal 
Deity, the whole Trinity, into the most awftU, unap- 
proachable, incomprehensible distance ; but it filled the 
widening intermediate space with a regular succession 

1 The Preface of Corderius (Obsenrat. xi.) briefly shows the coDnection 
of the psnedo-Dionysiua with Scholastioisin, especially with Thomas Aqui- 
nas. — Ohservat. xii. shows the innamerable references of Aquinas to tfiOM 
works; yet Aquinas was far less mystic than other schoolmen. 


of superhuman Agents, an ascending and descending 
scale of Beings, each with his rank, title, office, funo 
tion, superior or subordinate. The vague incidental 
notices in the Old and New Testament and in St. Paul 
(and to St. Paul doubtless Jewish tradition lent the 
names), were wrought out into regular Orders, who 
have each, as it were, a feudal relation, pay their feu- 
dal service (here it struck in with the Western as well 
as with the Hierarchical mind) to the Supreme', and 
have feudal superiority or subjection to each other. 
This theory erelong became almost the authorized The- 
ology ; it became, as far as such transcendent subjects 
could be familiarized to the mind, the vulgar belief. 
The Arts hereafter, when mature enough to venture 
on such vast and unmanageable subjects, accepted 
this as the tradition of the Church. Painting pre- 
sumed to represent the individual forms, and even, in 
Milton's phrase, "the numbers without number" of 
this host of heaven. 

The Primal Godhead, the Trinity in Unity, was 
alone Absolute, Ineffable, Inconceivable ; alone Essen- 
tial Purity, Light, Knowledge, Truth, Beauty, Good- 
ness.^ These qualities were communicated in larger 
measure in proportion to their closer approximation to 
itself, to the three descending Triads which formed the 
Celestial Hierarchy : — I. The Seraphim, Cherubim, 
and Thrones. II. The Dominations, Virtues, Powers 
III. Principalities, Archangels, Angels. This Celestial 
Hierarchy formed, as it were, concentric circles around 

^ The writer strives to get beyond Greek copiousness of expression, in 
order to sbroad the Godhead in its utter unapproachableness. He is the 
Goodness beyond Goodness, imepayadoc dyador^^ the Supei^Essential E»- 
■ence, tt(>ata imepoxfota. Godhead of Godhead, inefideos Oeor^r 


the unapproachable Trinity. The nearest, and as 
nearest partaking most fully of the Divine Essence, 
was the place of honor. The Thrones, Seraphim, and 
Cherubim approximated most closely, with nothing in- 
termediate, and were more immediately and eternally 
conformed to the Godhead. The two latter of these were 
endowed, in the language of the Scripture, with count- 
less eyes and countless wings.^ The second Triad, of 
less marked and definite attributes, was that of the 
Powers, Dominations, Virtues.^ The third, as more 
closely approximating to the world of man, if it may 
be so said, more often visited the atmosphere of earth, 
and were the immediate ministers of the Divine pur- 
poses. Yet the, so-called, Areopagite laboriously inter- 
prets into a spiritual meaning all the forms and attri- 
butes assigned in the sacred writings to the Celestial 
Messengers, to Angels and Archangels. They are of 
i3ery nature. Fire possesses most properties of the Di- 
vinity, permeating everything, yet itself pure and un- 
xningled: all manifesting, yet undiscernible till it has 
found matter to enkindle ; irresistible, invisible, subdu- 
ing everything to itself; vivifying, enlightening, renew- 
ing, and moving and keeping everything in motion ; 
and so through a long list of qualities, classed and 
distinguished with exquisite Greek perspicuity. He 
proceeds to their human form, allegorizing, as he goes 
on, the members of the human body, their wings, their 
partial nakedness, their bright or their priestly raiment, 

^ tLponitif fikv elveu pjatf ri^v fcepl Qedv oiaav &el^ Koi irpd tuv dAAuv 
dfiiauc ifvuttBat napadeioftivfiyf robe re yhp dyiuranvc ^povovc koH rd im- 
'kooiqiara xai mXvmepa rayftara Xepovpifi, 'E^poicjv ^vy, xdl Xepa^ft 
iguofioofuva — C. vi. 

s All this was said to be derived from St. Paul. Gregory the Great (Lib. 
ii. Moralia) has another distribution, probably from some other source. 

VOL. vm. 13 


their girdles, their wands^ tiieir spears, their axes, their 
measoring-oords, the winds, the clouds, the brass and 
tin, the choirs and hallelujahs, the hues of the different 
precious stones ; the animal forms of the lion, the ox« 
the eagle, the horse ; the colors of the symbolic horses ; 
the streams, the chariots, the wheels, and finally, er&i 
the joy of the Angels.^ All this, which to the wise 
and more reflective seemed to interpret and to bestow 
a lofty significance on these images, taken in its letter 
— and so &r only it reached the vulgar ear — gave re- 
ality, gave a kind of authority and conventional ceiv 
tainty to the whole Angeiie Host as represented and 
described for the popular worship. The existence of 
this regular Cdestial Hierarchy became an admitted 
fact in the higher and more learned Theology ; the 
Schoolmen reason npan it as on the Godhead itself: 
in its more distinct and material outline it became the 
vulgar belie£. The separate and occasionally discerni- 
ble Being and Nature of Seraphim and Cherafaim, of 
Archangel and Angel, in that dim confoaion of what 
was thought revealed in the Scriptore, and what was 
sanctioned by the Church — of image and reality; 
this Oriental, half Magian, half Talmudic, but now 
ChristiaiiiBed theory, took its place, if with less positive 
authority, with hardly less quesdxmed credibility, amid 
the rest of the fiuth. 

But this, the proper, if it may be so said, most faeav- 
enly, was not the only Celestial Hierarchy. There 
was a Hierarchy below, reflecting that above ; a mor- 
tal, a material Hierarchy : corporeal, as eomnrantcatiiig 
divine light, purity, knowledge to corporeal Beings. 
The triple earthly Sacerdotal Order had its type in 

1 Ch. XV. 


beaven, the Cdeadal Orders their antitype on earlb. 
The tripk and novene division not throughout, and 
connected^ assimilated, almost identified the mnndane 
and supermundane Church. As there were three de« 
grees of attainment, Light, Purity, Knowledge (or 
the divine vision), so there were three Orders of the 
Earthly Hierarchy, Bishops, Priests;, and Deacons; 
three Sacraments, Baptism, the Eucharist, the Holy 
Chrism ; three classes, the Baptized, the Communi- 
cants, the Monksw How sublime, how exalting, how 
welcome to the Sacerdotalism of the West dns lofty 
doctrine ! The Celestial Hierarchy were as <jei«idai 
themsehes ; themselves were fcrmed and or- ™«»**y- 
gSAiased after the pattern of the great Orders in heaven. 
The whole worship of Man, in which they administered, 
was an echo of that above ; it represented, as in a mii^ 
ror, the angelic or su|»eraiigelae worship in the Em]^- 
rean. All its splendor, its lights, its incense, were but 
the material symbols ; adumbrations of the immaterial, 
condescending to human tboaght, embod}ring in things^ 
dupiizaiUe to the senses of man the adoration of tlMi^ 
Beii^ dose to the tharone sf God.^ 

The unamswerable proof, were otkep wanting, of the 
Greek origin of the Celestial Hierarchy is, that in the 
Hierarchical system: there is no place for the Pope, nor* 
even — this perhaps might seem more eixtraordinary to 
the Gallic Clergy — for the Metropolitan. It recog- 
nizes only the triple ramk of Bishops, Priests, and 

1 "Eirei folSk dwardv iariv r^ Ka&* {ffuti vci, irpdg tj)v &f)Xov kKeivrjv Ava- 
ndS^pm iw oCpavUjv le^xxpxuiv idftnohf re koH i^euptov, et fi^ t§ Kai* adrtw 
iXal^ XBipayt$yi^ xphPotTO r^ ^ ^voftata ko^ t^ ^o^ovw^ eifvpenutK' 
aireucovia/iOTa Xoyi^fjtevo(f Koi rdf ala^tiraf evudias kKTwrufuira r^c voih 
r^ dtaSoaeuff Koi i% abXov ^liTodoaiac elxova rd {fXucik ^ctra. — Lib. i. c. 
«. p. Sr 


Deacons. Jesus to the earthly Hierarchy is as the 
higher Primal Godhead, as the Trinity, to the Celestial 
Hierarchy. He is the Thearchic Intelligence, the su- 
persubstantial Being.^ From him are communicated, 
through the Hierarchy, Purity, Light, Knowledge. 
He is the Primal Hierarch, that imparts his gifts to 
men ; from him and through him men become partak- 
ers in the Divinity. The Sacraments are the chan- 
nels through which these graces, Purification, Illumi- 
nation, Perfection, are distributed to the chosen. Each 
Hierarchical Order has its special function, its special 
gifts. Baptism is by the Deacon, the Eucharist by the 
Priest, the Holy Chrism by the Bishop. What the 
Celestial Hierarchy are to the whole material universe 
the Hierarchy of the Clergy are to the souls of men ; 
the transmittants, the sole transmittants, of those gra- 
ces and blessings which emanate firom Christ as their 
primal fountain. 

Still, however, as of old,^ angelic apparitions were 
Demonoiogy. rare and infrequent in comparison with the 
demoniacal possessions, the demoniacal temptations and 
interferences. Fear was more quick, sensitive, ever- 
awake, than wonder, devotion, or love. Men might in 
their profound* meditations imagine this orderly and dis^ 
cipUned Hierarchy fiir up in the remote heavens. The 
visitations to earth might be of higher or lower min- 
isters, according to the dignity of the occasion or the 
holiness of the Saint. The Seraphim might flash light 
on the eye, or touch with fire the lip of the Seer ; the 
Cherubim might make their celestial harmonies heard ; 
the Archangel might sweep down on his terrible wings 
on God's mission of wrath ; the Angel descend on his 

^ QtapxiKuraTOC vo&r, imepovoioc. ^ Compare vol. ii. p. 9fi* 

Chap. H. DEMONOLOGT. 197 

more noiseless mission of love. The air might teem 
with these watchftil Beings, brooding with their pro- 
tecting care over the Saints, the Virgins, the meek and 
lowly Christians.^ They might be in perpetual contest 
for the sonls of men with their eternal antagonists the 
Devils. But the Angelology was but dim and indis- 
tinct to the dreadful ever-present Demonology ; their 
name, the Spirits of Air, might seem as if the atmos- 
phere immediately around this world was their inalien- 
able, almost exclusive domain. 

So long as Paganism was the antagonist of Christi- 
anity, the Devil, or rather the Devils, took the names 
of Heathen Deities : to St. Martin of Tours, they were 
Jove, Mercury, Venus, or Minerva. They wore the 
form and the attributes of those rejected and degraded 
Gods, no doubt fiimiliar to most by their statues, per- 
haps by heathen poetry — the statues not yet destroyed 
by neglect or by Christian Iconoclasm, the poetry, 
which yet sounded to the Christian ear profane, idol- 
atrous, hateful.^ At a later period the Heathen Deities 
have sunk into the obscure protectors of certain odious 
vices. Among the charges against Pope Boniface 
VHI. is the invocation of Venus and other Pagan 
demons, for success in gambling and other licentious 

^ Spenser^s beaatiful and well-known lines express the common feeling. 

s *' Nam interdum in Jovis personam, plemmqae Mercnzii, persspe etiam 
•e Veneris ac Minervs transflguratam vultlbas offerebat. — Sulp. Sever. 
Vit S. Mat. cxxiii. Martin was endowed with a singular (acuity of dis- 
eeniing the Devil. *'I>iabolum vero tarn conspicabilem et subjectum 
octtlifl habebat, ut stve se in proprift sulwtantiA contineret, sive in diversas 
figuras spiritualesque nequitias transtalisset, qualibet ab eo sub imagine 
yideretnr." Once Martin promised the Devil the Divine forgiveness at 
the Day of Judgment, on his ceasing to persecute, and his repentance of 
his sins. " Ego tibi vero conflsus in Domino, Christi misericordiam poK> 
liceor." The heterodox charity of St Martin did not meet the same aver- 
sion as the heterodox theology of Origen. 


cocapationB. So, too, in the conTenion of the Ger- 
inans, the Tevrtonic Grode became Demons. The usual 
ibrm of recantation of heathenism was, ^^Dost thou 
renounce the Devils? Dost thou renounce Thonar, 
Woden, Saxnote ? '* ^ ^ Odin take 70U," is still the 
equivalent in some Northern tongues to ^*the Devil 
take you."* 

But neither did the Greek Mythology, nor did that 
of the Germans, offisr any conception like that of the 
later Jewish and the Christian Antagonist of God. 
Satan had no prototype in either. The Grerman Teu- 
fel (Devil) is no more than the Greek Diabolos. The 
'word is used by Ulphilas ; and in that primitive trans*- 
lation Satan retains his proper name.^ But as in Greek 
and Roman heathenism the infernal Deities were peiv- 
haps earlier, certainly were more universally, than the 
deities of Olympus, dark^ied into the Demons, Fiends, 
Devils of the Christian belief; so from the North^n 
mythology, Lok and Hela, before and in a greater de- 
gree than Odin or the more beneficent and wariike 
Gods, were relegated into Devils. Pluto was already 
black enough, terribly hideous enough, cruel and unre- 
lenting enough ; he ruled in Tartarus, which was, of 
course, identified with Hell : so Lok, with his consun^ 
mate wickedness, and consummate wiliness, as the en- 
emy of all good, lent and received much of the power 
and attributes of Satan. 

The reverent withdrawal not only of the Primal 
Parental Godhead, the Father, but likewise of the two 
coeternal Persons of the Trinity into their unapproach- 
able solitude, partly perhaps the strong aversion to 

1 6m Tol. fiSI. p. 188. »MaikiH.S8. Edit. Zulm. 

a Grimm. Mjthologie, p. 668. 

Obap. O. SATAN. 199 

Manicheisai, kept down, as itr were, the antagonism 
between Good and Evil into a lower sphere. The 
Satan of Latin Christianity was no Eastern, almost 
coeval, coequal Powej: with Christ ; he was the fallen 
Archangel, one it might be of the highest, in that 
thrice-triple Hierarchy of Angelic Beings. His mortal 
enemy is not God, but St. Michael. How completely 
this was the popular behef may appear from one illus- 
tration, the Chester Mysteiy of the Fall of Lucifer.^ 
This drama, performed by the guilds in a provincial 
city in England, solves the insoluble problem of the 
origin of Evil through the intense pride of Lucifer, 
God himself is present on the scene ; the nine Orders 
remonstrate against the overweening haughtiness of 
Lacifer, who, with his Devils, is cast down into the 
dark dungeon prepared for them. 

But in general the sublimity even of this view of 
the Antagonist Power of Evil mingles not with the 
popular conception. It remained for later Poetry: it 
was, indeed, reserved for Milton to raise his image of 
Satan to appalling grandeur ; and Milton, true to tra- 
dition, to reverential feeling, to the solemn serene gran- 
deur of the Saviour in the Gospel, leaves the contest, 
the war with Satan, to the subordinate Angels and to 
Michael, the Prince of the Angels. The Son, as co- 
equal in Godhead, sits aloof in his inviolate majesty.^ 

^ That speaka Lucifer to the Celastml Hierarchy: 

Dastmi, I oommauBde you ft>r to 
And see the bewtya that t Imub, 
AH Umfrnk •blnai tliroagfa mj bili^tew, 
Tor Ood himaelf ahinM not m ekar. 

Chester Mysteries^ p. 18. 

* Remaric 'Miibcfn*B wonderful sublimity, not merely in hit central figure 
of him, who had not ** lost all his original brightness/' who was ** not less 
than archangel ruined," but in his creation, it may almoat be said, out ef 


The Devil, the Devils of the dark ages, are in the 
DeTiis. vulgar notion something fiir below the Luci- 

fer, the fallen Son of the Morning, They are merely 
hideous, hateftd, repulsive — often, to show the power 
of the Saint, contemptible. The strife for the mastery 
of the world is not through terrible outbursts of power. 
The mighty destructive agencies which war on man- 
kind are the visitations of God, not the spontaneous, 
inevitable, or even permitted devastations of Satan. It 
-is not through the loftier passions of man, it is mostly 
by petty tricks and small annoyances, that the Evil 
One endeavors to mislead or molest the Saint. Even 
when he offers temptations on a larger scale, there is in 
general something cowardly or despicable ; his very 
tricks are often out-tricked. The form which he as- 
sumed, the attributes of the form, the horns, the tail, 
the cloven foot, are vulgar and ludicrous. The stench 
which betrays his presence : his bowlings and screech- 
ings are but coarse and grovelling. At first, indeed, 
he was hardly permitted to assume th<e human form:^ 

Seidell's book, and the few allusions in the Old Testament, of a new De- 
monology. He throws aside the old Patristic Hierarchy of Devils, the gods 
of Greece and Rome, whom the revival of classical literature had now re- 
instated in their majesty^ and beauty, as seen in the Poets. He raises up in 
their stead the biblical adversaries of the Godhead of the Old Testament; 
the Deities of the nations, Canaan and Sjnia, circumjacent and hostile to 
the Jews. Before Milton, if Moloch, Belial, Mammon, were not absolutely 
unknown to poetry, they had no proper and distinct poetic existence. I 
owe the germ of this observation, perhaps more than the germ, to my friend 
Mr. Macaulay. 

^ Alors qu'aux yeux du vnlgaire celui-ci fnt devenu un dtre hideux, in- 
coherent assemblage des formes les plus animales, et les plus effrayantes; 
un personnage grotesque k force d'dt<$re laid. — Mauiy, L4$gendes, Pieuses, 
p. 198. 

M. Maury says that the most ancient representation of the Devil in hu- 
man form is in an ivory diptych of the time of Charles the Bald, p. 186, 
note. See also text. 


his was a monstrous combination of all that was most 
Qgty and hateful in the animal shape. If Devils at 
times assumed beautiful forms, as of wanton women to 
tempt the Saints, or entered into ancf possessed women 
of attractive loveliness, it was only for a time ; they 
withdrew and shrunk back to their own proper and 
native hideousness. 

Even Dante's Devils have but a low and menial ma- 
lignity ; they are base and cruel executioners, torturers, 
with a fierce but dastardly delight in the pains they 
inflict. The awful and the terrible is in the human 
victims : their passions, their pride, ambition, cruelty, 
avarice, treachery, revenge, alone have anything of 
the majesty of guilt : it is the diaboUc in man, not the 
Devils acting upon men and through men, which makes 
the moral grandeur of his Inferno. 

The symbol under which the Devil, Satan as Lucifer, 
as well as his subordinate fiends, are repre- The serpent. 
seuted throughout this period, the Serpent, was some- 
times terrific, often sunk to the low and the ludicrous. 
This universal emblem of the Antagonist Power of 
Evil runs through all religions,^ (though here and 
there the Serpent is the type of the Beneficent Deity, 
or, coiled into a circular ring, of eternity.)* The 
whole was centred in the fearful image of the great 
Dragon in the Apocalypse. St. Michael slaying the 
Dragon is among the earliest emblems of the triumph 

1 The connection of the Dragon, Serpent, and Wonn with the Devil in its 
countless forms is traced with inexhaustible learning by M. Maury, in his 
L^gendes Pieuses, pp. 131, 154. So too the growth of each demoniac beast 
out of other notions, the lion, the wolf, the swine. It would be impossible 
to enter in such a work as this into the endless detail. 

< The ample reforences of M. Maury on this subject might be enlarged. 
Bee too the work of Mr. Deane on the Worship of the Serpent. 

202 rATQ7 GHBtSnANITT. BookXHT. 

of Good over Evil. From an emblem it became a 
Ijgiaos historical &ct. And hence, doubtless, to a great 
extent, the Dragon of Romance; St, Geonge is but 
another St Michael of human descent. The enmity 
of the serpent to the race of man, as expressed and 
seemingly countenanced by the Book of Genesis, adds 
wiliness to the simply terrible and destructive monster. 
Almost every legend teems with serpent demons. Ser- 
pents are the most dire torturers in hell. The worm 
that never dieth (Dante's great Worm) is not alone ; 
snaJLes with diabolic instincts, or snakes actually devils, 
and rioting in the luxury of preying on the vital and 
sensitive parts of the undying damned, ai« everywiiera 
the dreadful instruments of everlasting retribution. 

Closely connected with these demoniac inflaenoea 
was the belief in magic, witchcraft, spells, talismans, 
conjurations. These were all the actual delusions or 
operations of obedient or assistant Evil Spirits. The 
Legislature of the Church and of the State, from Con^ 
stantine down to a late period, the post^Papal period of 
Christianity; Roman, Barbarian, even modem Codes 
recognized as real facts all these wild hallucinations of 
our nature, and by arraying them in the dignity of 
heretical impious and capital offences, impressed more 
deeply and perpetuated the vulgar belief. They have 
now almost, bat by no means altogether, vanished be* 
fore the light of reason and of science* The most 
obstinate fanaticism only ventures to murmur, that in 
things BO imiversally believed, condemned by Popes 
and Councils, and confirmed by the terrible testimony 
of the excommunication and the execution of thou- 
sands of miserable human beings, there must have been 
something more than our incredulous age will acknowl- 


edge.^ Wisdom and humanity may look with patience, 
with indnlgence, with sympathy, on many points of 
Christian superstition, as bringing home to hearts which 
would otherwise have been untouched, unsoftened, un- 
consoled, the blessed influences and peace of religion ; 
but on this sad chapter, extending far beyond the dark 
ages, it will look with melancholy, indeed, but unmit- 
igated reprobation. The whole tendency was to de- 
grade and' brutalize human nature : to degrade by 
^icouraging the belief in such monstrous follies, to 
brutalize by the pomp of public executions, conducted 
with the solemnity of civil and religious state. 

All this external worid-environing world of Beings 
possessed the three great attributes, ubiquity, incessant 
activity with motion in inappreciable time, personality. 
Grod was not more omnipresent, more all-knowing, 
more cognizant of the inmost secrets of the human 
keart than were these angelic or demon hosts. These 
divine attributes • might be delegated, derivative, per- 
mitted for q)ecial purposes ; but human fear and hope 
lost sight of this distinction, and invested every one 
of the countless prsetematural agents in independent, 
self-existent, self-willed life. They had, too, the power 
of assuming any forms ; of endless and instantaneous 

But the Angels were not the only guardians and 
protectors of the faithftd against the swarming, busy, 
indefatigable malignant spirits, which claimed the world 
of man as their own. It might seem as if human weak- 
ness required something less impalpable, more sensibly 
real, more akin to itself, than beings of light and air, 

' See (SorreB, Christliche Mjstik. that strange enidite rhapsody, which, 
Vitfa all ita fenror, fails to oonviiice as that the author was in earnest. 


which encircled the throne of God. Those Beings, in 
Tbe Saints, their cssence immaterial, or of a finer and 
more ethereal matter, might stoop to earth, or might be 
constantly hovering between earth and heaven ; but 
besides them, as it were of more distinct cognizance by 
man, were those who, having worn the human form, 
retained it, or reassumed it, as it were clothing over 
their spiritualized being. The Saints, having been 
human, were more easily, more naturally conceived, as 
still endowed with human sympathies ; intermediate 
between God and man, but with an imperishable ine& 
faceable manhood more closely bound up with man. 
The doctrine of the Church, the Communion of Saints, 
implied the Church militant and the Church trium- 
phant. The Christians yet on earth, the Christians 
already in heaven, formed but one polity ; and if there 
was this kindred, if it may be so said, religious consan- 
guinity, it might seem disparagement to their glory and 
to their union with Christ to banish them to a cold un- 
conscious indifference, and abase them to ignorance of 
the concerns of their brethren still in the flesh. Each 
saint partook, therefore, of the instinctive omniscience 
of Christ. While unabsorbed in the general beatified 
community, he kept up his special interest and. attach- 
ment to the places, the companions, the fraternities of 
his earthly sojourn ; he exercised, according to his will, 
at least by intercession, a beneficent influence ; he was 
tutelar within his sphere, and therefore within that 
sphere an object of devout adoration. And so, as ages 
went on, saints were multiplied and deified. I am 
almost unwilling to write it ; yet assuredly, hardly 
less, if less than Divine power and Divine will was as- 
signed by the popular sentiment to the Virgin and the 


Saints. They intercepted the worship of the Almighty 
Father, the worship of the Divine Son. To them, 
rather than through them, prayer was addressed ; their 
shrines received the more costly oblations ; they were 
the rulers, the actual disposing Providence on earth : 
God might seem to have abandoned the Sovereignty 
of the world to these subordinate yet all-powerfiil 

High above all this innumerable Host of Saints and 
Martyrs, if not within the Trinity (it were not easy, if 
we make not large allowance for the wild language of 
rapturous adoration, to draw any distinction), hardly 
below, was seated the Queen of Heaven.^ The wor- 
ship of the Virgin, since the epoch of Gregory the 
Great, had been constantly on the ascendant ; the 
whole progress of Christian thought and feeling con- 
verged towards this end.^ The passionate adoration 
of the Virgin was among the causes of the discom- 
fiture of Nestorianism — the discomfiture of Nestori- 
anism deepened the passion. The title ^^ Mother of 
God " had been the watchword of the feud ; it became 
the cry of victory. Perhaps as the Teutonic awe 

1 At qiialis cnmUf cajus aurigse sunt immortalee Spiritus ! 

Qualis nU qu8B asoendit, et cui Dens fit obrius ! 

Haec est Regina naturae, et psene gratisB. 

Tali pompH excipienda est que Deam exceperat. 

Adsoige, anima, die aliquid sublimias. 

Ante advenium Maria regnabant in cah tres pertona. 

Nee (et?) regnabant tres Reges. 

AUerum (hronum addidit Homo Deus ; 

Adventante Maria tertius thronns est additos. 

EtDonc triplex in coelo regnnm est, ubi erat unicnm. 

Sedet proxima Deo mater Dei. 

Labb^ in Elogiis. — Comp. Augusti, v. iii. p. 65. 
s Compare on the earlier period Beugnot, Destmction da Paganitme, ii. 
W7. The whole subject of the progress of the worship of the Virgm, in 
liiigiisti, Denkwurdigkeiten, iii. pp. 1, ti 8eq,, with ample illustrations. 

SM ULTnr cHRisnAinTr. bom jus. 

tended to throw lack into more remote incoroprehen^ 
sibility the spiritual G(»dhead, and therefore the mora 
distinct human ims^e became more welcome to the 
soul ; so perhaps the purer and loftier Teutonic respect 
for the female sex was more prone to t^e adoration of 
the Virgin Mother^ Iconoclasm, as the imager of the 
Virgin Mother, then perhaps usually with the Child, 
were more frequent and regarded with stronger attach- 
ment, would seem a war specialty directed against the 
blessed Mary ; her images^ when they rose again, or, 
as was common, smiled again on the walk^ would be 
the objects of still more devout wonder and love. She 
would vindicate her exalted dignity by more countless 
miracles, and miracles would be multiplied at once by 
the frantic zual and by the more easy credulity of her 
triumphant worshippers ; she would glorify herself, aad 
be glorified without measure. It was the same in the 
East and in the West. The East had early adopted m 
the popular creed the groundwork, at least, of the Gea* 
pel of the Infancy and of the other spurious Gospels^ 
which added so prodigally to the brief aliusions to the 
Mather in the genuine Gospels.^ The Emperor He* 
radius, it has been seen, had the Virgin on his banner 
of war ; to the tutelar protection of the Virgin Con- 
stantinople looked against the Saracen and the Turk. 
Chivalry above all would seem, as it were, to array the 
Christian world as the Church militant of the Virgin.* 
Every knight was the sworn servant of our Lady ; to 
her he looked for success in battle — strange as it may 

1 PerhapB the reception of these into the Korftn as part of the nnivenal 
Chrittfni belief is the moot fCrikiag proof of this. 

2 On the chivalrou wofship of the Virgin, Le Grand d* Aos^, Fabliaas, 


sound, for success in softer cmterprises.^ Poetry took 
even more irrererent license ; its admttion m its inten- 
sity became revoltingly profane. Instead of hallowing 
human passion, it brought human passion into the 
sphere of adoration, from which it might have been 
expected to ihnnk with instinctive modesty. Yet it 
must be known ia its utmost frenzy to be judged 

So completdy was this worship the worship of Chri^ 
tendom, that every cathedral, almost every spacious 
churchy had its Chapel of our Lady. In the hymns 
to the Virgin, in every breviary, more especially in her 
own ^^ Hours " (the great universal book of devotion^, 
ttot merely is the whole world and the celestial world 
put under contribution for poetic images, not only is 
all the luxuriance and cc^iousness of ktngnage est* 
hansted, a new vocabulary is invented to eiq>ress the 
yet inexpressible homage ; pages follow pages of glow<» 
ing similitudes, rising one above another. In tiie 
Psalter of the Virgin almost all the incommunicable 
attributes of the Godhead are assigned to her ; she 
aits between Cherubim and Seraphim ; she commands^ 
by her maternal influences, if not hy authority, her 

I The poeCi7 of the Troabadotm is tali of this. 

s C*Mt ainsi que Is mime Osatier (de Corrm.) coD^t poor la Viergv 
Marie un amour T^ritable, qui reaflamma, le d^vora toate ml vie. Elle 
^ast pour Itti ce qu'est une amante poor le plus passionn^ dea homme». D 
r^injsflait pour elle toutes leu beaut^s quMl apercevait dam les religieoser 
d*un convent quMl dirigeait; lui adrefl»ait chaque .four des rers pleins d'am- 
muTy d'^rotiquea chansons; il fat voyait dans ses rires, et quelqnefois mSme 
^mmd ii veiUait, sons les ftmnes les plus Tvluptueuaeai et la croyvrt Th^rolne- 
4ea mille arentures, que, dans son d^lire, il in^ntoH, et puis raoontait eir 
ven mimmiinbles. — Hist Litt^raire de la Fnmce, xix. p. S48. 

To purify his imagination from this, let the reader turn to Petrarch's 
noble ode " Vergine bella, ehe di sol ▼eatita.* 



Eternal Son.^ To the Festivals of the Annunciation 
and the Purification (or the Presentation of Christ in 
the Temple) was added that of the Assumption of the 
Virgin.^ A rich and copious legend revealed the 
whole history of her birth and life, of which the 
Sacred Scriptures were altogether silent, but of which 
the spurious Gospels furnished many incidents,^ thus, 
as it were, taking their rank as authorities with the 
Apostolic four. And all this was erelong to be em- 
bodied in Poetry, and, it might seem, more imperish- 
ably in Art. The latest question raised about the 
Virgin — her absolute immunity from the sin of Adam 
— is the best illustration of the strength and vitality 
of the belief. Pious men could endure the discussion. 
Though St. Bernard, in distinct words which cannot 
be explained away, had repudiated the Immaculate 
Conception of the Virgin* — though it was rejected 
by Thomas Aquinas,^ that Conception without any 
taint of hereditaiy sin, grew up under the authority 
of the rival of Aquinas. It became the subject of 
contention and controversy, from which the calmer 
Christian shrinks with intuitive repugnance. It di- 
vided the Dominicans and Franciscans into hostile 

1 Ezcelsus super Cherubim Thronns ejus, et sedes ejus super cardinea 
gobU. — Ps. czlii. Domina Angelomm, regina Mundi I — Ps. xxxix. Quod 
Deus imperio, tu preoe, VirgOi facis — Jure matris impera filio! 

' Titian's Assumption of the Virgin at Venioei to omit the Muiilloe, and 
those of countless inferior artists. 

s See these Gospels in Thilo Codex Apociyphus. 

* Mariam in peccato conceptam, cum et ipsa yulgari modo per libidinem 
maris et f<BminsB concepta est. One is almost unwilling to quote in Latin 
what St Bernard wrote. Ad canon. Lugdun. It is true St. Bernard made 
a vague submission on this, as on other points, to the judgment of the 

fi Summa Theologis, iiL 27, and in coane terms. 

Chap. U. SAINTS. 209 

camps, and was agitated with all the wrath and fury 
of a question in which was involved the whole moral 
and religious welfare of mankind.^ None doubted' 
that it was witliin the lawful sphere of theology.* 
Wonderful as it may seem, a doctrine rejected at the 
end of the twelfth century by the last Father of the 
Latin Church, has been asserted by a Pope of the 
nineteenth, and a Council is now sitting in grave de- 
bate in Rome on the Immaculate Conception.^ 

The worship gf the Saints might seem to be endan- 
gered by their multiplicity, by their infinity. The 
crowded calendar knew not what day it could assign 
to the new Saint without clashing with, or dispossess- 
ing, an old one ; it was forced to bear an endless 
accumulation on some &vored days. The East and 
the West vied with each other in their fertility. Th« 
Greek Menologies are not only as copious in the puer- 

l When the stranger travelling in Spain arFive<l at midnight at a QOOr 
vent-gate, and uttered his " Santissiraa Virgen/' he knew by the answer, 
ehher " Sin pecsdo concebida," or by the silence with which the door 
opened, whether it was a Frandacan or a Dominican. 

S Singular it-may seem, the doctrine was first authorized by tiie reform- 
mg heterodox? Council of Basle, a. d. 1439. Session xxv. vi. 

9 Even such a writer as Augustin Theiner was, can write such pages as 
appear in the Vie de Clement XIV., i. p. 341. 

4 Is there not wisdom enough in tiie Church, which has never been 
thooght wanting in wisdom, to consider whether it is wise to inflame a 
passionate paroxysm of devotion in a very few; and to throw back, by an 
inevitable revulsion, and by so fatal an argument placed in their handA, 
mnltitndes into utter unbelief and contempt of all religion ? — so had I writ- 
ten in 1864: the Council has passed its decree; by all who own its authority 
the Immaculate Conception is admitted, or, what is very different, not de- 
nied to be an Article of the Christian creed. But is not the utter and total 
apathy with which it has been received (one day's Spectacle at Bome, and 
nearly silent indifference throughout Christendom) the most remarkable 
sign of the times — the most unanswerable proof of the prostration of the 
strength of the Roman Church? There is not life enough for a schism on 
this vital point. 

VOL. viu. 14 


flity and trivialness of their wonders, they even surpass 
the Western Hagiologies. Bnt of the countless Saints 
of the East, few comparativelj were received in the 
West. The E^t as disdainfully rejected many of the 
most fiimous, whom the West worshipped with the 
most earnest devotion ; they were ignorant even of 
their names. It may be doubted if an Oriental ever 
uttered a. prayer in the name of St. Thomas of Canter- 
bury. Still that multiplicity of Saints, as it bore un- 
answerable witness to the vigor of the belief, so also 
to its vitality. It was constantly renewing its youth 
by the elevation of more fevorite and recent objects 
of adoration. Every faculty, every feeling, every pas- 
sion, every affection, every interest was for centuries in 
a state of perpetual excitement to quicken, keep alive, 
and make more intense this wonder-fed and wonder- 
seeking worship. The imagination, the generous ad- 
miration of transcendent goodness, of transcendent 
learning, or, what was esteemed even more Christian, 
transcendent austerity ; rivalry of Church with Church, 
of town with town, of kingdom with kingdom, of Or- 
der with Order ; sordid interest in the Priesthood who 
possessed, and the people who were permitted to wor- 
ship, and shared in the feme, even in the profit, from 
the concourse of worshippers to the shrine of a cele- 
brated Saint; gratitude for blessings imputed to his 
prayers, the fruitful harvest, protection in war, escape 
in pestilence ; fear lest the offended Saint should turn 
away his face ; the strange notion that Saints were 
under an obligation to befriend their worshippers ; the 
still bolder Brahminical notion that Saints might be 
compelled, by the force of prayer, or even by the lav- 
ish oblation, to interpose their reluctant influence; — 


against all this stood one faculty of man alone, and 
that with diflSculty roused out of its long lethargy, re- 
buked, cowed, proscribed, shuddering at what might 
be, which was sure to be, branded as impiety — the 
Reason. Already in the earliest period to doubt the 
wild wonders related of St. Martin of Tours is to 
doubt the miracles of the Gospel.^ Popular admira- 
tion for some time enjoyed, unchecked, the privflege of 
canonization. A Saint was a Saint, as it were, by ac- 
clamation ; and this acclamation might have canoniaitioii. 
been uttered in the rudest times, as during the Mero- 
vingian rule in France ; or within a very limited sphere, 
as among our Anglo-Saxon ancestors, so many of whose 
Saints were contemptuously rejected by the Norman 
Conqueror. Saints at length multiplying thus beyond 
measure, the Pope assumed the prerogative of advan- 
cing to the successive ranks of Beatitude and Sanctity. 
If this checked the deification of such perplexing mul- 
titudes, it gave still higher authority to those who had 
been recognized by more general consent, or who were 
thus more sparingly admitted to the honors of Beatifi- 
cation and Sanctification (those steps, as it were, of 
spiritual promotion were gradually introduced). The 
Saints ceased to be local divinities ; they were pro- 
claimed to Christendom, in the irrefragable Bull, as 
worthy of general worship.^ 

^ Qtuuiquam minimd mimm sit si in operibas Martini infirmitas humana 
dnbitaverit, cum multos hodieque videamus, nee Evangelicis quidem credi- 
disse. — Snip. Sever., Dial. ii. 16. Sulpicias almost closes the life of St. 
Martinwith these words: "Decaterosi quis infideliter legerit, ipae pec- 

2 Canonization has been distributed into three periods. Down to the 
tenth oentnry the Saint was exalted by the popular voice, the suffrage of 
the people with the Bishop. In the intermediate period the sanction of the 
Pope was required, but the Bishops retained their right of initiation. Al- 


There were some, of course, the universal Saints of 
Christendom, the Apostles, the early martyrs ; some 
of Latin Christendom, the four great Fathers of the 
Latin Church ; some few, like St. Thomas of Canter- 
hur)', the martyr of the ecclesiastical Order, would be 
held up by the whole Hieraschy as the pattern and 
model of sanctity ; St Benedict, in all the Benedictine 
monasteries, the founders or reformers of the Monastic 
Institutes, St. Odo, St. Stephen Harding, St. Bernard, 
St. Romuald, St. Norbert* At a later period, and, 
above all, wherever there were Mendicant Friars (and 
where were there not?) St. Dominic and St. Francis 
would have their images raised, their legends read and 
promulgated with the utmost activity, and their shrines 
heaped with offerings. Each Order was bound espe- 
cially to hold up the Saints of the Order ; it was the 
duty of all who wore the garb to spread their fame 
with special assiduity.^ The Dominicans and Francis- 
cans could boast others besides their founders : the Do- 
minicans the murdered Inquisitor Peter the Martyr, 

flzander III. seized into the hands of the Pope alone this great and 
abused Prerogative. — Mabillon, Act. St. Benedict Y. in Prof. 

^ The great authority for the Lives of the Saints, of eourse with strong 
predilection for the Saints of the West, is the vast collection of the BoUand* 
ists, even in the present day proceeding towards its termination. On the 
origin and the writers of this Collection, consult Pitra, Etudes sur la Col- 
lection des Actes des Saints par les Jesuites Bollandistea. To me the 1Hi(4o 
beauty and value is in the original contemporary form (as some, for in- 
stance, are read in Pertz, Monumenta Germaniss). In the Bollandists, or 
even in the Grolden Legend of Jacob a Voragine, they become cold and coo- 
tioveisial; the original di^cuments are overlaid with dissertation. Later 
writers, like Aiban Butler, are apologetic, cautious, always endeavoring to 
make the incredible credible. In the recent Lives of the English Saints, 
some of them admirably told, there is a sort of obiUy psychological justifi- 
oation of belief utterly irreconcilable with belief; ths writen arg« that we 
Mghtt9 believe, what they themselves almost confess that they qmd. oaify 
bolieve, or fiuicy thi^ believt, out of duty, not of fiutb. 


and St. Thomas Aquinas ; the Franciscans St. Antony 
of Padua, and San Bonaventura. Their portraits, 
their miracles, were painted in the churches, in the 
cloisters of the Friars ; hymns in their name, or sen* 
tences, were chanted in the services. AH these were 
world-wide Saints : their shrines arose in all lands, 
their churches or chapels sprung up in all quarters. 
Others had a more limited &me, though within the 
pale of that fame their worship was performed with 
loyal fidelity, their legend read, their acts and miracles 
commemorated by architecture, sculpture, painting. As 
under the later Jewish belief each Empire had its guar* 
dian Angel, so each kingdom of Christendom had its 
tutelar Saint France had three, who had each his 
sacred dty^ each, as it were, succeeded to, without dis- 
possessing, the other. St. Martin of Tours was the 
older ; St. Remi, who baptiased Clovis into the Catholic 
Church, had an especial claim on all of Prankish de- 
scent But, as Paris rose above Tours and Rheims, so 
rose St Denys, by degrees, to be the leading Saint of 
France. St. Louis was the Saint of the royal race.* 
St Jago of Compostella, the Apostle of St. James, 
had often led the conquering Spaniard against the Mus-^ 
sulman. The more peaceful Boniface, with others of 
the older missionaries, was honored by a better title in 
Geimany. Some of the patron Saints, however, of 
the great Western kingdoms are of a later period, and 
sprung probably out of romance, perhaps were first 
inscribed on the banners to distinguish the several na* 

I Glutrlemagii« was a Saint (Baronius, utib ann. 814). He was anfbrtii* 
ntUfy canoniaed by a Pseudo-Pope (Pascal). He was worshipped at Aix> 
la-Cbapelle, Hildesheim, Osnabarg, Minden, Halberstadt — thus a Germati 
father than a French Saint See the Hymn to him, Daniel, i. p. 305, finom 
the Halberstadt Breriaiy. 


tions during the Crusades. For the dignity of most of 
these Saints there is sufficient legendary reason : as of 
St. Denys in France, St. James in Spain,^t. Andrew 
in Scotland (there was a legend of the Apostle's con- 
version of Scotland), St. Patrick in Ireland. Eng- 
land, however, instead of one of the old Roman or 
Saxon Saints, St. Alban, or St. Augustine, placed her- 
self under the tutelar guardianship of a Saint of very 
doubtftd origin, St. George.^ In Germany alone, not- 
withstanding some general reverence for St. Boniface, 
each kingdom or principality, even every city, town, 
or village, had its own Saint. The history of Latin 
Christianity may be traced in its more favored Saints, 
first Martyrs, then Bishops, then Fathers, Jerome, 
Augustin, Gregory, then Monks (the type St. Ben- 
edict). As the Church grew in wealth. Kings or No- 
bles, magnificent donors, were the Saints ; as it grew 
in power, rose Hierarchical Saints, like Becket. St. 
Louis was the Saint of the Crusades and Chivalry; 
St. Thomas Aquinas and Bonaventura of Scholasticism. 
Female prophets might seem chosen to vie with those 
of the Fraticelli and of the Heretics ; St. Catherine 
of Sienna, St. Bridget^ (those Brides of Christ), who 

1 Dr. Milner (the Roman Catholic) wrote an Essay against Gibbon's 
sertion that " the infamous George of Cappadocia became the patron Saint 
of England." He was, I think, so far saccessful; but it is much more easy 
to say who St George was not than who he was. * 

s St. Bridget was beatified by Boniface IX., canonised by John XXIII. 
at the Council of Constance, confirmed by St. Martin. The Swedes were 
earnest for their Saint (and she had had the merit of urging the return of the 
Popes from Avignon). But Grerson threw some rationalizing doubts on 
the visions of St. Bridget, and on the whole bevy of female Saints, which 
he more than obviously hinted might be the dupes or accomplices of artful 
Confessors. The strange wild rhapsodies, the visions of St. JBridget, under 
the authority of Turrecreraata, were avouched by the Council of Basle. 
See Gterson's Tracts, especially de probatione spirituum, de distinctione ve- 
ramm visionnm a fidsis. — Helyot, iv. p. 25, Shroeck, xxxiii. p. 189, &c 


had constant personal intercourse with the Saints, with 
the Virgin, with our Lord himself. In later days 
Christian charity, as well as Mysticism, had its Saints, 
St. Vincent de Paul, with St. Teresa, and St. Francis 
de Sales. 

To assert, to propagate the fame, the miracles, of his 
proper Saint was the duty of every King, of every 
burgher, of every parishioner, more especially of the 
Priesthood in the Church dedicated to his memory, 
which usually boasted of his body buried under the 
high altar, or of relics of that body. Most churches 
had a commemorative Anniversary of the Saint, on 
which his wonders were the subjects of inexhaustible 
sermons. It was the great day of pomp, procession, 
rejoicing, feasting, sometimes rendered more attractive 
by some new miracle, by some marvellous cure, some 
devil ejected, something which vied with or outdid the 
wonders of every neighboring Saint. Of old, the 
Saint-worshippers were more ambitious. In the days 
of St. Martin, Sulpicius Severus urges on his friend 
Posthumianus to publish everywhere, in his distant 
travel or on his return from the East, the fame of St. 
Martin.^ ^* Pass not Campania ; make him known to 
the holy Paulinus, through him it will be published in 
Rome, in Italy, and in Illyricum. If you travel to 
the right, let it be heard in Carthage, where he may 
rival Cyprian ; if to the lefl, in Corinth, who will 
esteem him wiser than Plato, more patient than Soc- 
rates. Let Egypt, let Asia hear the fame of the Gaul- 
ish Saint." That, however, was when Saints were 

^Dom recnrris diversasqae regiones^ loca. portus, insula9f urbesque 
pneter lefps, Martini nomen et gloriam sparge per populos. — Y. S. Marti- 
al, Dialog, iii. p. 683. 


Wire. More restricted commerce, and the preoccupa- 
tion of every land, every city, every chnrch with its 
own patron Saint, confined within the province, city, 
or hamlet, all who had not some universal claim to re-> 
spect, or some wide-spread fraternity to promulgate 
their name. Yet though there might be jealousy or 
rivalry in the worship of distant or neighboring Saints ; 
as the heathens denied not the gods of other nations, 
even hostile nations, whom themselves did not worship 
as gods ; so none would question the saintship, the in- 
tercessory powers, the marvels of another Saint. 

Thus throughout Christendom was there to every 
Legendfl. Community and every individual man an In«- 
tercessor with the one Great Intercessor between God 
and man, some intermediate being, less awful, more 
humble, whose office, whose charge, almost whose duty 
it was to si)eed, or who, if offended, might withhold 
the suppliant orison. Every one of these Saints had 
his life of wonder, the legend of his virtues, his mira- 
cles, perhaps his martyrdom, his shrines, his relics. 
The legend was to his votaries a sort of secondary 
Gospel, wrought into the belief by the constant itera- 
tion of its names and events. The legend, in truth, 
was the dqminant, universal poetty of the times. Un- 
less it had been poetry it had not ruled the mind of 
man ; but, having been poetry, it most submit to re^ 
main poetry. It is the mythic literature of Christen- 
dom,^ interminable in its extent ; but, as its whole life 

^ M. Manry's work, " Les L^gendes Pieuses/' has exhausted the subject. 
Tl e more cautions readers must be warned that M. Maury carries up his 
i^VF^ em, where few Christians will follow him, with hardlv less audacitv than 
Strauss himself, into the Scriptural narratives. Bat while we admit that 
the desire of conformity with the Life of the Saviour suggested a great 
part of the incidents, and that the Gospel miracles suggested the miiades 

Ckap. n. EELICS. 217 

is in its particularity, it suffers and withers into dulness 
by being brought into a more compendious form ; and 
so it is that Hagiography has withdrawn into its proper 
domain, and left the province of human affairs to his- 
tory, which is not disdainful, of course, of the inci- 
dental information or illustration of events, manners, 
characters, which transpire through the cloud of mar- 
vels. Even the philosophy of history endeavors only 
to divine how men believed, or believed that they be- 
lieved, this perpetual suspension or abrogation of the 
laws of nature ; how that which was then averred on 
the authority of experience has now fallen into neglect 
as contrary to all experience : so that even the most 
vigorous attempt to reinstate them is received as a des- 
perate, hardly serious, effort of paradoxical ingenuity, 
falls dead. on the general mind, hardly provokes scorn 
or ridicule, and, in fact, is transcended in interest by 
every transitory folly or new hallucination which seems 
to be the indispensable aliment required by some part 
of mankind in the highest as in the lowest social of 
intellectual state. 

The legend was perpetually confirmed, illustrated, 
kept alive by the substantial, if somewhat Reuoa. 
dimly and mysteriously shown, relics which were either 
in the church, under the altar, or upon the altar ; the 
treasure of the community, or the property, the talis- 

of the later Saints — the originality, the truth, the unapproachable dignity 
of the Crospel type is not only unimpaired^ but to me becomes only mors 
distinct and real. There is an intimRte harmony, nowhere else found, be- 
tween the moral and the supernatural. The line appears in my judgment 
broad and ckar; and those who, like the modem advocates for the belief 
of the Middle Ages, resolve the whole into the attainment of a proper frame 
of mind to receive legend as truth, seem to me to cut up altogether all be- 
lief in miracle. 
Compare some good observations of Id. Ampere, Le9on XIY. 


man of the prelate, the noble, or the king. The reli- 
quary was the most precious ornament in the lady's 
chamber, in the knight's armory, in the king's- hall of 
state, as well as in that of the Bishop or the Pope. 
Our history has perhaps dwelt on relics with sufficient 
frequency. Augustine, in the earlier times, had re- 
proved the wandering monks who made a trade of sell- 
ing martyrs' limbs, " if indeed they are the limbs of 
martyrs." * The Theodosian Code had prohibited the 
violation of the tombs of the martyrs, and the removal 
and sale of their bodies.^ Gregory the Great had re- 
proved the Greek practice of irreverently disinterring 
and sending about the bodies of Saints : he refused to 
the Empress of Constantinople relics of St. Paul.* We 
have seen with what jealous parsimony he distributed 
the filings of the chains of St. Peter.* But, as the 
world darkened, these laws fell into desuetude : the first 
reverential feeling died away. In truth, to the multi- 
plication, dissemination, veneration of relics conspired 
all the weaknesses, passions, innate and seemingly in- 
extinguishable propensities of mankind ; the fondness 
for cherishing memorials of the beloved, in human af- 
fection so excusable, so amiable, how much more so rf 
objects of holy love, the Saints, the Blessed Virgin, the 
Saviour himself! the pride of possessing what is rare; 
the. desire to keep alive religious associations and relig- 
ious thoughts ; the ignorance of the priesthood, the 
pious fraud of the priesthood, admitted to be Christian 

1 De oper. Monachonim, c. 8. 

3 Humauum corpus nemo ad alterum locum transferat, nemo martyrem 
detrahat, nemo mereetur. 

s Ad Imperat Constant — Compare Act. Ordinis S. Benedict! II. Piicf. 

* Vol. u. p. 98. 

Chap. H. RELICS. 219 

virtue in order to promote devotion and so the spiritual 
welfare of man. Add to all this the inherent indefea- 
sible power ascribed to relics to work miracles. No 
wonder that with the whole Christian world deeming 
it meritorious and holy to believe, dangerous, impious 
to doubt, there should be no end or limit to belief; that 
the wood of the true Cross should grow into a forest ; 
that wild fictions, the romance of the Wise Men of the 
East transmuted into kings, the Eleven Thousand Vir- 
gins, should be worshipped in the rich commercial cities 
on the Rhine ; that delicacy and even reverence should 
not take oflFence, as at the milk of the Blessed Virgin ; 
that the most perishable things should become imper- 
ishable, the garments of the Saviour and the Saints. 
Not even the fiercest feuds could detect imposture. 
Tours and Poitiers quarrelled for the body of St. Mar- 
tin ; St. Benedict was stolen away from Italy : we have 
seen the rejoicing at his arrival in France ; and the ex- 
pedition sent by Eginhard to Italy in search of pious 
plunder. There were constant wars between monastery 
and monastery ; marauding campaigns were carried on 
against some neighboring treasure-house. France was 
smitten with famine, because Clotaire II. cut off and 
stole an arm of St. Denys, under the instigation of the 
Devil.* It was virtue in St. Ouen to steal the head 
of St. Marculph. But as to disputing the genuineness, 
unless of rival relics, or questioning their wonder-work- 
ing power, it never entered into the profane thought 
of man. How the Crusades immeasurably increased 

1 Annales Dagobert. Herman Comer gives the price of some lelica. 
Egilmund, Archbishop of Canterbuiy , boaght for his Church (a.d. mxxi.) 
an arm of St. Augastine, at Pavia, for 100 talents of pnre silver and one 
of gold« 


the wealth of Western Christendom in relics^ how they 
opened an important branch of traffic, needs no further 
illustration. To the very verge of our historic period 
the worship of relics is in its unshaken authority. At 
the close of the fourteenth century the Duke of Betry 
obtains a piece of the head of St. Hilary of Poitiers aa 
a most splendid present for the city of Poitiers from the 
Abbey of St. Denys ; ^ he had already obtained the 
chin. The exhibition of the Holy Coat of Treves — 
a treasure possessed by more than one other Churchy 
and more than one avouched by Papal authority — may 
show how deep-rooted in human nature is this strange 
form of religiousness. One of the most remarkable 
illustrations of relic-worship occurs afier the close of 
our history, during the pontificate of u£neas Sylvius^ 
Pius II. The head of St. Andrew (Amalfi boasted 
the immemorial possession of the body) had been wor- 
shipped for centuries at Patras. As the Turks ad- 
vanced in the Morea, the fugitive Despot would not 
leave this precious treasure exposed to the profane in- 
sults of the unbelievers. He carried it with him in hia 
flight. Kings vied for the purchase ; vast sums were 
offered. The Pope urged upon the Despot that he 
could not permit such a relic to repose anywhere but at 
Rome. The head of St. Andrew should rest by that 
of his brother St. Peter ; the Saint himself would re- 
sist any other arrangement. The Despot arrived at 
Ancona with his freight. It was respected by the 
stormy seas. A Cardinal of the most blameless life 

^ Partieulftm qnandam capitis ejus sancti, a parte poetetiori venoa aarem 
lextram ad modum triangalif in longitodine et latitudine spaciam triam 
digitorum. — St. Denrs. xiv. 16. The mntilatbii Mem« not td 
have been thought irreverent 

Chap. H. HELL. 221 

was chofien to receive and inspect the relic ; by what 
signs he judged the head to be that of St. Andrew we 
know not. Bnt Romagna was in too dangerous a state 
to allow it at once to be transported to Rome ; the 
fierce Piccinino or the atheist Malatesta would not 
have scrupled to have seized it for their own use, wor- 
shipped it, or sold it at an exorbitant price. It was 
conveyed for security to the strong fortress of Nami. 
When Piccinino's forces were dispereed, and peace re- 
stored, it was brought in stately procession to Rome, 
It was intended that the most glorious heads of St. Pe* 
ter and St. Paul should go forth to meet that of their 
brother Apostle. But the vast mass of gold which en- 
shrined, the cumbrous iron which protected, these relics 
were too heavy to be moved : so without them the 
Pope, the Cardinab, the whole population of Rome 
thronged forth to the meadows near the Milvian 
Bridge. The Pope made an eloquent address to the 
head ; a hymn was sung, entreating the Saint's aid in 
the discomfiture of the Turks. It rested that day on 
the altar of St. Maria del Popolo, was then conveyed 
through the city, decorated with all splendor (the Jubi- 
lee under Nicolas V. saw not Rome more crowded), to 
St. Peter's. Cardinal Bessarion preached a sermon ; 
the head was deposited with those of his brother Apos- 
tles under the high altar.^ 

Throughout the Middle Ages the world after death 
continued to reveal more and more fully its awful se- 
crets. Hell, Purgatory, Heaven became more distinct, 
if it may be so said, more visible. Their site, their to- 
pography, their torments, their trials, their enjoyments, 
became more conceivable, almost more palpable to 

1 Commentarii Pii II. 


sense: till Dante summed up the whole of this tradi- 
tional lore, or at least, with a Poet's intuitive sagacity, 
seized on all which was most imposing, effective, real, 
and condensed it in his three coordinate poems. That 
H«u. Hell had a local existence, that immaterial 

spirits suffered bodily and material torments ; none, or 
scarcely one hardy speculative mind, presumed to 
doubt.^ Hell had admitted, according to legend, more 
than one visitant from this upper world, who returned 
to relate his fearful journey to wondering man : St. 
Fiercy,^ St. Vettin,* a layman Bernilo.* But all these 
early descents interest us only as they may be supposed 
or appear to have been faint types of the great Italian 
Poet. Dante is the one authorized topographer of the 
mediaeval Hell.^ His originality is no more called ia 
question by these mere signs and manifestations of the 
popular belief than by the existence and reality of 

1 Scotus Erigena, perhaps alone, dared to question the locality of HeH, 
and the material tortures of the damned. Diversas suppliciorum formas 
non localiter in quadam parte, veluti toto hujus visibilis creaturae, et ut sim- 
pliciter dicam neque intra diversitatem totius naturae a Deo conditn futunui 
esse credimus; et neque nunc esse, et nusquam et nunquam. The punish- 
ment in which Erigena believed was terrrible remorse of conscience, the 
sense of impossible repentance or pardon. At the final absorption of all 
things, that genuine Indian absorption, derived from his master the Psea- 
do-Dionysius, evil and sin would be destroyed forever, not evil ones and 
sinners. Erigena boldly citen Origen, and extorts from other authorities an 
opinion to the same effect, of the final salvation, the return unto the Deity, 
of the Devil himself. There is nothing eternal but God. Omne quod 
Btemum in Deo solummodo intelligi ; nee uUa setemitas extra eum qui so- 
lus est aetemus et setemitas. He thus gets rid of all relating to eternal 
fire. Read the remarkable passage in the 5th Book de Natura, from the at least to chapters. 

3 Bede, iii. 19. Mabillon, AcU S. Benedict!, iii. 807. The BoUandista, 
Jan. ii. p. 44. 

« Mabillon, iv. 272. 

4 Flodoard, iii. 3. 

« See Damiaui's Hell and Heaven, iv. Ep. xiv. viii. 2. Consult alio 

Chap. H. HELL. 223 

tliose objects or scenes in external nature which he 
describes with such unrivalled truth.^ In Dante meet 
unreconciled (who thought of or cared for their recon- 
ciliation ?) those strange contradictions, immaterial 
souls subject to material torments : spirits which had 
pat off the mortal body, cognizable by the corporeal 
sense.^ The mediaeval Hell had gathered from all ages, 
all lands, all races, its imagery, its denizens, its site, its 
access, its commingling horrors ; from the old Jewish 
traditions, perhaps from the regions beyond the sphere 
of the Old Testament; from the Pagan poets, with 
their black rivers, their Cerberus, their boatman and 
his crazy vessel; perhaps from the Teutonic Hela, 
through some of the earlier visions. Then came the 
great Poet, and reduced all this wild chaos to a kind of 
order, moulded it up with the cosmical notions of the 
times, and made it, as it were, one with the prevalent 
mundane system. Above all, he brought it to the very 
bordere of our world ; he made the life beyond the 
grave one with our present life ; he mingled in close 

1 There is a Rtrange book written at the beginning of the seventeenth 
century, "De Inferno/' bj Antonio Rusca (Milan, 1621). It is dedicated 
with fearfUl simplicity to our Saviour. It settles gravely, logically, as it 
would be supposed authoritatively, and not without erudition, eveiy ques- 
tion relating to Hell and its Inhabitants, its place, extent, divisions, tor- 

2 This was embarrassing to the philosophic heathen. " Tantum valuit 
crmr, nt corpora cremata cum scirent, tamen ea fieri apud inferos fingerent, 
qnK sine corporibus nee fieri pos9unt nee intelligi. Animos enim per seip- 
KM viventes non poterant mente complecti, formam aliquam figuramque 
quserebant." — Cicer. Tusc. i. c. 16. Rusca lays it down as th^ Catholic 
doctrine, " Docet tamen Catholica Veritas, infernum malorum carcerem 
esse locum quendam materialem et corporeum." 1. c. xxviii. The more 
enlightened Peter Lombard speaks of " non corporalem, sed corpori simi- 
lem.** Souls were home bodily to Heaven by visible Angels, fought for by 
visible Devils. See the battle for the Soul of King Dagobert. Maury, p. 


and intimate relation the present and the Aiture. Hell, 
Purgatory, Heaven were but an immediate expansion 
and extension of the present world. And this is among 
the wonderfid causes of Dante's power, the realizing 
the unreal by tlie admixture of the real : even as in bia 
imagery the actual, homely, everyday language or si- 
militude mingles with and heightens the fantastic, the 
\ ague, the transmundane. What effect had hell pro- 
duced, if peopled by ancient, almost immemorial ob- 
jects of human detestation, Nimrod or Iscariot, or 
Julian or Mohammed ? It was when Popes all bat 
living, Eangs but now on their thrones, Guelfs who bad 
hardly ceased to walk the streets of Florence,. Ghibel- 
lines almost yet in exile, revealed their awful doom — 
this it was which, as it expressed the passions and the 
fears of mankind of an instant, immediate, actual, 
bodily, comprehensible place of torment : so, wherever 
it was read, it deepened that notion, and made it more 
distinct and natural. This was the Hell, cont<.'rminou8 
to tlie earth, but separate, as it were, by a gulf parsed 
by almost instantaneous transition, of which the Priest- 
hood held the keys. These keys the audacious Poet 
had wrenched from their hands, and dared to turn on 
many of themselves, speaking even against Popes the 
sentence of condemnation. Of that which Hell, Pur- 
gatory, Heaven were in popular opinion during the 
Middle Ages, Dante was but the full, deep, concentred 
expression ; what he embodied in verse all men believed, 
feared,, hoped. 

Purgatory had now its intermediate place between 
PorgatoiT. Hcaveu and Hell, as unquestioned, as undis- 
turbed by doubt ; its existence was as much an article 
of uncontested popular belief as Heaven or Hell. It 

Cb^. n. PUBQATORT. 225 

were as unjust and unphilosophical to attribute all the 
legendary lore which realized Purgatory, to the sordid 
inyention of the Churchman or the Monk, as it would 
be unhistorical to deny the use which was made of 
this superstition to exact tribute from the fears or the 
fondness of mankind. But the abuse grew out of the 
belief; the belief was not slowly, subtly, deUberately 
instilled into the mind for the sake of the abuse. Pur- 
gatory, possible with St. Augustine,^ probable with 
Grregory the Great, grew up, I am persuaded (its 
growth is singularly indistinct and untraceable), out 
of the mercy and modesty of the Priesthood, To the 
eternity of Hell torments there is and ever must be-<- 
notwithstanding the peremptory decrees of dogmatic 
dieology and the reverential dread in so many religious 
minds of tampering with what seems the language of 
the New Testament — a tacit repugnance. But when 
the doom of every man rested on the lips of the Priest, 
on his absolution or refusal of absolution, that Priest 
might well tremble with some natural awe — awe not 
confessed to himself — at dismissing the soul to an irrev- 
ocable, unrepealable, unchangeable destiny. He would 
not be averse to pronounce a more mitigated, a revers- 
ible sentence. The keys of Heaven and of Hell were 
a fearful trust, a terrible responsibility; the key of 
Purgatory might be. used with &r less presumption, 
with less trembling confidence. Then came naturally, 
as it might seem, the strengthening and exaltation of 
the efficacy of prayer, of the efficacy of the religious 
ceremonials, of the efficacy of the sacrifice of the altar, 
and the efficacy of the intercession of the Saints : and 
these all within the province, within the power of the 

1 De fide et oper., c 16. On Gregory, lee note, vol ii. p. 101. 
VOL. vni. 16 


Sacerdotal Order. Their authority, their inflaence, 
their intervention, closed not with the grave. The de- 
parted soul was still to a certain degree dependent upon 
the Priest. They had yet a mission, it might be of 
mercy ; they had still some power of saving the soul 
after it had departed from the body. Their &ithfu] 
love, their inexhaustible interest might yet rescue the 
sinner ; for he had not reached those gates — over 
which alone was written, " There is no Hope " — the 
gates of Hell. That which was a mercy, a consola- 
tion, became a trade, an inexhaustible source of wealth. 
Praying souls out of Purgatory by Masses said on their 
MMMfl. behalf, became an ordinary ofBce, an office 
which deserved, which could demand, which did de- 
mand, the most prodigal remuneration. It was later 
indoicrenoM. that the Indulgence, originally the remission 
of so much penance, of so many days, weeks, months, 
years ; or of that which was the commutation for pen- 
ance, so much almsgiving or munificence to churches or 
Churchmen, in sound at least extended (and mankind, 
the high and low vulgar of mankind, are governed by 
sound) its significance : it was literally understood, as 
the remission of so many years, sometimes centuries, of 

If there were living men to whom it had been vouch- 
safed to visit and to return and to reveal the secrets of 

1 Unde quibusdam in locis concedebantur tandem expresse indolgentijB 
a pand tt a culpd^ licet quidam snranii Pontifices absurdam censuisse vi- 
dentnr aliquas indulgentias a paen& €t a calp& esse nominandas, cam a solo 
Deo calpa deleatur; et indulgentia est remissio pcenn temporalis, . . . 
Unde quidam concessiones hujusmodi magis deceptiones quam indulgentia- 
ram concessiones intcrpretantes cum eas intentu lucri temporalis fieri jadi- 
cabant, dicere non timebant, anima nostra nauseat saper cibo levissimo.^^' 
GobelinoB Persona, p. 320. This was in Germany during the Schism, 
above a centoiy before Lather. 

Crap. n. HEAVEN. 227 

remote and terrible Hell, there were those too who 
were admitted in vision, or in actual life to more acces- 
sible Purgatory, and brought back intelligence of its 
real local existence, and of the state of souls within its 
penitential circles. There is a legend of St. Paul him- 
self; of the French monk St. Farcy; of Drithelm, 
related by Bede ; of the Emperor Charles the Fat, by 
William of Malmesbury. Matthew Paris relates two or 
three journeys of tlie Monk of Evesham, of Thurkill, 
an Essex peasant^ very wild and fantastic. The Pur- 
gatory of St. Patrick, the Purgatory of Owen Miles, 
the vision of Alberic of Monte Casino, were among the 
most popular and wide-spread legends of the ages pre- 
ceding Dante ; and as in Hell, so in Purgatory, Dante 
sums up in his noble verses the whole theory, the 
whole popular belief as to this intermediate sphere.^ 

If Hell and Purgatory thus dimly divulged their 
gloomy mysteries, if they had been visited by those 
who returned to actual life. Heaven was Hmwa. 
nnapproached, unapproachable. To be wrapt to the 

1 Vincent of Beanvais. See the carious Tolame of Mr. Wright, St Pat- 
rick's Purgatory, on Tundale, p. 32, &c. On Patrick's Purgatory in all its 
fbrmsi as sanctioned by Popes, and by the Bollandist writers, as it appears 
in Calderon's poetry, and as it is kept up by Irish popular superstition and 
priestcraft, Mr. Wright has collected many wild details. Papal authority, 
as shown by an Inscription in the cloister of St Andrea and St Gregorio 
in Rome, testifies to the fact, which, I suspect, would have startled St 
Gregoty himself, that he got a monk out of Purgatory at the expense of 
thirty masses. 

D. 0. H. 

ClemenB Papa X. 

Cnltum Glementiam YIIL tt Villi. 

Imitatus . . 

In hoc S. Gregorii Temptum. 

tTbi zxz miflris animam monaohi 

Bz Igne pQigatorio libentTit, fro. 

Copied by an accomplished friend of the aafhor. 


higher Heaven remained thcprivil^e of the Apoetle ; 
the popular conception was content to rest in modeat 
ignorance. Though the Saints might descend on benef- 
icent missions to the world of man ; of the site of their 
beatitude, of the state of the Blest, of the joys of the 
supernal world, they brought but vague and indefinite 
tidings. In truth, the notion of Heaven was inextri- 
cably mingled up with the astronomical and cosmogon^ 
ical as well as with the theological notions of the age. 
Dante's Paradise blends the Ptolemaic system with the 
nine angelic circles of the Pseudo Dionysius ; the ma- 
terial heavens in their nine circles ; above and beyond 
them, in the invisible heavens, the nine Hierarchies ; 
and yet higher than the highest heavens the dwelling 
of the Inei&ble Trinity. The Beatific Vision, whether 
immediate or to await the Last Day, had been eluded 
rather than determined, till the rash and presumptuous 
theology of Pope John XXH. compelled a declaration 
from the Church. But yet this ascent to the Heaven 
of Heavens would seem from Dante, the best intei^ 
preter of the dominant conceptions, to have been an 
especial privilege, if it may be so said, of the most 
Blessed of the Blessed, the Saint of Saints. There is 
a manifest gradation in Beatitude and Sanctity. Ac^ . 
cording to the universal cosmical theory, the Earth, the 
round and level earth, was the centre of the whole sys- 
tem.^ It was usually supposed to be encircled by the . 

^ The Eaf tern notions may be gathered from the curious Treatise of Cos- 
mas Indioopleustes, printed by Montfliacon, in his Collectio Nova. Cosmas 
wrote about a. d. 635. He is periiaps the earliest type of those who call 
themselves Scriptural Philosophers; with all the positiveness and con- 
temptuousness of ignorance, he proves that the heavens are a vault, from 
leaiah xi. 22; from Job, according to the LXX., and St. Paul's imaji:e of a 
Tabernacle. The second Prologue is to refute the notion that the earth is 
a sphere, — the antipodes, which at fint mn not ao diadainfmtty denied, Mtt 

obap. il hbavsk. 229 

TBstj circamambient) endless ocean ; bat beyond that 
ocean (with a dim reminiscence, it should seem, of the 
Elysian Fieldi of the poets) was placed a Paradise, 
where the souls of men hereafter to be blest, awaited 
the final resurrection* Dante takes the otlier theory : 
he peoples the nine material heavens -^ that is, the 
cycle of the Moon, Venus, Mercury, the Sun, Mars, 
Jupiter, Saturn, the fixed stars, and the firmament 
above, or the Primum Mobile — with those who are 
admitted to a progressively advancing state of glory 
and blessedness. All this, it should seem, is below the 
ascending circles of the Celestial Hierarchies, that im* 
mediate vestibule or fore-court of the Holy of HolieSt 
the Heaven of Heavens, into which the most perfect of 
the Saints are admitted. They are commingled with, 
yet unabsorbed by, the Redeemer, in mystic union ; 
yet the mysticism still reverently endeavors to maintain 

BOW term«d ypcaudeic /ivi^m : men would fall in opposite dinctionB. PandiM 
is beyond the circumfluent Ocean; souls are received in Paradise till tha 
last day (p. 316). He afterwards asserts the absolute incompatibility of the 
spherioal notion of the earth with the resurrection. He fiyes eevenl 
opinions, all of which, in his opinion, are equalh' wrong. 01 fttu k^ aiyrbif 
T^ ^X^ fj^oc f^Tii i&avaTW, nepinoXeveiv oihf ry a^tup^^ luH Spav ijroi 
yiyviiOKeiv navra Xiycvai' ol dk Koi fierevoufidTtiuiv poiiXovrat, koI irpopUh 
H^ uowu^m, olc Ka inercu Xiyetv k^ Lnokav&iai Mrakbefr&ai r^v a^pav. 
The heavens are indissoluble, and all spiritualized bodies are to ascend to 
heaven. He gets rid of the strong passages about the heavens passing 
away, as meta]Aora (this in others he treated as absurd or impious). He 
dcniea the authenticity of the Catholic Epistlea. 

It is remarkable that what I presume to call the Angelology of thia 
Treatise shows it to be earlier than the Pseudo-Dionysius ; that work can- 
not have been known to Cosmas. One office of the Angels is to move — 
they are the perpetual movers of, the Sun, Moon, and Stars. After the 
Last day, the stars, sun, and moon being no more wanted, the Angels will 
be released from their duty, p. 164. The Angels carry the rain up fVom 
heaven into the clouds, and so manage the stars as to cause Eclipses. 
These are guardian Angela. The Angels de not aaoend above the atars, 
p. 316. 


gome distinction in regard to this Light, which, as it 
has descended upon earth, is drawn up again to the 
highest Heavens, and has a kind of communion with 
the yet Incommunicable Deity. That in all the Par- 
adise of Dante there should be a dazzling sameness, a 
mystic indistinctness, an inseparable blending of the 
real and the unreal, is not wonderful, if we consider 
the nature of the subject, and the still more incoherent 
and incongruous popular conceptions which he had to 
represent and to harmonize. It is more wonderful that, 
with these few elements. Light, Music, and Mysticism, 
he should, by his singular talent of embodying the 
purely abstract and metaphysical thought in the live- 
liest imagery, represent such things with the most ob- 
jective truth, yet without disturbing their fine spirit- 
ualism. The subtilest scholasticism is not more subtile 
than Dante. It is perhaps a bold assertion, but what 
is there on these transcendent subjects, in the vast the- 
ology of Aquinas, of which the essence and sum is not 
in the Paradise of Dante? Dante, perhaps, though 
expressing to a great extent the popular conception of 
Heaven, is as much by his innate sublimity above it, as 
St. Thomas himself.^ 

1 Bead the Anglo-Saxon description of Paradise, from the de Phcenioe, 
ascribed to Lactantios, in the Exeter book by Thoipe, p. 197. 

I am disposed to cite a description of Paradise according to its ordinaiy 
oonception, almost the only possible conception — life without any of its 
evils — from a Poet older than Chancer: — 

There Is lyf withoate ony deth. 
And ther is youthe withonts ony elde, 
And ther Is elle manner welth to welde : 
And ther is reete without ony trarsUle — 
And ther Is pees withont ony itrilbf 
And ther is alle mannere likynge of Ulb — 
And ther it bright somer ever to be : 
And tber is nerere wynter in that enntree: 

C&4F. a HEAVEN. 231 

And fh«r is mon wonhipe and honour, 
Thfta eTW hadde kynge other emperonr. 
And ther la greter melodee of annfelM aoofa, 
And ther it preydng him amonge. 
And thar ia aUe nuner Mendahipe that mfj be, 
And ther ia erere perfect lore and chaiitle ; 
And ther ia wisdom withont Iblye : 
And ther la honeate without Tilenage. 
All theae a man may Joyea of Herene call, 
Ae yatte the moat aorereign Joye of alle 
la the aight of Goddea bright ftoe, 
In whom reateth alle manere grace. 

BitkmH qf BBUf^oU, quoted from M8S. by Turner. Hlat. of Sni^aad, t. SBB^ 

232 lATm CHBISTIANnT. BookHV. 



Latin Chbistianity might seem to prolong, to per- 
utin letters, petuate, the reign of Latin letters over the 
mind of man. Without Christianity, the language of 
Cicero, of Virgil, and of Tacitus, might have expired 
with the empire of Julius, of Augustus, and of Tra- 
jan. At the German invasion it must have broken up 
into barbarous and shifting dialects, as the world into 
barbarous and conflicting kingdoms. But as the lan- 
guage of religion, it continued to be the language of 
letters, for letters were almost entirely confined to those 
who alone could write books or read books, religious 
men. Through the clergy, the secretaries as it were 
of mankind, it was still the language of business, of 
law, of public affiiirs, of international treaties and pri- 
vate compacts, because it was the only common lan- 
guage, and because the ecclesiastics, the masters of 
that language, were from this and from causes already 
traced, the ministers of kings, the compilers of codes 
of law, mostly the notaries of all more important 
transactions. It only broke down gradually ; it never, 
though defaced by barbarisms and foreign terms and 
forms of speech, by changing grammar and by the 
sfaintAiiMd introduction of new words, fell into desue- 
luity. tude. It even just before its abrogation re- 


rived in something approaching to purity, and resumed 
within its own, and that no narrow sphere, its old e^ 
tablished authority. The period at which Latin ceased 
to be the spoken language, in which the preacher ad- 
dressed his flock, the magistrate the commonalty, the 
demagogue the populace, was of course different in dif» 
ferent countries, especially in the Romance and Teu- 
tonic divisions of mankind. This may hereafter be the 
subject of very difficult, obscure, it must be feared^ 
unsatis&ctory inquiry. 

But if Latin was the language of public affairs, it 
was even more exclusively so that of letters. Not only 
all theologians, for a time all poets (at least those whose 
poetry was written}, still longer all historians, to the 
end all philosophers, wrote in Latin. Christian liter- 
ature however arose, not only when Latin letters had 
passed their meridian, but after their short day of glory 
and strength had sunk into exhaustion. The univeiv 
sal empire of Rome had been fatal to her letters. 
Few, indeed, of her best early writers had been Roman 
by birth ; but they were Italians, and submitted to the 
spell of Roman ascendency. Even under the Emper- 
ors, Graul and Spain began to furnish Latin poets and 
writers : for a short time Rome subdued them to the 
rules of her own grammar and the purer usages of her 
speech. But in the next century Latin letters, except* 
ing only among the great jurisprudents, seem almost 
to have given place to Greek. They awoke again pro- 
foundly corrupt ; the barbariadng Augustan historians 
sink into the barbarous Ailimianus Marcellinus. Africa 
becomes a prolific but dissonant school of heathen and 
of Christian writers ; ft*om some of the Panegyrists, 
who were Gallic rhetoricians, low enough in style, the 


&11 is rapid and extreme to Hilary of Poitiers. Yet 
even in this respect Latin owes its vitality, and almost 
its Latinity, to Christian writers. Augustine and Je- 
rome, though their Latin is very different from that of 
Livy or of Cicero, have a kind of dexterous manage- 
ment, a vigorous mastery, and a copiousness of lan- 
guage, unrivalled in their days. Sulpicius Sevcnis 
sui*passes in style any later historical work; Salvian 
is better than the Panegyrists. The Octavius of Mi- 
nucius Felix has more of the older grace and correct- 
ness than any treatise of the day. Heathenism, or 
Indifierentism, strangely enough, kept up the Pagan 
supremacy in poetry alone ; Claudian, and even the 
few lines of Merobaudes, stand higher in purity, as 
in the life, of poetry, than all the Christian hexam- 

Latin letters, therefore, having become the absolute 
exclusive property of the clergy, theology, of course, 
took the first place, and almost absorbed into itself 
every other branch of literature. Oratory was that of 
the pulpit, philosophy was divinity in another form. 
Even poetry taught theology, or at its highest cele- 
brated the holy exploits of hermits or monks, of saints 
and martyrs ; and so it was through centuries, theology 
once having assumed, held its unshaken supremacy over 

But at the time of Nicolas V. became manifest the 
great revolution within Latin Christianity itself, which 
was eventually to be fatal, at least to her universal 
Behoiuti- dominion. The great system of scholastic 
•*~- theology, the last development of that exclu- 

sive Hierarchical science, which had swallowed up all 
other sciences, of which philosophy was but a subject 


province, and dialectics an humble instrument, found 
itseli^, instead of the highest knowledge and the sole 
consummate dictatorial learning of the world, no more 
than the retired and self-exiled study of a still decreas- 
ing few, the professional occupation of a small section 
of the reading and inquiring world. Its empire had 
visibly passed away — its authority was shaken. In 
its origin, in its objects, in its style, in its immeasur- 
able dimensions, in its scholasticism in short, this all- 
ruling Theology had been monastic ; it had grown up 
in cloisters and in schools. There, men of few wants, 
and those wants supplied by rich endowments, in the 
dignity which belonged to the acknowledged leading 
intellects of the age, could devote to such avocations 
their whole undisturbed, undivided lives — lives, at 
least, in which nothing interfered with the quiet, mo- 
notonous, undistracting religious services. But Theol- 
ogy, before it would give up its tenacious hold on 
letters, must become secular ; it must emancipate itself 
from scholasticism, from monasticism. It was not till 
after that first revolution that the emancipation of let- 
tefs from theology was to come. 

Our history, before it closes, must survey the im- 
mense, and, notwithstanding its infinite variety and 
complexity of detail, the harmonious edifice of Latin 
theology.^ We must behold its strife, at times success- 

1 That survey must of necessity be rapidi and, as rapid, imperfect ; nor 
can I boast any extensive or profound acquaintance with these ponderous 
tomes. The two best guides which I have been able to find (both have 
read, studied, profited by .their laborious predece89ors) are Ritter, in the 
Tolumes of his Christliche Philosophic, which embrace this part of his his- 
t4iiry; and an excellent Treatise by M. Haureau, de la Philosophie Scolas- 
tique M^moire Couronn^ par T Academic, 2 tomes, Paris, 1850. 

In England we have no guide. Dr. Hampden, who, from his article in 
&e Encyclopaedia Metropolitana, on Thomas Aquinas, promised to be the 


fill, always obstinate, with philosophy — its active and 
skilful employment of the weapons of philosophy, of 
dialectics, against their master — its constant effort to 
be at once philosophy and theology ; the irmption of 
Aristotelianism and of the Arabic philosophy, of which 
the Church did not at first apprehend all the peril* 
OQS results, and in her pride supposed that she might 
bind to her own service ; the culmination of the whole 
system in the five great schoolmen, Albert the Greats 
Thomas Aquinas, Bonaventura, Duns Scotus, William 
of Ockham. All this scholasticism was purely Latin 
— no Teutonic element entered into the controversies 
of the philosophizing theologians. In England, in Ger- 
many, the schools and the monasteries were Latin ; the 
disputants spoke no other tongue. The theology which 
aspired to be philosophy would not condescend to, could 
not indeed as yet have found expression in the unde- 
veloped vulgar languages.^ 

Our history has already touched on the remoter 
ancestors of the Scholastic theology, on the solitary 
Scotus Erigena, who stands as a lonely beacon in his 
dark and turbulent times, and left none, or but remote^ 
followers. The philosophy of Erigena was what the 
empire of Charlemagne had been, a vast organizatioo, 
out of the wreck of which rose later schools. He was 
by anticipation or tradition (from him Berengar, as has 
been shown, drew his rationalizing Eucharistic system), 
by his genius, by his Greek or Oriental acquirements, 
by his translation of the Pseudo-Dionysius, a Platonist, 

English historian of this remarkable chapter in th« history of the human 
mind, has sunlc ipto a qniet Bishop. 

1 Die Philosophie des Mittelalters gehort nicht der Zeiten an wo das 
Deutsche i£lement die Herrschaft hatte, sie ist rorhenchend Romaniaohe 
Nator. — Bitter, p.37. 


or more than a Platonist ; at length by his own fearless 
fiithoming onwards into unknown depths, a Pantheist. 
We have dwelt on Anselm, in our judgment the real 
parent of mediaBval theology — of that theology, which 
at the same time that it lets loose the reason, reins it in 
with a strong hand ; on the intellectual insurrection, 
too, under Ab^lard, and its suppression. Anselm's 
lofty enterprise, the reconciliation of divinity and phi* 
loeophy, had been premature ; it had ended in failure.^ 
Ab^lard had been compelled to submit his rebellious 
philosophy at the feet of authority. His fate for a 
time, to outward appearance at least, crushed the bold 
truths which lay hid in his system. Throughout the 
subsequent period theology and philosophy are contest- 
ing occasionally the bounds of their separate domains 
— bounds which it was impossible to mark with vigor 
and precision. Metaphysics soared into the realm of 
Theology; Theology when it came to Ontology, to 
reason on the being of God, could not but be meta* 
physical. At the same time, or only a few years later 
dian Aboard, a writer, by some placed on a level, or 
even raised to superiority, as a philosophical thinker 
orer Ab^Iard, Gilbert de la Por^e, through the ab- 
struseness, perhaps obscurity of his teaching, the dig- 
nity of his position as Bishop, and his blameless charac- 
ter, was enabled to tread this border ground, if not 
without censure, without persecution. 

But below that transciendental region, in which the 
mind treated of Being in the abstract, of the primary 
elements of thought, of the very first conception of 
God, Theology, in her proper sphere, would not endure 

1 L^entreprise de S. Anselme avait ^hou^; penonne n^ayait pa concilier 
Wi pbilorapbie et la th^ologie. — Haareau, i. p. 818. 


the presence of her dangerous rival. Theology, rightly 
so called, professed to be primarily grounded on the 
Scriptures, but on the Scriptures interpreted, com- 
mented on, supplemented by a succession of writers 
(the Fathers), by decrees of Councils, and what was 
called the authority of the Church. The ecclesiastical 
law had now taken the abbreviated form of a code, 
rather a manual, under Ivo of Chartres. So Theology 
was to be cast into short authoritative sentences, which 
might be at once the subject and the rule of contro- 
versy, the war-law of the schools. If Philosophy pre- 
sumed to lay its profane hands on these subjects, it was 
warned off as trespassing on the. manor of the Church. 
Logic might lend its humble ministrations to prove in 
syllogistic form those, canonized truths ; if it proceeded 
further, it became a perilous and proscribed weapon. 

Peter the Lombard was, as it were, the Euclid of 
this science. His sentences were to be the irrefragable 
axioms and definitions from which were to be deduced 
all the higher and more remote truths of divinity ; on 
them the great theological mathematicians built what 
appeared their infallible demonstrations. 

Peter the Lombard was born near Novara, the 
Peter the native place of Lanfranc and of Anselm. 
Lombard. jj^ ^^g fiishop of Parfs in 1159. His fer 
mous book of the Sentences was intended to be, and 
became to a great extent, the Manual of the Schools. 
Peter knew not, or disdainfully threw aside, the philo- 
sophical cultivation of his day. He adhered rigidly to 
all which passed for Scripture, and was the authorized 
interpretation of the Scripture, to all which had bo- 
come the creed in the traditions, and law in the decre- 
tals, of the Church. He seems to have no apprehen- 

Cbap. m. PETER THE LOMBARD. 239 

sion of doubt in his stern dogmatism ; he will not 
recognize any of the difficulties suggested by philoso- 
phy ; he cannot, or will not, perceive the weak points 
of his own system. He has the great merit that, op- 
posed as he was to the prevailing Platonism, through- 
out the Sentences the ethical principle predominates ; 
his excellence is perspicuity, simplicity, definiteness of 
moral purpose. His distinctions are endless, subtile, 
idle ; but he wrote from conflicting authorities to rec- 
oncile writers at war with each other, at war with 
themselves. Their quarrels had been wrought to in- 
tentional or unintentional antagonism in the '^ Sic et 
Non " of Ab^lard. That philosopher, whether Pyr- 
ifaonist or more than Pyrrhonist, had left them in all 
the confusion of strife ; he had set Fathers against 
Fathers, each Father against himself, the Church 
against the Church, tradition against tradition, law 
against law. The Lombard announced himself and 
was accepted as the mediator, the final arbiter in this 
endless litigation ; he would sternly fix the positive, 
proscribe the negative or sceptical view in all these 
questions. The litigation might still go on, but within 
the limits which he had rigidly established ; he had de- 
termined those ultimate results against which there was 
no appeal. The mode of proof might be interminably 
contested in the schools ; the conclusion was already 
irrefragably fixed. On the sacramental system Peter 
the Lombard is loftily, severely hierarchical. Yet he 
is moderate on the power of the keys : he holds only a 
declaratory power of binding and loosing — of showing 
how the souls of men were to be' bound and loosed.^ 

1 Non aatem hoc saoerdotibas concessit, quibns tamen tribnit potestatem 
lolvendi et ligandi, t. e. ostendendi homines ligatos vel solutos, quoted by 



240 LATIN CDBISTU^'ny. Book XIV. 

From the hard and arid system of Peter the Lom- 
bard the profound devotion of the Middle Ages took 
refuge in Mysticism. But it is an error to suppose 
Mysticism as the perpetual antagonist of Scholasticism ; 
the Mystics were often severe Liogicians ; the Scholas- 
tics had all the passion of Mystics. Nor were the 
Scholastics always Aristotelians and Nominalists, or 
the Mystics, Realists and Platonists. The logic was 
often that of Aristotle, the philosophy that of Plato. 
Hugo and Richard de St. Victor (the Abbey of St. 
Victor at Paris) were the great Mystics of this period. 
The mysticism of Hugo de St. Victor withdrew the 
contemplator altogether from the outward to the inner 
world — from God in the works of nature to God in 
his workings on the soul of man. This contemplation 
of God, the consummate perfection of man, is immedi* 
ate, not mediate. Through the Angels and the Celes- 
tial Hierarchy of the Areopagite it aspires to one God, 
not in his Theophany, but in his inmost essence. All 
ideas and forms of things are latent in the human soul, 
as in God, only they are manifested to the soul by its 
own activity, its meditative power. Yet St. Victor is 
not exempt from the grosser phraseology of the Mystic 
— the tasting God, and other degrading images from 
the senses of men. The ethical system of Hugo do 
Hugo de St. Victor is that of the Church, more free 
St. victor. ^^^ j^f^y ^YisLU the dry and barren discipline 

of Peter Lombard:' it looks to the end and object, 

Ritter, p. 499. Ritter's account of the Lombard appears to me, as compared 
with the Book of Sentences, so just and sagacious, that I have adopted im* 
plicitly his conclusions, to a certain extent his words. 

1 Contemplatio est ilia rivacitas intelligentife, qu» concta palam Patris 
iiiaiufe8t& viaione oompieheiidit — >H. In Eedea. i. p. 55, quoted bj Rit- 
t0r,p. 688. 


not merely to the punctilious performance of Church 
works. Richard de St. Victor was at once mehird at 
more logical and more devout, raising higher ^^ ^'***"" 
at once the unassisted power of man, yet with even 
more supernatural interf*erence — less ecclesiastical, 
more religious.^ Thus the silent, solemn cloister was 
as it were constantly balancing the noisy and pugna- 
cious school. The system of the St. Victors is the 
contemplative philosophy of deep-thinking minds in 
their profound seclusion, not of intellectual gladiator»: 
it is that of men following out the train of their own 
thoughts, not perpetually crossed by the objections of 
subtle rival disputants. Its end is not victory, but the 
inward satisfiiction .of the soul. It is not so much 
conscious of ecclesiastical restraint, it is rather self- 
restrained by its inborn reverence; it has no doubt, 
therefore no fear ; it is bold from the inward conscious- 
ness of its orthodoxy. 

John of Salisbury, though he professed to be of the 
school of the St. Victors^ had something of j^^^ ^ 
the practical English character. He was far 8»>tobary. 
less of a Monk, more of an observant man of the 
world. The Mystic was lost in the high churchman. 
He was the right hand and counsellor of Becket, 
though, Kke Becket, he says hard things of the Pope 
and of Rome ; he was the inflexible assertor of the 
rights of the Church. John has the fullest &ith in the 
theological articles of the Church, with some academic 
scepticism on the philosophic questions. John was 
neither of the cloister nor of the school : he has some- 

1 Ritter has drawn the distinction between these two writers with great 
eUll and nicety. 

yoLn VIII. 16 


thing of the statesman, even something of the natural 

Scholastic philosophy has no great name during the 
last quarter of the twelfth to the middle of the thir- 
teenth century. But during this barren and mute 
period came gradually and silently stealing in, from an 
unobserved unsuspected quarter, new views of knowl- 
edge, new metaphysical modes of thought, which went 
up into the primal principles of theology ; dialectic 
processes, if not new, more perfect. Greek books, as 
yet unknown, are now in the hands of the studious ; 
works of Aristotle, either entirely lost for centuries, or 
imperfectly known in the abstracts of Augustine, of 
Boethius, and Martianus Capella. It was from the 
Arabic language, from the godless and accursed Mo- 
hammedans, that Christendom received tliese inauspi- 
cious gifts. 

This Mohammedan, or Graeco-Mohammedan philo»» 
ophy, was as far removed from the old stem inflexible 
Unitarianism of the Kor&n as the Kor&n from the Gos- 
pel. Philosophy was in truth more implacably oppug* 
nant, a more flagrant heresy to Islam than to mediaeval 
Christianity. Islam, like Christianity, the Latin hie- 
rarchical Christianity, had its Motakhelim, its higb 
churchmen ; Its Sufis, its mystic monks ; its Maatizali, 
its heretics or dissidents : its philosophers, properly so 
called, its Aristotelians. But the philosophic schools 
of Islam were as much or more foreign to the general 
Mohammedan mind than the scholastic oligarchy of 
Christendom to that of Western Europe. In the gen- 
eral estimation they were half or more than half heret- 
ical, the intellectual luxuries of splendid Courts and 


Caliphs, who were, at least, no longer rigid Islamists.^ 
It was not, as in Europe, the philosophy of a great 

Of all curious chapters in the history of the human 
mind, none is more singular than the growth, j^^^^^^ 
progress, and influence of the Arabo-Aristo- P*>"o«>p»»y- 
telian philosophy.^ Even in the second century after 
the Hegira, more fully in the third, this science found 
its way among the Mohammedans of Syria. Aft;er 
having made its circuit, five or six centuries later it 
came out again in Spain, and from the schools of Cor- 
dova entered into the Universities of France and Italy. 
In both cases it was under the same escort, that of 
medicine, that it subjugated in turn Islam and Christi- 
anity. Physicians were its teachers in Damascus and 
Bagdad, in Paris and Auxerre. 

The Arabians in their own country, in their free 
wild life, breathing the desert air, ever on horseback, 
had few diseases or only diseases peculiar to their 
habits. With the luxuries, the repose, the indolence, 
the residence in great cities, the richer diet of civiliza- 
tion, they could not avoid the maladies of civilization. 
They were obliged to call in native science to their aid. 
Ab in their buildings, their coinage, and most hand- 
icraft works, they employed Greek or Syrian art, so 

1 Mahomet is made to prophesy in as stem language as the fiercest 
Catholic. Hon ^glise sera divis^e en pins de soixantedix sectes : il n*y a 
qa^une qni sera sauy^e, Ics autres iront k I'enfer; or ce qu'il a pr^dit, est 
arrir^. — Schmolders, p. 89. 

* On ne pourra parler d'nne philosophie Arahe dans le sens strict da mot 
.... On n*entend dire antre chose qne la Philosophie Grecqne, telle que 
lea Arabes la cultivaient — Schmolders, Essai snr les Ecoles Philosophi- 
)aei des Arabes, p. 41. 


" Grada capta ferma Tktoram oeplt.** 


medicino was introduced and cultivated among them 
by Syrians, Greeks, and Jews, They received thoae 
useful strangers not only with tolerant respect, but with 
high and grateftil honor. The strangers brought with 
them not only their medioat treatises, the works of 
Hfppocrates and Galen, and besides these the Alexan- 
drian astronomy, which developed itself in the general 
Asiatic mind into astrology ;^ but at length also and 
by degrees the whole Greek philosophy, the Neo-Pla- 
tonism of Alexandria and the Aristotelian dialectics of 
Greece. The assertors of the one Book, the destroyers 
9S they are said to have been of all books but that on«ti 
became authors so prolific, not in poetry alone, their 
old pride and delight, but in the infinite variety and 
^nonnous mass of their philosophic treatises, as to equal 
if not surpass the vast and almost incalcvilable volumes 
of Scholastic divinity .^ 

As in Syria of old, so now in France and other parts 
of Christendom, Philosophy stole in under the protec- 
tion of medicine. It was as physicians that the famoua 
Arabian philosophers, as well as some Jews, acquired 
unsuspected fame and authority. There is not a pbn 
losopher who has not some connection with medicine, 
nor a physician who has not some connection with phjp- 

1 Diese Aosicht der Dinge, welche das Geschehen anf der Erde mit den 
Bewegungen des Himmels in einen physischen Zasammenhang bringt, i»t 
ein characteristischer Zng, welcher darch alle Lehre der Arabischen Aristo- 
telischer hindurch geht. Wenn auch schon vor ihnen Astrologische Lehren 
auf die Philosophie einen Einfloss geiibt batten, so bildeten doch die zuerat 
die Astrolbgie zu einem philosophischen Systeuie aus. — Ritter, viii. p. 161. 
The Astrolog;)' of the Middle Ages no doubt owes much to and is a sign of 
the prevalence of the Arabic philosophy. 

' La masse des pr^tendus Philosophes est si grande, leurs oavrages Bont 
num^riqaement si prodigieux, que toute la Scholastique est bien pauirre en 
oomparaison des Arabes. — Schmolders. HaA this learned author calculated 
or weighed the volumea of the SchoolineQ ? 


lo6opby. The translators of the most famous philos^ 
ophers, of Averrhoes and Avicenna, were physicians { 
metaphysics only followed in the train of physiciil 

The Graeco- Arabic philosophy worked into the sy^ 
tem of the schools in two diflFerent modes: — I. The 
introduction of works of Aristotle, either unknown or 
now communicated in a more perfect form. II. The 
Arabic philosophy, which had now grown to its height 
under the Abbasside Caliphs in the East, Almanzolf^ 
Haroun al Raschid, Motakem,^ and under the Ommn 
ades in Spain. The Eastern school, afbet Alghazil and 
Fakhreddin Rhazis, had culminated in Avicenna th9 
Western in Averrhoes* Schools had arisen in Cor- 
dova, Seville, Toledo, Grenada, Xativa, Valencia, Muf* 
cia, Almeria. Averrhoes had an endless race of suc- 

Profound, it might seem almost impenetrable dark^ 
. ness, covered the slow, silent interpenetration ArWoteito* 
rf both these influences into the Christian ^^"^^^ 
schools. How, through what channels, did Aristotld 
rise to his ascendency ? to what extent were the School- 
men acquainted with the works of the Arabian philod^ 
Ophers ? The first at least of these questions has found 
a satisfitctory solution.^ During all the earlier periodf 

i Bitter, p. 676. 

s The Nestorian Charches in Persia a&d Khorasan w6te iostmment&l tb 
the progress of philosophizing Islamism. 

s This question has been, if I may so saj, judicially detefmined by M. 
Jourdain, necherches Critiques sur TAge et TOrigine des TradactiohA La- 
tines d'Aristote, new edition, revised by his son, Paris, 1^43. These ar6 thS 
general conclusions of M. Jourdain : I. That the only works of Aristotlil 
known in the West until the twelfth century were the Treatises on Logie, 
which compose the Organon. (The Analytics, Topics, and Sophistic Refu- 
tations are more rarely cited.) II. That from the date of the following 


from Anselm and Ab^lard to the time of Albert the 
Great, from the eleventh to the thirteenth century, 
the name of Aristotle was great and authoritative in 
the West, but it was only as the teacher of logic, as the 
master of Dialectics. Even this logic, which may be 
traced in the darkest times, was chiefly known in a 
secondary form, through Augustine, Boethius^ and the 
Isagoge of Porphyry ; at the utmost, the Treatises 
which form the Organon, and not the whole of these, 
were known in the Church. It was as dangerously 
proficient in the Aristotelian logic, as daring to sub- 
mit theology to the rules of Dialectics, that Abdlard 
excited the jealous apprehensions of St. Bernard.' 
Throughout the intermediate period, to Gilbert de la 
Poree, to the St. Victors, to John of Salisbury, to 
Alain de Lille, to Adelard of Bath, Aristotle was the 
logician and no more.^ Of his Morals, his Metaphysics, 
his Physics, his Natural History, there is no knowl- 
edge whatever. His fame as a great, universal phiios* 
opher hardly lived, or lived only in obscure and doubt- 
ful tradition. 

On a sudden, at the beginning of the thirteenth cen- 
tury, there is a cry of terror from the Church, in the 
centre of the most profound theological learning of the 

century, the other parts of his philosophj were translated into Latin. IIL 
That of those Translations some were from a Greek, some from an Arabic 
text M. Jourdain fairly examines and states the names of former writers 
on the subject, — Brucker, Tiedemann, Buhle, Tenneman, Heeren. 

^ On the books translated by Boethlus and the earlier Translations, Jonr- 
dain, pp. 30, 62, &c. 

' See vol. iv. B. viii. c. 5. Compnre Jourdain, p. 34. Ab^lard confesses 
his ignorance of the Physics and Metaphysics. Qusb quidem open ipsios 
nuUus adhuc translata lingus Latinte aptavit: ideoque minus natura eorum 
nobis est cognita. — Abelard. Oper. loed. p. 200. 

* The name of Aristotle is not to be found in Peter the Lombard. — Jour- 
dain, 28. 


Church, the University of Paris, and the cry is the ir- 
refragable witness to the influence of what was vaguely 
denounced as the philosophy of Aristotle. It is not 
now presumptuous Dialectics, which would submit the- 
ological truth to logi(.'al system, but philosophical the- 
ories, directly opposed to the doctrines of the Church ; 
•the clamor is loud against certain fatal books ^ but 
newly brought into the schools.* Simon of Toumay,* 
accused of utter infidelity, may have employed the 
perilous weapons of Dialectics to perplex his hearers 
and confiite his adversaries ; but he was also arraigned 
as having been led into his presumptuous tenets by the 
study of the Physics and Metaphysics of Aristotle. 
The heresies of Amaury de Bene, and of David of Di- 
nant, were traced by the theologians of Paris to the 
same fertile source of evil. An exhumation of the re- 
mains of Amaury de Bene, who, though suspected, had 
been buried in consecrated ground, was followed by a 
condemnation of his followers, the teachers of these 
dreaded opinions. Some were degraded and made over 
to the secular arm (to the State), some to perpetual 

1 These books are said by the continuator of Rigord, William the Bret- 
on, to have contained the Metaphysics of Aristotle ; and in two other writ- 
ers of the period, in Cssar of Heisterbach, and Hugh the Continuator of 
the Chronicle of Auxerre, to have been the Physics. The Decree for burn- 
ing the books (see below) determines the point. 

s Crevier, t. i. p. 8dS, or rather Du Boulay, asserted that these books had 
been brought from Constantinople about 1167, and translated into Latin. 
M. Jourdain, Note, p. 46, has shown the inaccuracy of this statement. 

s Simon of Toumay delivered with wonderful applause a Lecture, in 
which be explained or proved all the great Mysteries of religion by the 
Aristotelic process. *'Stay," he closed his Lecture; "to-morrow I will 
utterly confute all that I have proved to-day by stronger arguments.** He 
was struck on that morrow with apoplexy, and lost his speech. — Crevier, i. 
p. 309. It should seem that Simon de Toumay was rather an expert dia- 
lectician than an inquiring philosopher. 


imprisonment. There was a solemn prohibition against 
the reading and copying of these books ; all the books 
which could be seized were burned.^ Six years after, 
Robert de Cour^on, the Papal Legate, interdicted the 
reading of the Physics and Metaphysics of Aristotle in 
the schools of Paris.* A milder decree of Gregory IX. 
ordered that they should not be used till they had been< 
corrected by the theologians of the Church ; yet two 
years before this Gregory had fulminated a violent Bull 
against the presumption of those who taught the Chris- 
tian doctrine rather according to the rules of Aristotle 
than the traditions of the Fathers,^ against the pro&ne 
usage of mingling up philosophy with Divine revela* 
tion. But the secret of all this terror and perplexity 
of the Church was not that the pure and more rational 
philosophy of Aristotle was revealed in the schools ; 
the evil and the danger more clearly denounced were 
in the Arabian Comment, which, inseparable from the 
Arabo-Latin translation, had formed a system fimitftd 
of abuse and error.^ 

1 All kinds of incongruoas chaTges were heaped on the memory of Am- 
aniy de Bene : he was an Albigensian, believed in the Eternal Qospel. 

s See the Decree of the Archbishop of Sens and the Council, unknown to 
Lannoi and earlier authors, Martene, Nov. Thes. Anec. iv. 1S6. Corpoa 
ICagistri Amaarici extrahatur a cemeterio et projiciatur in terram non bene- 
dictam et idem excommunicetur per omnes ecdesias totios prorinciflB. A 
list of names follows, isti degradentur, penitus ssBculari curiao reliquendi ; 
another list, perpetuo careen mancipandi. The Books of David de Dinant 
are to be burned, nee libri Aristotelis de NahtraU Philosophia, nee Com' 
menta legantur Parisiis publice vel secreto. 

' Non legantur libri Aristotelis de Metaphysics et Natural! PhiloeophiS 
nee summa de eisdem, aut de doctrin& Mag. David de Dinant, ant Almerid 
heretici, aut Mauritii Hi»pan. — Stat. Univ. Par. 

* On voit dans ces trois condamnations nne diminution successive da 
s<$r^rit^. La premiere est la plus rigoureufse, les autres s'en vout s'adou- 
dssant Crevier blames this mildness, p. 312. 


The heresy of Amaury de Bene, and that of David 
de Dinant, was Pantheism.^ The Creator and the 
Creation were but one ; all flowed from God, all was 
to be reabsorbed in God — a doctrine not less irrecon- 
cilable with genuine Aristotelism tlian with the doc- 
trine of the Church.2 But the greater Schoolmen of 
the next period aspired, with what success it may be 
doubted, to the nobler triumph of subjugating Aristo- 
telism to the science of Theology, not the logical science 
only, but the whole range of the Stagirite's philosophy.' 
It was to be an obsequious and humble, though honored 
ally, not a daring rival ; they would set free, yet at the 
same time bind its stubborn spirit in their firm grasp, 
to more than amity, to perfect harmony. 

Albert the Great, in his unbounded range of knowl- 
edge, comprehends the whole metaphysical, moral, 
physical, as well as logical system of Aristotle.^ He 
had read all, or, with but few unimportant exceptions, 
his whole works. He had read them in Latin, some 
translated directly from the Greek, some from the 
Arabic ; some few had been translated from the Arabic 
into Hebrew, and from the Hebrew into the Latin. 
Those which came through the Arabic retain distinct 
and undeniable marks of their transmission — Arabic 
words, especially words untranslated, Arabic idioms, 
and undeniable vestiges of the Arabic vowel system.* 

1 Roger Bacon noiu apprend que ron s^opposa long temps ^ Paris a la 
philosophie naturelle et k la m^taphysique d'Aristote eayxneespar Avicenni 
€t Averroes; ceux qui 8*en servaient furent excommuni^s. — P. 194. Se« 
the following quotation from Roger Bacon, and the whole passage. 

' See the sources of their doctrines, Jourdain, p. 196. 

* See in Jourdain the works cited by William Bishop of Paris, who died 
1848. — P. 31. 

^ Works q^pted by Albert the Great also, p. 82. 

* Jamais une version d^riv^e d'un texte Arabe ne pr^senta, fid^lemcnt 


These versions from the Arabic came : I. From Spain 
and from Spanish scholars in the Soath of France, at 
Marseilles, Montpellier, Toulouse. II. From Sicily, 
where Frederic II. had fostered Arabic learning, and 
had encouraged translations from that toncrue. Under 
his auspices the femous Michael Scott had translated, 
at least, the books of Natural History.^ Besides these 
some had come through the Hebrew ; the great age of 
Jewish philosophy, that of Aben-Esi*a, Maimonides, 
and Kimchi, had been conteniporaneoui with tlie later 
Spanish school of Arabic philosophy. There had been 
an intercommunion or rivalry in the cultivation of the 
whole range of philosophy. The translations from the 
Greek were as yet few, imperfect, inaccurate.^ The 
greater Thomas Aquinas has the merit of having en- 
couraged and obtained a complete translation of the 
works of Aristotle directlv from tlie Greek.^ The 
cultivation of Greek had never entirely ceased in the 
West. After Scotus Erigena and Adelard of Bath 

orthographic, an mot qui aiura passC par rintermediaire de TArabe, langOA 
oil la prononciation n'est regime que par lea points diacritiqaes qui son! 
rarement bien places. Souvent aussi les traducteurs ne connaissant pas la 
valear d'un ternie l^ont laisse en Arabe. — Jourdain, p. 19. See the whole 
passage, and also p. 37. 

1 On the translation by M. Scott, from the Arabic, not through the He- 
brew, Jourdain, p. 124, et seq.^ and Herman Alemannus, with whom the 
older Herman Contractus (the Lame) has been confounded. — Jourdain, p. 

3 Among the earliest Translations from the Greek was the Nicomacheaa 
Ethics, by no less a man than Robert Grostdte, Bishop of Lincoln. M. 
Jourdain satisfactorily proves this remarkable fact — P. 59, tt uq, 

' Scripsit etiam super philosophiam naturalem et moralem et super meta* 
physicam, quorum librorum procuravit ut tieret nova translatio quae* sen- 
tentiie Aristotelis contineret clarius veritatem. — Tocco. ViU C. Th. Aquin. 
Act. SS. March. On sait que ce fut par les conseils et les soins de S. 
Thomas d' Aquin que fut faite une traduction Latine d' Ari8t(>te. — Tenne- 
man, Manuel, French Translation. 


trayelled in the East, these casual and interrupted 
communications grew into more regular and constant 
intercourse. But now the Latin conquest of Constan- 
tinople had made Eastern and Western Christendom 
one. If the conquering army, the sovereign and the 
territorial lords, did not condescend to acquire much 
of the language of their subjects, the conquering 
Church was more wise and enterprising. Innocent 
III. proposed to the University of Paris to send a 
colony of scholars to learn the tongue of the people, 
among whom the Latin clergy was to administer the 
rites of the ,Church ; ^ a school for youtlis from Con- 
stantinople was to be opened at Paris.^ No doubt 
many Byzantine exiles, men of peace and learning, 
found their way to the West. The Mendicant Orders, 
spreading over the world, made it their duty and their 
boast to acquire foreign tongues; and now especially 
the Dominicans aspired to the highest places in learn- 
ing and knowledge. Thus the complete and genuine 
Aristotle was divulged. Towards the end of the 
, thirteenth century the philosophers of Greece and 
Rome were as well known, as in our own days ; the 
schools rung with their names,^ with the explanation 
of their writings. A scholastic Doctor was not thought 
worthy of his name who had not publicly commented 
on their writings.* It was not alone as a servile trans- 
lator of the Greek, as the inert and uninven- ^^j^^^n 
tive disciple of the Western philosophy, which p*'"**®?'*/- 

1 Epistoln Innocent m. Brequigny et Da Theil, ii. 712, 723. 

* Sulcus, iii. iv. 

* The earlier Western students, who travelled before the twelfth century, 
OoDstantine the Monk, the famous Gerbert, Adelard of Bath, sought rathtr 
mathematical or astronomical science. 

^ Jourdain, p. 2. 


it was to restore to its forgotten honors in the West, 
that Arabian Philosophy aspired, if not to rule, to in- 
fluence the mind of Christendom.^ The four great 
Arabic authors, Avicenna, Aven Pace, Avicembron, 
Averrhoes, with David the Jew, and others of less 
fame,^ introduced, chiefly perhaps through the Jews 
of Andalusia, Marseilles, and Montpellier (those Drag- 
omans of Mediaeval Science), are not only known to 
the later Schoolmen ; but even the suspicion, the jeal- 
ousy, the awe, has fallen away. They are treated with 
courtesy and respect, allowed fair hearing ; that which 
at the beginning of the century appeared so perilous, 
so formidable, is no longer the forbidden lore of heretics, 
of unbelievers, of atheists. The Arabians are enter- 
tained as grave philosophers; their theories are ex- 
amined, their arguments discussed. Their authority, 
as representatives of a lofty and commanding philoso- 
phy, which has a right to respectful attention, is fully 
acknowledged.® Avicenna and Averrhoes are placed 
by Dante among the philosophers who wanted only 
baptism to be saved ; and Dante no doubt learned his 
respect for their names from his master, St. Thomas.* 
The extent to which Latin Christianity, in its high- 

1 See Jourdain on the Translations from the Arabic, by Dominic and 
John the Jew, in the twelfth centary. 

s Ajoutons que les philosophes Arabes, Avicenne, Averroes, Aren Pace, 
etc., oubli^a maintenant, jouissaient alors d^une grande reputation. «— /MdL 

< M. Schmulders is of opinion that the Schoolmen were much more 
indebted to the Grseco-Arabic philosophy than is generally supposed. 
L'influence exerc^e par eux sur le Scholastique est beaucoup plus grande 
qu'on ne la suppose ordinaircment. Non seulement les Scholastiques sem- 
blent en con%'enir eux-memes a cause de leurs nombreuses citations, mais il 
n*eflt pas difficile de prouver quMls sont redevables aux Arabes d'une fonlc 
d*id^et«, qu'on leur a jusqa*k present attributes. — P. 104. 

* Inferno, iv. This shows at once their fame, and that Arabic philoM>- 
phers were not popularly rejected as impious and godless. 


est schoIaBticism, admitted, either avowedly or tacitly, 
consciously or imperceptibly, the influence of the phi- 
losophy of Bagdad or Cordova, how fer reached this 
ftision of refined Islamism and Christianity, our His- 
tory wants space, the Historian knowledge of the 
yet unfathomed depths of Arabian learning, to deter- 

Now came the great age of the Schoolmen. Latin 
Christianity raised up those vast monuments armt 9m 
of Theology which amaze and appall the mind ttdsio. 
with the enormous accumulation of intellectual indus^ 
try, ingenuity, and toil ; ^ but of which the sole result 
to posterity is this barren amazement. The tomes of 
Scholastic Divinity may be compared with the pyra- 
noids of Elgypt, which stand in that rude majesty, which 
is commanding from the display of imviense human 
{lOweF) yet oppressive from the sense of the waste of 
that power for no discoverable use. Whoever pene* 
trates within, finds himself bewildered and lost in a 
l|J>yrinth of small, dark, intricate passages and cham- 
Ws, devoid of grandeur, devoid of solemnity : he may 
wander without end, and find nothing I It was not 

1 1 almost fresume, as far 110 my own reading extends, to doubt whether 
fliere are'sufficient grounds as jet for deciding this question. It requires a 
profeund knowledge of Oriental and of Mediaeval loro in one pereon. M. 
Skchmolden possesses the first, M. Ritter perhaps a large proportion of botU. 
M. Haurean, the great Master of Scholasticism, rather* declines, Bi least 
does not fully enter into the discussion. 

3 The study of Arabic, which had been fostered by Fi^derick II., carried 
to high perfection by Michael Scott and others, was not discouraj^ed in the 
Universities. Honorius IV. proposed an endowment for this study in the 
University of Paria The ostensible object was the education of Mi^siona- 
nes to propagate the Grospel among the Islamites. The fbnndation did not 
take place till the Council of Vienne. — Crevier, ii. 1 12. At an early pe- 
liod, perhaps, it might rather have promoted the invasion of Christianity 
by the Arabic philosophy. 


indeed the enforced labor of a slave population : it 
was rather voluntary slavery, submitting in its intel- 
lectual ambition and its religious patience to monastic 
discipline : it was the work of a small intellectual oli- 
garchy, monks, of necessity, in mind and habits ; for it 
imperiously required absolute seclusion either in the 
monastery or in the University, a long life under 
monastic rule. No Schoolman could be a great man 
but as a Schoolman. William of Ockham alone was 
a powerful demagogue — scholastic even in his political 
writings, but still a demagogue. It is singular to see 
every kingdom in Latin Christendom, every Order in 
the social State, furnishing the great men, not merely 
to the successive lines of Doctora, who assumed the 
splendid titles of the Angelical, the Seraphic, the Ir* 
refragable, the most Profound, the most Subtile, the 
Invincible, even the Perspicuous,^ but to what may be 
called the supreme Pentarchy of Scholasticism. Italy 
FiTeGxwt ^^^ Thomas of Aquino and Bonaventnra; 
Schoolmen. Germany Albert the Great ; the British Islea 
(they boasted also of Alexander Hales and Bradwar* 
dine) Duns Scotus and William of Ockham ; France 
alone must content herself with names somewhat in- 
ferior (she had already given Ab^lard, Gilbert de la 
Por^e, Amanri de Bene, and other famous or suspected 
names), now William of Auvergne, at a later time 
Durandus. Albert and Aquinas were of noble Houses; 
the Counts of BoUstadt and Aquino ; Bonaventuia of 
good parentage at Fidenza ; of Scotus the birth was so 
obscure as to be untraceable ; Ockham was of humble 
parents in the village of that name in Surrey. But 

1 Aquinas, Bonaventura, Alexander Hales, ^gidiiis de Colonna, Ockham, 
Walter Burley. 


France may boast that tlie University of Paris was 
tlie great scene of their studies, their labors, their in- 
struction : the University of Paris was the acknowl- 
edged awarder of tlie fame and authority obtained by 
the highest Schoolmen. It is no less remarkable that 
the new Mendicant Orders sent forth these five Patri- 
archs, in dignity, of the science. Albert and Aquinas 
were Dominicans, Bonaventura, Duns Scotus, Ockham, 
Franciscans. It might have been supposed that the 
popularizing of religious teaching, which was the ex- 
press and avowed object of the Friar Preachers and 
of the Minorites, would have left the higher places of 
abstruse and learned Theology to the older Orders, or 
to the more dignified Secular Ecclesiastics. Content 
with being the vigorous antagonists of her- a„ ^^n^. 
esy in all quarters, they would not aspire also '*°**' 
to become the aristocracy of theologic erudition. But 
Ae dominant religious impulse of the times could not 
but seize on all the fervent and powerfiil minds which 
sought satisfaction for their devout yearnings. No one 
who had strong reh'gious ambition could be anything 
but a Dominican or a Franciscan ; to be less was to be 
below the highest standard. Hence on one hand the 
Orders aspired to rule the Universities, contested the 
supremacy with all the great established authorities in 
the schools ; and having already drawn into their vor- 
tex almost all who united powerful abilities with a 
devotional temperament, never wanted men who could 
enter into this dreary but highly rewarding service, — 
men who could rule the Schools, as others of their 
brethren had begun to rule the Councils and the 
minds of Kings. It may be strange to contrast the 
popular simple preaching, for such must have been 


that of St. Dommic and St. Francis, such that of th^ 
followers, in ordv.*r to contend with success against the 
plain and austere Sermons of the heretics, wi^h the 
Sum of Theology of Aquinas, which of itself (and \i 
is but one volume in the works of Thomas) would, as 
it might seem, occupy a whole life of the most secluded 
study to write, almost to read. The unlearned, unrea- 
soning, only profoundly, passionately loving and dream- 
ing St. Francis, is still more oppugnant to the intensely 
subtile and dry Duns Scotus, at one time carried by his 
severe looric into Pela^ianism ; or to William of Ock- 
ham, perhaps the hardest and severest intellectualist 
of all ; a political fanatic, not like his visionary breth- 
ren, who brooded over the Apocalypse and their own 
prophets, but for the Imperial against the Papal Sov- 

As then in these five men culminates the age of 
genuine Scholasticism, the rest may be lefl to be desig- 
nated and described to posterity by the names assigned 
to them by their own wondering disciples. 

We would change, according to our notion, the titles 
which discriminated this distinguished pentarchy. Al* 
bert the Great would be the Philosopher, Aquinas the 
Theologian, Bonaventura the Mystic, Duns Scotuft the 
Dialectician, Ockham the Politician. It may be said 
of Scholasticism, as a whole, that whoever takes delight 
in what may be called gymnastic exercises of the rea- 
son or the reasoning powers, efforts which never liad, 
and hardly cared to have, any bearing on the life, or 
even on the sentiments and opinions of mankind, may 
study these works, the crowning effort of Latin, of 
Sacerdotal, and Monastic Christianity, and may ac- 
quire something like respect for these forgotten athletes 

Chap. m. ALBERT THE GREAT. 257 

in the intellectual games of antiquity. They are not 
of so much moment in the history of religion, for their 
theology was long before rooted in the veneration and 
awe of Christendom ; nor in that of philosophy, for ex- 
cept what may be called mythological subtilties, ques- 
tions relating to the world of angels and spirits, of 
which, according to them, we might suppose the reve- 
lation to man as full and perfect, as that of God or of 
the Redeemer, there is hardly a question which has not 
been examined in other language and in less dry and 
syllogistic foim. There is no acute observation on the 
workings of the human mind, no bringing to bear ex- 
traordinary facts on the mental, or mingled mental and 
corporeal, constitution of our being. With all their 
researches into the unfathomable they have fathomed 
nothing : with all their vast logical apparatus they have 
proved nothing to the satisfaction of the inquisitive 
mind. Not only have they not solved any of the in- 
soluble problems of our mental being, our primary 
conceptions, our relations to God, to the Infinite, nei- 
ther have they (a more possible task) shown them to 
be insoluble.^ 

Albert the Great was bom at Lauingen in Swabia, 
of the ancient house of the Counts of Boll- Albert the 
stadt. He studied at Paris and in Padua, a.d. ii88. 
In Padua, Jordan the Saxon, the head of the Domin- 
icans, laid on him the spell of his own master-mind 
and that of his Order ; he became a Dominican. He 
returned to Cologne, and taught in the schools 1211. 

1 n est done bien difficile aux philosophes d'avouer que la philosophie 
consiste platot k reconnaltre la limite naturelle de rintelligence hamalne 
qn*k faire de pu^rils efforts pour reculer cette limite. — Haareau, ii. p. 45, 
quoting Locke, whose whole, wise, bat strangely misrepresented work is a 
comment on that great axiom. 
VOL. vin. 17 


of that city. In 1228 he was called to fill the chair 
of his Order in the Jacobin convent at Paris. There, 
though his text-book was the rigid, stone-cold Sentences 
of Peter the Lombard, his bold originality, the conft* 
dence with which he rushed on ground yet untrodden, 
at once threw back all his competitors into obscurity, 
and seemed to summon reason, it might be to the aid, 
it might be as a perilous rival to religion. This, by his 
admirers, was held as hardly less than divine inspira- 
tion, but provoked his adversaries and his enemies. 
** God," it was said, ** had never divulged so many 
of his secrets to one of his creatures." Others mur- 
mured, '^ He must be possessed by an evil spirit : " 
already the fame, the suspicion of a magician had 
b^un to gather round his name. After three years 
of glory, perhaps of some danger, in Paris, he settled 
among his Dominican brethren at Cologne. At Co- 
logne he was visited by the Emperor William of 
Holland, who bowed down in wonder before the exr- 
traordinaiy man. As Provincial of Germany, com- 
missioned by the Diet of Worms, he visited all the 
monasteries of his jurisdiction, He severely reproved 
the Monks, almost universally sunk in ignorance and 
idleness ; he rescued many precious manuscripts which 
in their ignorance they had left buried in dust, or in 
their fimaticism cast aside as profane. He was sum- 
iJOQ moned to Rome, and named Grand Master 

*^*" of the Palace — the great dignity usually held 

by his Order — by Pope Alexander IV. He laid 
down his dignity, and retired to his school at Cologne. 
He was compelled to accept the Bishopric of Ratisbon. 
After three years of able administration he resigned to 
PM inlaw. Urban IV. the unwelcome greatness, and 


again retired to his seclusion, his studies, and public 
instruction at Cologne. Such was the public life, such 
the honors paid to the most illustrious of the School- 

Albert the Great at once awed bj his immense eru- 
dition and appalled his age. His name, the Universal 
Doctor, was the homage to his all-embracing knowl- 
edge. He quotes, as equally familiar, Latin, Greek, 
Arabic, Jewish philosophers.^ He was the first School- 
man who lectured on Aristotle himself, on Aristode 
from Graeco-Latin or Arabo-Latin copies. The whole 
range of the Stagirite's physical and metaphysical phi- 
losophy was within the scope of Albert's teaching.^ In 
later days he was called the Ape of Aristotle ; he had 
dared to introduce Aristotle into the Sanctuaiy itself.^ 
One of his Treatises is a refutation of the Arabian 

1 Haureao, t ii. p. 1, et teq, I owe most of what follows, with references 
to the original works, to the two Chapters on Albert the Great in Ritter, 
ChristiiGfae PhikMophie, Tiii. p. 181, and M. Haarean, De la Philotophie 
Scolastique, ii. p. 1. I think the German has an unysnal advantage over 
the Frenchman in the order, and therefore in the perspicuity, with which he 
has developed the sjstem of Albert the Great In his sharp, precise Ian* 
g«ag« the Frenchman resumes his superiority; and it must be remembered 
that the object of M. Haureau*s work is the Scholastic Philosophy. I have 
also read M. Rousselof, Etudes, and some of the older writers. 

*£t in banc sententiam convenerunt multi Theologl dirersarum reti- 
gkniim tarn scilicet Saracenomm quam Judsornm, quam Christianorum. 
— Lib. viii. Physic c. vi., quoted by M. Haureau, ii. p. 54. Alexander 
Halea (about 1922) had illustrated Christian Theology fh>m Aristotle and 
Avicenna. — Bitter. 181. Also William of Auvezgne. See Haureau, p. 11. 

'The only Treatises which the Scholastic Philosopher might seem to dis- 
dain were the popular and practical ones, the Rhetoric, Poetics, and the 
Politics — Bitter, p. 188. 

* See quotation from Thomasius in Haureau, and M. Hanreau^s refuta- 
tion. An andem Orteo giebt er zu erkennen, er wollte hier nnr die Mel- 
Bang der Peripatiker wiedergeben; wie dieselbe mit der Katholischen 
Lehre ansgeglichen werden konne, lasst er dahin gestellt seyn. Bitter, 
however, does full justice to his religion, p. 191. De unitate intellectna 
eontra Avenrfaoem. His works fill twenty-one volumes folio. 


Averrhoes. Nor is it Aristotle and Averrhoes alone 
that come within the pale of Albert's erudition ; the 
commentators and glossators of Aristotle, the whole 
circle of the Arabians, are quoted, their opinions, their 
reasonings, even their words, with the utmost fioniliar- 
ity. But with Albert Theology was still the master- 
science. The Bishop of Ratisbon was of nnimpeached 
orthodoxy ; the vulgar only, in his wonderful knowl- 
edge of the secrets of Nature, in his studies of Natural 
History, could not but see something of the magician. 
Albert had the ambition of reconciling Plato and Aris* 
totle, and of reconciling this harmonized Aristotelian 
and Platonic philosophy with Christian Divinity. He 
thus, in some degree, misrepresented or misconceived 
both the Greeks ; he hardened Plato into Aristotelism, 
expanded Aristotelism into Platonism ; and his Chris- 
tianity, though Albert was a devout man, while it con- 
stantly subordinates, in strong and fervent language, 
knowledge to faith and love, became less a religion 
than a philosophy. Albert has little of, he might seem 
to soar above the peculiar and dominant doctrines of 
Christianity; he dwells on the nature of God rather 
than on the Trinity, on the immortality of the soul 
rather than the redemption ; on sin, on original sin, he 
is almost silent. According to the established Chris- 
tian thpology. Creation and Redemption were simul- 
taneously in the counsels of God. In the new system, 
Grace was a gift for the advancement of Man's inde- 
feasible intellectual nature. But thou^^h Albert thus 
dwells on the high, as it were philosophic. Godhead, he 
reserves religiously for God a sole primary existence ; 
he rejects with indignation his master Aristotle's tenet 
of the coetemity of matter and the eternity of the 



world ; ^ but he rests not in the sublime simplicity of 
the Mosaic creation by the Word of God out of nothing. 
Since St. Augustine the Platonic doctrine of the pre- 
existence of the forms, or the ideas, of all things in the 
mind of God, had been almost the accredited doctrine 
of the Church. Even Matter was in God, but before 
it became material, only in its form and possibility. 
Man, indeed, seems to be doomed, if he can soar above 
the corporeal anthropomorphism which arrayed the 
Deity in human form (the* anthropomorphism of the 
poets, the sculptors, and the painters), to admit an in- 
tellectual anthropomorphism ; to endeavor to compre- 
hend and define the laws and the capacities of the 
Divine Intelligence according to his own.* Yet when 
Albert thus accepted a kind of Platonic emanation 
theory of all things from the Godhead,^ he repudiated 
as detestable, as blasphemous, the absolute unity of the 
Divine Intelligence with the intelligence of man. This 

1 Gott wurde bediirftig sein, wenn sein Werken eine Materie yorauBsetze. 
. . . Dass die Materie nicht ewig sein konne, wird aber audi daratu er- 
•chlossen, dass Gott, die ewige Fonn, und' die Materie nicht mit einander 
gemein haben konnten, also aacht nicht die Ewigkeit Hier gebrancht Al- 
bert dlesen Satz des Aristoteles gegen den Aristoteles selbst. — Ritter, pp. 


> Le Dieu des philosophes, c'est ^ dire des Th^ologiens ^clair^s, ne fiit 
pas, il est vrai, celai des sculptenrs et des peintres ; mais il eat bien avec 
lui, poor ne rien c41er, quelques traits de ressemblance. Pour repr^senter 
la figare de Dieu, Tartiste avait choisi dans la nature, avec les yeux du 
corps, les formes qui lui avaient sembl^ r^pondre le mieux an concept id^al 
de la beauts parfaite, et il s'^tait efforc^ de les reproduire sur le bois ou sur 
la pierre. Pour representor Dieu comme Tintelligence parfaite, le philoso- 
phe proc^a snivant la m@me m^thode; arrivant an dernier terme de Tab- 
straction, il trouva dans Pentendement humain, les id^es g^n^rales, et il ne 
But alors mieux faire, que de d^finir Tintelligence de Dieu le lieu primordial 
de ces id^es.— Hauieau, p. 84. Compare the whole passage, as just as it 
is brilliant. 

s Primum principium est indefinienter fluens, quo intellectus nniversali- 
ter agens indesinenter est intelligentias emittens. — Apud Bitter, p. 190. 


doctrine of Averrhoes destroyed the personality of man, 
if not rf Grod. He recoils from Pantheism with relig- 
ions horror. His perpetual object is to draw the dis- 
tinction between the Eternal and the Temporal, the 
Infinite and the Finite ; how knowledge is attained, 
how the knowledge of God differs from the enthusiastic 
contemplation of God. God, though not to be com- 
prehended, may be known, and that not only by grace, 
but by natural means. God is as the Light, every- 
where seen, but every wh^te escaping the comprehen- 
sion of the vision. God is omnipresent, all-working, 
yet limited by the capacities of existing things. 

God the Creator, (and Creation was an eternal, 
inalienable attribute of the God) was conceived, as 
having primarily called into being four coeval things 
of everlasting duration, — the primal Matter, Time, 
Heaven, the Everlasting Intelligence.^ But Matter, 
and Time, it should seem, were properly neither Mat- 
ter nor Time. Matter has no proper existence, it is 
only privative ; it is something by which and in which 
works Intelligence.^ The Heavens exist (and in the 
Heavens, though this is something, as it were, apart 
from his theory, Albert admits the whole established 
order and succession of the Angels from Dionysius the 

1 nie enim mAzime intelligibilis est et omnu intellectos et intelligibilia 
CftiisA et in omni intelligibilj attingitar, sicat lumen quod est actus visibili- 
nm, attingitur in omni visibili per yisom. Sicat tamen lomen secnndnm 
immensitatem, qnam habet in rota solis et secundum immensitatem pote- 
itatis, qua omnia visibilia comprehendere potest, non potest capi vel com- 
prehendi, a visa, ita nee intellectus divinus, secnndnm ezoellentiam, qua 
•xcellit in se ipso, et secundum potestatem qa& inustrare potest super om- 
nia, etiam super infinita intelligibilia, capi vel comprehend! potest ab intel- 
lectn creato. Summa Theolog., quoted in Ritter, p. 196. The finite cannot 
comprehend the Infinite. But Albert always presupposes the moral as well 
at the Christian preparatiye for knowledge, virtue, and faith. 

3 Ritter, p. 905. 


Areopagite ^) and Intelligence, which subsists, though 
oppressed and bowed down, even in lifeless things. 
But between the higher, imperishable intelligence of 
man and the intelligence of God there is nothing inter- 
mediate;^ and yet there is eternal, irreconcilable dif- 
ference. The Unity of God must develop itself in 
multiplicity. Man's Intelligence is a continual e£9ux 
from God, an operation of God, but yet not divine. 
As God it has its own Free Will.^ 

And so Albert goes on, and so went on Albert's suc- 
cessors, and so go on Albert's interpreters, with these 
exquisitely subtile distinctions of words, which they re- 
fuse to see are but words, making matter immaterial,^ 
forms actual beings or substances; making God him- 
self, with perfect free-will, act under a kind of ne- 
cessity; making thoughts things, subtilizing things to 
thoughts ; beguiling themselves and beguiling mankind 
with the notion that they are passing the impassable 
barriers of human knowledge ; approaching boldly, 
then suddenly recoiling from the most fatal conclu- 
sions. In the pride and in the delight of conscious 
power, in the exercise of the reason, and its wonderfrd 

1 The whole UniverM was a prog^ressiye descendant development, and 
ascendant moyement towards perfection. 

> On the great mediieval qoestion Albert would be at once a Realist, a 
Conceptualist, and a Nominalist. There were three kinds of Universals, 
one abstract, self-existing, one in the object, one in the mind. — Bitter, p. 
219. Haurean, p. 14. M. Hanreaa treats this part at length. 

9 Yet he does not deny, he asserts iit other places, that which Christianity 
and Islam, Latin, Greek, and Arabian, equally admitted, the operation of 
Qod in the soul of man through Angels. 

^ Daher ist das Sein an einem jeden Geschopfe verschieden von dem, was 
as ist. — Bitter, p. 211. The matter is only the outward vehicle, as it 
were, — the Form gives the Being. This is the Theon' of Everrhoes. See 
on this subject the just and sensible observation of M. Haureau, from 
page 84. 


instniment Logic, these profound and hardy thinkers 
are still reproducing the same eternal problems ; de- 
taching the immaterial part of man, as it were, from 
his humanity, and blending him with the Godhead; 
bringing the Godhead down into the world, till the dis- 
tinction is lost ; and then perceiving and crying out in 
indignation against what seems their own blasphemy. 
The close of all Albert the Great's intense labors, of 
his enormous assemblage of the opinions of the phi* 
losophers of all ages, and his efforts to harmonize them 
with the high Christian Theology, is a kind of Eclec- 
ticism, an unreconciled Realism, Conceptualism, Nomi- 
nalism, with many of the difficulties of each. The 
intelligence of God was but an archetype of the intelli- 
gence of man, the intelligence of man a type of that 
of God ; each peopled with the same ideas, representa- 
tives of things, conceptional entities, even words ; ex- 
isting in God before all existing things, before time, 
and to exist after time ; in man existing after existing 
things, bom in time, yet to share in the immortality of 
the intelligence. Thus religion, the Christian religion, 
by throwing upward God into his unapproachable, in- 
effable, inconceivable Mystery, is perhaps, in its own 
province, more philosophical than philosophy. Albert, 
in admitting the title of the Aristotelian or Greek, or 
Arabian philosophy, to scrutinize, to make comprehen- 
sible the Divine Intelligence ; in attempting, however 
glorious the attenlpt, the Impossible, and affixing no 
limits to the power of human reason and logic, while 
he disturbed, to some extent unintentionally deposed, 
Theology, substituted no high and coherent Philoso- 
phy. Safe in his own deep religiousness, and his 
doctrinal orthodoxy, he saw not how with his philo- 


sophic speculations he undermined the foundations of 
his theology. 

But this view of Albert the Great is still imperfect 
and imjust. His title to fame is not that he introduced 
and interpreted the Metaphysics and Physics of Aris-. 
totle, and the works of the Arabian phUosophers on 
these abstruse subjects to the world, but because he 
opened the field of true philosophic observation to man- 
kind. In natural history he unfolded the more precious 
treasures of the Aristotelian philosophy, he revealed all 
the secrets of ancient science, and added large contri- 
butions of his own on every branch of it ; in math- 
ematics he commented on and explained Euclid ; in 
chemistry, he was a subtile investigator ; in astronomy, 
a bold speculator. Had he not been premature — had 
not philosophy been seized and again enslaved to theol- 
ogy, mysticism, and worldly politics — he might have 
been more immediately and successfully followed by 
the first, if not by the second, Bacon.^ 

Of all the schoolmen Thomas Aquinas^ has left the 
greatest name. He was a son of the Count Thomaa 
of Aquino, a rich fief in the Kingdom of Na- ^9»*'»"- 
jJes. His mother, Theodora, was of the line of the 
old Norman Kings ; his brothers, Reginald and Lan- 
dolph, held high rank in the Imperial armies. His 

1 Nous ii*avons interrog^ que le philosophe ; nons n'avons parcouru que 
trois ou quatre de ses vingt-un volumes in-folio, oeuvre prodigieuse, presque 
BUrhuDiainef a laquelle aucunc autre ne saurait 6tre compar^e: que nous 
anraient appris, n nous avions eu le loisir de les eonsulter, le th^ologien 
form^ k r^ole des P^res, le scmpuleux investigateur des mysteres de la 
nature, le chimiste subtil, Taudacieux astronome, Thabile interpr^te des 
theordmes d'EucIide. Le r^sultat des travaux d* Albert n*a ^t^ rien moins 
qu^nne veritable revolution ! Cela resume tous ses titres k la gloire. — Han- 
reau, ii. p. 103. He perhaps rather forboded than wrought this revolution. 

a Bom about 1327. 


fiunily was connected by marriage with the Hohenstau* 
fens ; they had Swabian blood in their veins, and so 
the great schoolman was of the race of Frederick II. 
Monasticism seized on Thomas in his early youth ; he 
became an inmate of Monte Casino ; at sixteen years 
of age he caught the more fiery and vigorous enthusi^ 
asm of the Dominicans. By them he was sent — no 
unwilling proselyte and pupil — to France. He was 
seized by his worldly brothers, and sent back to Naples; 
he was imprisoned in one of the fitmily castles, but re- 
sisted even the fond entreaties of liis mother and his 
sisters. He persisted in his pious disobedience, his holy 
hardness of heart; he was released after two years' 
impriBonment-it might seem straBge-at the'coo. 
mand of the Emperor Frederick II. The godless Em- 
peror, as he was called, gave Thomas to the Church. 
Aquinas took the irrevocable vow of a Friar Preacher. 
He became a scholar of Albert the Great at Cologne 
and at Paris. He was dark, silent, unapproachable 
even by his brethren, perpetually wrapt in profound 
ooiogM, meditation. He was called, in mockery, the 
1244, 1246. great dumb ox of Sicily. Albert questioned 
the mute disciple on the most deep and knotty points 
of theology ; he found, as he confessed, his equal, his 
superior. ^'That dumb ox will make the world r^ 
sound with his doctrines." With Albert the fitithful 
disciple returned to Cologne. Again he went back to 
Paris, received his academic degrees, and taught with 
universal wonder^ Under Alexander IV. he stood up 
in Rome in defence of his Order against the eloquent 
William de St. Amour ; he repudiated for his Order, 
and condemned by his authority, the prophecies of the 
Abbot Joachim. He taught at Cologne with Albert 

Chap.IU. philosophy OF AQUINAS. 267 

the Great ; also at Paris, at Rome, at Orvieto, at Yi- 
terbo, at Peibgia. Where he taught, the world lis- 
tened in respectful silence. He was acknowledged by 
two Popes, Urban IV. and Clement IV., as the first 
theologian of the age. He refused the Archbishopric 
of Naples. He was expected at the Council of Lyons, 
as the authority before whom all Christendom jj^^j^ 2 
might be expected to bow down. He died ^^*' 
ere he had passed the borders of Naples at the Abbey 
of Rossa Nuova, near Terracina, at the age of forty* 
eight. Dark tales were told of his death ;^ only the 
wickedness of roan could deprive the world so early 
of such a wonder. The University of Paris j„, « 
claimed, but in vain, the treasure of his mor- ^^* 
tal remains.^ He war canonized by John XXII. 

Thomas Aquinas is throughout, above all, the The- 
ologian. God and the soul of man are the only objects 
truly worthy of his philosophic investigation. This is 
the Ainction of the Angelic Doctor, the mission of the 
Angel of the schools. In his works, or rather in hia 
one great work, is the final result of all which has been 
decided by Pope or Council, taught by the Fathers, 
accepted by tradition, argued in the schools, inculcated 
in the Confessional. The Sum of Theology is the 
authentic, authoritative, acknowledged code of Latin 
Christianity. We cannot but contrast this vast work 

^ See vol. yi. p. 130, with the quotation from Dante. One. stoiy was that 
Charles of Anjon had attempted violence on a niece of St. Thomas, and 
that the Saint had determined to denounce the crime hefore the Council of 
Lvons; others said that Charles resented the free if not king-killing doc- 
trines of the treatise of St. Thomas de Regimine Piindpom. But there ia 
a fall account of the calm, pious death of St Thomas. He was 111 more 
tlian a month, with every sign of natural decay. 

> Read the remarkable letter of the Universi^ in the Lift in the Bol- 


with the original Gospel : to this bulk has grown the 
New Testament, or rather the doctrinal Ad moral part 
of the New Testament.^ But Aquinas is an intellect- 
ual theologian : he approaches more nearly than most 
philosophers, certainly than most divines, to pure em- 
bodied intellect. He is perfectly passionless ; he has 
no polemic indignation, nothing of the Churchman's 
jealousy and suspicion ; he has no fear of the result of 
any ' investigation ; he hates nothing, hardly heresy ; 
loves nothing, unless perhaps naked, abstract truth. 
In his serene confidence that all must end in good, he 
moves the most startling and even perilous questions, 
as if they were the most indifferent, the very Being of 
God. God must be revealed by syllogistic process. 
Himself inwardly conscious of the absolute harmony 
of his own intellectual and moral being, he places sin 
not so much in the will as in the understanding. The 
perfection of man is the perfection of his intelligence. 
He examines with the same perfect self-command, it 
might almost be said apathy, the converse as well as 
the proof of the most vital religious truths. He is 
nearly as consummate a sceptic, almost atheist, as he 
is a divine and theologian. Secure, as it should seem, 
in impenetrable armor, he has not only no apprehen- 
sion, but seems not to suppose the possibility of danger; 
he has nothing of the boastfulness of self-confidence, 
but in calm assurance of victory, gives every advan- 
tage to his adversary. On both sides of every ques- 

1 My copy of the Summa of Aquinas has above twelve hnndred of the 
▼eiy closest printed folio pages in double columns, without the indexes. I 
pretend not to have read it; but whoever is curious to know, as it were, 
the ultimate decisions of the Latin Church on most theological or ethical 
points will consult it; and will see the range and scope of that theology, 
and the groundwork of all the later casoistiy. 


tion he casts the argument into one of his clear, distinct 
syllogisms, aifd calmly places himself as Arbiter, and 
passes judgment in one or a series of still more unan- 
swerable syllogisms. He has assigned its unassailable 
province to Church authority, to tradition or the Fa- 
thers, faith and works ; but beyond, Within the proper 
sphere of philosophy, he asserts foil freedom. There 
is no Father, even St. Augustine, who may not be ex- 
amined by the fearless intellect. 

Thomas Aquinas has nothing like the boundless 
range of Albert the Great ; he disdains or fears Nat- 
ural Philosophy. Within their common sphere he is 
the &ithful disciple of the master, but far surpasses him 
in clearness, distinctness, precision, conclusiveness. He 
had some works of Plato, unknown to Albert, acquired 
perhaps in his native Magna Grsecia ; but, with Albert, 
he rejects the coeternal ideas subsistent without and be- 
yond the Deity. With Albert in that controversy he 
is a high Aristotelian, but repudiates as decisively the 
eitemity of matter, the imperishability of the Universe. 

Aquinas has, as it were, three distinct and unmin- 
gling worlds : the world of God, the world of the imma- 
terial angels and demons, the world of mingled matter 
Wdd intelligence, — that of man. God is alone, the 
One absolute, infinite, self-subsistent, whose essence it 
is " to be." No Eastern anti-materialist ever guarded 
the primal Godhead more zealously from any intrusive 
debasement. God is his own unique form : proceeds 
from no antecedent form, communicates with no infe- 
rior form. The Godhead is in itself, by itself, all that 
is. It is preexistent to matter, eternally separate from 
matter.^ But Thomas must never lose the Christian 

^ Compare Haaiean, p. 165. 


dieologian in the philosopher. All this abetract, un- 
mingling, solitary Deity, is not merely to be endowed 
with his eternal, immutable attributes, Omnipresence, 
Omniscience, Providence, but reconciled with the mys- 
terious doctrine of the Trinity. Thomas has not 
merely to avoid the errors of Plato and Aristotle, but 
of Arius and Sabellius ; and on the Trinity he is al- 
most as diflttse, even more minute, than on the sole 
original Godhead. The most microscopic eye can 
hardly trace his exquisite and subtile distinctions, the 
thin and shadowy diflerences of words which he creates 
or seizes. Tet he himself seems to walk unbewildered 
in his own labyrinth ; he walks apparently as calmly 
and firmly as if he were in open day ; leaves nothing 
unquestioned, unaccounted for ; defines the undefinable, 
distinguishes the undistinguishable ; and lays down his 
conclusions as if they were mathematical truths. 

Aquinas's world of Angels and Demons compre* 
bended the whole mystic Hierarchy of the Areopagite. 
Matter is not their substance ; they are inmiateriaL 
They are not self-subsistent ; being is not their essence.^ 
They are, on one side, finite ; on the other, infinite : 
npwaitis, finite ; for they are limited by the stem line 
which divides them firom the Grodhead : infinite, down- 
wards ; for they seek no inferior subject. But as that 
which diversifies, multiplies, and individualizes, is mat- 
ter, and divisibility is the essential property of matter, 
all the Angels, thence, logically, would be but one An- 
gel, as there is but one pure spirituality. In this point, 
and about the whole subject of Angels, Thomas, instead 

1 Esse Angeli non est essentia sed accidens. — Samma, i. qaast xiL 
Alt. 4. They owe their being to a free act of the divine will. Compars 
Hauiteo, p. 155. 


of being embarrassed, seemed to delight and revel ; his 
luxury of distinction and definition, if it be not a con- 
tradiction, his imaginative logic, is inexhaustible. He 
is absolutely wanton in the questions which he starts, 
and answers with all the grave satisfaction as on solemn 
questions of life and death.^ 

The third world is that of matter and of man. The 
world was created by God according to forms (or ideas) 
existent, not without but within the Deity ; for God 
must have known what he would create. These forms, 
these ideas, these types of existing things, are part of 
God's infinite knowledge ; they are the essence of God ; 
they are God. Man is inseparable from matter ; mat- 
ter cannot exist without form.' The soul, the intelli- 
gence of man, constitutes the third world. It shares, 
in some degree, the immateriality of the two higher 
orders. It is self-subsistent ; but it needs the material 
body, as its organ, its instrument. It is not, however, 
preexistent ; Origen was a name of ill repute in the 
Church ; his doctrine therefore, by some subtile logical 
effort, must be rejected. Each separate soul is not 
created ere it is infused into the human body ; this 
creation is simultaneous ; nothing uncreate is presup- 
posed.* But if not selfnsubsistent, not possibly preex- 
istent, before their union with the body, how, according 

1 E. g. Utrnm in Angelis sit cognitio matutina et vespertina. " Whether 
angels reason bj logic " had been discussed before. 

< God cannot create matter without form ; this is a necessaiy limit of his 
omnipotence. It would be a contradiction. — Samma. 

s Cum anima sine corpore existens non habeat suae natnrse perfoctionem, 
nee Deus ab imperfectis sunm opus inchoaret, simpHctter fiitendum est ani- 
mas simul cum corporibus creari et infundi. — Sumroa, i. qucest. xviil. 8. 
Creatio est prodnctio alicnjus rei secundum suam totam substantiam nullo 
pnesapposito, quod sit vel increatum, vel ab aliquo creatum. — QuRSt 
bcv. 8. 


to the orthodox doctrine, can souls be self-subsistent 
after the dissolution of the union ? St. Thomas takes 
refuge in the Angelic world. This, too, was created ; 
and the souls, retaining the individuality, which they 
had acquired in their conjunction with matter, with- 
draw as it were into this separate immaterial and un- 
mingling world. 

It is obvious that our space only permits us to touch, 
and, we fear, with inevitable obscurity, some of the 
characteristic views of St. Thomas. St. Thomas, like 
his predecessor, Albert, on the great question of uni- 
versals, is Eclectic ; neither absolutely Realist, Concept- 
ualist, nor Nominalist. Universals are real only in 
God, and but seemingly, in potentiality rather than ac- 
tuality : they are subjective in the intelligence of man ; 
they result objectively in things. St. Thomas rejects 
the Democritean effluxes of outward things, by which 
the atomistic philosophy accounted for our perceptions : 
he admits images of things reflected and received by 
the senses as by a mirror, and so brought under the 
cognizance of the intelligence. The intelligence has, as 
it- were, only the power, a dormant faculty of knowl- 
edge, till the object is presented, through the image. 
But the conception by the senses is confused, indeter- 
minate ; till abstracted, analyzed, at once universalized 
and individualized by the intelligence.^ 

1 Cognitio indistincta. Ainsi la nensation est ant^rienre a rintellection, 
c'est convenn; mais toute sensation est ind^termin^ef universellement con- 
fiise. avant d'etre acbev^e, avant d'etre Tacte qni la termina, c*est-ii-dire 
Tid^e individaelle de la chose sentie, le iknt6me; de m§ine rintellectioii 
n'est devenue cette id^e claire, positive, absolument distincte de tout antre, 
qot r^pond au mot humanity qu'apr^s nn travail de Tesprit qui distrait 
tout le propre de rhamanit^ de la notion ant^rieure et confiise de Tanima- 
lit^. On ne s'attendait pent-^tra pas k ce trayail, chez un doctenr da treiai- 
^me si6de, cette savante critiqae de la hcalU de connaltie. — Haoreao, p. 


Tet Thomas ruled not in uncontested supremacy 
even in his intellectual realm : he was en- FranciMaoi, 
countered by an antagonist as severely intellectual as 
himself. No doubt the jealousy of the rival orders, the 
Dominican and the Franciscan, had much to do with 
the war of the Scotist* and the Thomists, which divided 
the very narrow world which understood, or thought 
they understood, the points in dispute, and the wider 
world who took either side, on account of the habit, 
Franciscan or Dominican, of the champion. It is sin- 
gular to trace, even in their Scholasticism, the ruling 
character, so oppugnant to each other, of the two Or- 
ders. In Albert the Great, and in St. Thomas, there 
is something staid, robust, muscular, the calmness of 
conscious strength ; their reasoning is more sedate, if 
to such a subject the term may be applied, more pn^- 
tical. The intelligence of man is to be trained by 
severe discipline to the height of knowledge; and 
knowledge is its high ultimate reward. With the 
Franciscans there is still passion : in Bonaventura, the 
mild passion of Mysticism ; in Duns Scotus, Bonayentan. 
if it may be so said. Logic itself is become a passion. 
Duns is, by nature, habit, training, use, a polemic. In 
Ockham it is a revolutionary passion in philosophy as 
in politics. The true opposite, indeed rival he may be 
called, of Thomas, was bis contemporary, his friend 
Bonaventura. These two men we^e to have met at the 

903. I have made this extract, not merely because it contains an important 
illnstration of the philosophy of Aquinas, but because it is such a remarka- 
ble indication of the penetrative good sense, which, notwithstaodiog all hia 
scholastic subtilty, appears, as far as my narrow acquaintance with his 
works, to set Aquinas above all Schoolmen. I have read the splendid 
quarto volume of M. Carle, * Histoire de la Vie et des Ecrits de St. Thomas 
d*Aqnin,* of which I much admire the — tjl^e. 

VOL. ym. 18 


Council of Lyons. One died on the road, the other 
just lived to receive his Cardinal's hat, with the fiill 
applause of that great QBcumenic S}mod : a Pope, an 
Emperor, and a King, attended his magnificent funeraL 
In Bonaventura the philosopher Tecede% ; religious edi- 
fication is his mission. A much smaller proportion of 
his voluminous works is pure Scholasticism : he is 
teaching by the Life of his Holy Founder, St. Francis, 
and by what may be called a new Gospel, a legendary 
Life of the Saviour, which seems to claim, with all its 
wild traditions, equal right to the belief with that of 
the Evangelists. Bonaventura himself seems to deliver 
it as his own unquestioning faith. Bonaventura, if not 
ignorant of, feared or disdained to know much of Aris- 
totle or the Arabians : he philosophizes only because ib 
his age he could not avoid philosophy. The philosophy 
of Bonaventura rests on the theological doctrine of 
Original Sin : the soul, exiled from God, must return 
to God. The most popular work of Bonaventmmi 
with his mystic admirers, was the Itinerary of the Soul 
to God. The love of God, and the knowledge of God, 
proceed hannoniously together, through four degrees or 
kinds of light. The external light, by which we learn 
the mechanic arts: the inferior light, which shines 
through the senses, by these we comprehend individuals 
or things : the internal light, the reason, which by re- 
flection raises the soul to intellectual things, to univor- 
sals in conception : the superior light of grace, which 
reveals to us the sanctifying virtues, shows us univep- 
sals, in their reality, in God. 

Bonaventura rests not below this highest light.^ 
Philosophy pretends that it may soar to the utmost 

1 From Haurean, p. S24. 

Orat. in. BOKATENTURl. 275 

beighte, and behold the Invisible ; it presumes to arer 
that thought, by dwdling on God, may behold him in 
spirit and in truth. Against thk doctrine Bonaven* 
tura protests with all his energy. Reason may reach 
the ultimate bounds of nature ; would it trespass far* 
iher, it is dazzled, blinded by excess of light. Is faith 
in the intellect or in the affections ? it enlightens the 
intellect, it rules over the affections. Which has the 
greater certitude, knowledge or faith ? There must be 
a distinction. There is a knowledge which is confined 
to human things. There is a knowledge which is the 
actual vision of God. This ultimate knowledge, though 
of faith, is superior to faith ; it is its absolute perfeo- 
tion. There is a certainty of speculation, a certainty 
of adhesion. The certainty of adhesion is the certaiit* 
ty of faith ; for this men have died. What Geometer 
ever died to vindicate the certainty of geometry?^ 
All this lower knowledge ought to be disdainftilly 
thrown aside for the knowledge of God. All sensible 
appearances, all intellectual operations, should be dish 
missed ; the whole weight of the affections be fixed 
and centred on the one absolute essence in God. The 
faithful Christian, if he might know the whole of 
physical science, would, in -his loyal adhesion to his b^ 

> Est enfin certitudo speeolationis et est certitado adhsesionis ; et prima 
q»i<l«m res)Hcit intellectuin, secunda Ter» renpicit ipeam affectum. . . . Sic 
major est' certitudo in ipsa fide quod sit in habitu scientise, pro eo quod 
rera fides magis facit adhaerere ipsum credentem veritati credita:, quam 
aliqua sciantia alieujus rei scitiB. Videmus enim veros fideles neo per ai^u- 
menU, nee per tormenta, nee per bkuidimenta, incliDari posse nt verity 
tern quam credunt, saltern ore tenus, negent Stoltos etiam esset geometrm 
qui pro quacunqne cert& condusione geometriie, auderet subire mortem. •-• 
In Sentent. xxJii. qntest. 11 a 14, quoted by Haurean, p. 226. Stnmg« 
pradietiau o# Galileo I Veros fidelia etiaa si sdret totam physicamt maliot 
iotam illam ade&tiam perdere, qnam nnum solum articulum perdcre vel na 
gure, adeo adhserens veritati credita. — n>id. 


lief, lose all that science rather than abandon or deny 
one article of the faith. The raptures of Bonaventura, 
like the raptures of all Mystics, tremble on the borders 
of Pantheism : he would still keep up the distinction 
between the soul and God ; but the soul must aspire 
to absolute unity with God, in whom all ideas are in 
reality one, though many according to human thought 
and speech. But the soul, by contemplation, by beatif- 
ic vision, is, as it were, to be lost and merged in that 

Where the famous Duns Scotus was bom, in Scot- 
DmuSeotiu. land, in Ireland, in Northumberland ; why 
called the Scot, what was his parentage ; all is utter 
darkness, thick and impenetrable as his own writings, 
from whence some derived his Greek name, Scotus. 
He appeared a humble Franciscan at Oxford ; the 
subtile Doctor gathered around him 30,000 pupils. 
At Paris he was not heard by less eager or countless 
crowds. From Paris he went to Cologne, and there 
died. The vast writings of Duns Scotus, which as lec- 
tures thousands thronged to hear, spread out as the 
dreary sandy wilderness of philosophy ; if its border 
be now occasionally entered by some curious traveller, 
he may return with all the satisfaction, but hardly the 
reward, of a discoverer. The toil, if the story of his 
early death be true, the rapidity, of this man's mental 
productiveness, is perhaps the most wonderful fact in 

I Et quoniam cognowens est nnnm, et oo^ta sunt mnlta, ideo omoes 
ideas in Deo sunt nnnm, secundom rem, sed tamen plnres secandum ratio- 
nem intelligendi sive dicendi. — In Intel, i. xxv. 1-3, quoted by Ritter, p. 
486. Ta autem, o amice, circa mysticas visiones corroborato itinere et sen* 
BUB deiere et intellectoales operationes et aensibilia et invisibilia, et omne 
non ens et ens, et ad nnitatem, ut possibile est, inscios restitnere ipeiofl, 
qni est super omnem essentiam et scientiam. Itin. Ment. ad Denm, 2, 6, T. 
-Ibid. p. 408. 

CHAP.m. DUNS scoTUs. 277 

the intellectual history of our race. He is said to have 
died at the age of thirty-four, a period at which most 
minds are hardly at their fullest strength, having writr 
ten thirteen closely-printed folio volumes, without an 
image, perhaps without a superfluous word, except the 
eternal logical formularies and amplifications.^ These 
volumes do not contain his Sermons and Commenta- 
ries, which were of endless extent. The mind of Duns 
might seem- a wonderful reasoning machine ; whatr 
ever was thrown into it came out in syllogisms : of the 
coarsest texture, yet in perfect flawless pattern. Logic 
was the idol of Duns ; and this Logic-worship is the 
key to his whole philosophy. Logic was asserted by 
him not to be an art, but a science ; ratiocination was 
not an instrument, a means for discovering truth : it 
was an tdtimate end ; its conclusions were truth. Even 
his language was Logic-worship. The older School- 
men preserved something of the sound, the flow, the 
grammatical construction, we must not say of Cicero 
or Livy, but of the earlier Fathers, especially of St. 
Augustine. The Latinity of Duns is a barbarous jar- 
gon.^ His subtile distinctions constantly demanded new 
words : he made them without scruple. It would re- 
quire the most patient study, as well as a new Diction- 
ary, to comprehend his terms. Logic being a science, 

1 Hanreaa adopts this account of the age of Duns without hesitation; it 
has been controyerted, however, rather from the incredibility of the fact 
than from reasons drawn from the very few known circumstances or dates 
of his life. See Schroeckh. xxiv. 437. Trithemins, a very inaccurate writr 
or, makes him a hearer of Alexander Hales in 1245; if so, at his death in 
1308 he must have been above sixty. But no doubt the authority, wha> 
ever he was, of Trithemius wrote Scholar (follower), not Hearer. 

* Scotus has neither the philosophic dignity nor the calm wisdom oi 
Thomas ; he is rude, polemic. He does not want theologic hatred. Sara- 
oeni — villssimi porci — asini Manichei. Ule maledictus Averrhoes. — 
Bitter, p. 360. 


aot an art, the objects aboat which it is conversant are 
not representatiyes of things, bat real things ; the con^ 
captions of hnxnan thought, things, according to the 
Thomist theoiy, of second intention, are here as things 
of first intention, actual as snbsistent. Dans, indeed, 
condescended to draw a distinction between pure and 
applied Logic ;. the volgar applied Logic might be only 
an instroment ; the universals, the entities of pure log* 
ic, asserted their undeniable reality. Duns Scotns is 
an Aristotelian beyond Aristotle, a Platonist beyond 
Plato ; at the same time the most sternly orthodox of 
TheologianB.^ On the eternity of matter he transcends 
his master : he accepts the hardy saying of Avicemr 
bron,^ of the universality of matter. He carries mat- 
ter not only higher than the intermediate world of 
Devils and Angels, but up into the very Sanctuaiy, 
into the Godhead itself. And how is this ? by dema* 
terializing matter, by stripping it of everything which, 
to the ordinary apprehension, and not less to philo* 
sophic thought, has distinguished matter ; by spiritual* 
izing it to the purest spirituality. Matter only became 

1 Die Ricbtimg, welche «r seiner Wiaseiucluift gegeben lutt, ist doichaoi 
kiichlicli.— Ritter, p. 836. 

' Je revieiis, dit-il, it la th^se d'Avicembron (ego antem ad positionem 
ATicembronis redeo), et je soutiens d*abord que toute substance cr^^e, cor- 
porelle on spiritaeUe, paiticipe de la mati^re. Je pronre enaidte que cetto 
mati^re est nne en tons — quod sit unica materia. — Haurean, p. 328. 
Selbst die Materie, obwobl sie die niedrigste von allem Seienden ist, muss 
doch also ein Seiendea gedacht werden and bat ihre Idee in Gott — Ritter, 
p. 438. Tbe modern Baconian pbilosopby may appear in one sense to baTe 
rsacbed the same point as tbe metaphysical philosophy of Duns Scotos, to 
haye sabtillzed matter into immateriality^ to have reached the point 
where the distinction between the spiritoal and material seems to be kwt, 
and almost mocks definition. It is arrived at centres of force, powers Im- 
palpable, imponderable, infinite. But it is one thing to refine away all the 
qualities of matter by experiment, and to do it by stripping words of their 
conventional meaning. Mr. Faraday^s discoveries and his ihme will not 
meet the fate of Duns Sootus. 


material by being conjoined with form. Before that 
it subsisted potentially only, abstract, unembodied, im- 
material ; an entity conceivable aloiie, but as being 
conceivable, therefore real. For this end the Subtile 
Doctor created, high above all vulgar common matteri 
a primary primal, a secondaiy primal, a tertiary primal 
matter ; and yet this matter was One. The universal 
Primary primal matter is in all things ; but as the sec- 
ondary primal matter has received the double form of 
the corruptible and incorruptible, it is shared between 
these two» The tertiary primal matter distributes it- 
self among the infinite species which range under these 
genera.^ It is strange to find Scholasticism, in both its 
opposite paths, gliding into Pantheism. An universal 
infinite Matter, matter refined to pure Spiritualism, 
comprehending the finite, sounds like the most extreme 
Spinosism. But Scotus, bewildered by his own skilful 
word-juggling, perceives not this, and repudiates the 
consequence with indignation. God is still with him 
the high, remote Monad, above all things, though 
throughout all things.^ In him, and not without him, 
according to what is asserted to be Platonic doctrinei 
are the forms and ideas of things. With equal zeal, 
and with equal ingenuity with the Thomists, he at- 
tempts to maintain the free-will of God, whom he 
seems to have bound in the chain of inexorable neces- 
sity.^ He saves it by a distinction which even his 

1 Dicitur materia eecundo prima qua est subjectum generationis et cor- 
raptionis,qiiam mutant et transmntaiit agentia creata, Beu angelt sen agen- 
tia comiptibilia; qa« at dixi, materiam primo primam, quia eiise 
subjectum generationis Bon potest sine aliqu& formal substantiali aut siaa 
quantitate, qun sunt extra rationem materis primo prima». -^ Haureau. 

3 Haureau, p. 359. 

' L*origine de toutes les erreurs propag^es au siyet de la Creation viont, 
dit-il, de oe que lea philosophes ont t^m^rairement assimiU la voloottf di* 


subtilty can hardly define. Yet, behind and without 
this nebulous circle, Duns Scotus, as a metaphysical 
and an ethical writer, is remarkable for his bold specu- 
lative views on the nature of our intelligence, on its 
communication with the outward world, by the senses, 
by its own innate powers, as well as by the influence 
of the superior Intelligence. He thinks with perfect 
freedom ; and if he spins his spider-webs, it is impossi- 
ble not to be struck at once by their strength and co- 
herence. Translate him, as some have attempted to 
translate him, into intelligible language, he is always 
suggestive, sometimes conclusive. 

The war of Scotists and Thomists long divided the 
Schools, not the less fierce from the utter darkness in 
which it was enveloped. It is not easy to define in 
what consisted their implacable, unforgiven points of 
difference. If each combatant had been compelled 
figidly to define every word or term which he em- 
ployed, concord might not perhaps have been impossi- 
ble ; but words were their warfare, and the war of 
words their business, their occupation, their glory. 
The Conceptualism or Eclecticism of St. Thomas 
(he cannot be caUed a Nominalist) admitted so much 

▼ine k U volont^ humaine; aassi combat-il de toutes sea forces cetto usimi- 
latioD, sans r^nasir, toatefois, k d^mSler d'une manidre satlsfiuaante ce que 
c*e8t la d^tennination temporelle d'une acte ^ternelle. — Haarean, p. 368. 
The reader who may be carious to learn how Dans Scotns solves other im- 
portant physical and metaphysical questions, the principle of motion, the 
personality and immortality of the soul, will do well to read the chapters 
of M. Haareaa, compared, if he will, with the heavier synopsis of Brucker, 
the neater of Tenneman, the more fall and elaborate examination of Ritter. 
Ritter dwells more on the theological and ethical part of the system of 
Duns Scotos, ifhom he ranks not only as the most acute and subtilest, bat, 
as should seem, the highest of the Schoolmen. The pages in which be 
traces the theory of Sootus respecting the means by which our knowledge 
is acquired an moft able, and full of interest for the metaphysical reader. 


Realism, under other forms of speech ; the Realism of 
DiCns Scotus was so absolutely a Realism of words, 
reality was with him something so thin and unsubstan- 
tial ; the Augustinianism of St. Thomas was so guarded 
and tempered by his high ethical tone, by his assertion 
of the loftiest Christian morality; the Pelagianism 
charged against Scotus is so purely metaphysical, so 
balanced by his constant, for him vehement, vindication 
of Divine grace, ^ only with notions peculiar to his phi- 
losophy, of its mode of operation, and with almost un- 
traceable distinctions as to its mode of influence, that 
nothing less than the inveterate pugnacity of Scholas- 
tic Teaching, and the rivalry of the two Orders, could 
have perpetuated the strife.^ That strife was no doubt 
heightened and imbittered by their real differences, 
which touched the most sensitive part of the MediaBval 
Creed, the worship of the "Virgin. This was coldly 
and irreverently limited by the refusal of the Domini- 
can to acknowledge her Immaculate Conception and 
birth ; wrought to a height above all former height by 
the passionate maintenance of that tenet in every Fran- 
ciscan cloister, by every Franciscan Theologian. 

But, afler all, the mortal enemy of the Franciscan 

I Ritter, p. 359. He is not only orthodox on this point; he is hierarchi- 
cal to the utmost. He adopts the phrase ascribed to St. Augustine, that he 
would not believe the Gospel but on the witness of the Church. The power 
of the ke3r8 he extends not only to temporal but to eternal punishments — 
doch mit dem Zusatze, dass hierbei, so wie in andem Dingen der Priester 
nur als Werkzeug Gottes handle, welcber selbst eines bosen Engels sich 
bedienen konnte um einer gultige Taufe zu voUziehn. — Scotus draws a 
distinction (he saves everything by a distinction which his subtilty never 
fiuls to furnish) between the absolute and secondary will of God. 

> Ritter thinks their philosophy vitally oppugnant (p. 364), but it is in 
reconciliilg their philosophy with the same orthodox theology that they 
igain approximate. One defines away necessity till it ceases to be necea- 
aitj, the other fetters free-will till it ceases to be free. 


scholasticism' was in the Franciscan camp« The relig^ 
ious mysticism of Bonaventura, the . high orthodox 
subtilism of Duns Scotus, were encountered by a more 
WiiUMB of dangerous antagonist. The schism of Fran* 
ockham. ciscanism was propagated into its philosophy; 
the Fraticelli, the Spiritualists, must have their cham- 
pion in the Schools, and that champion in ability the 
equal of those without and those within their Order, of 
Aquinas, Bonaventura, Duns Scotus. As deep in the 
very depths of metaphysics, as powerfiil a wielder of 
the g]*eat arm of the war, Logic; more fearless and 
peremptory as less under the awe of the Church in his 
conclusions •> — William of Ockham had already shaken 
the pillars of the hierarchical polity by his audacious 
assertion of the more than coequal rights of the tern* 
poral Sovereign; by his stem, rigid nominalism, he 
struck with scholastic arguments, in the hardest scho 
lastic method, at the foundations of the Scholastic Phi- 
losophy. William was of undistinguished birth, from 
the village of Ockham, in Surrey ; he entered into the 
Franciscan order, and was sent to study theology under 
Duns Scotus at Paris. The quarrel of Boniikce VIII. 
and Philip the Fair was at its height. How deeply 
the haughty and rapacious Pope had injured the Fran- 
ciscan order, especially the English Franciscans, has 
been told.^ How far William of Ockham was then 
possessed by the resentment of his Order, how far he 
had inclined to the extreme Fi*anciscanism, and con- 
demned his own Order, as well as the proud Prelates 
of the Church, for their avarice of wealth, does not 
clearly appear. He took up boldly, unreservedly, to 
the utmost height, the rights of temporal Sovereigns. 

1 See vol. ri. p. 990. 


In his Disputation on the ecclesiastical power ^ he 
fiised to acknowledge in the Pope any anthoritj what- 
ever as to secular affairs. Jesus Christ himself, as far 
as he was man, as far as he was a sojourner in this 
mortal world, had received from his heavenly Father 
no commission to censure Kings ; the partisans of the 
Papal temporal omnipotence were to he driven as here* 
tics from the Church. In the strife of- his Order with 
John XXII., William of Ockham is, with Michael of 
Cesena and Bonagratia, the fearless assertor of absolute 
poverty.^ These men confronted the Pope in his pow- 
er, in his pride, in his wealth. The Defence of Poverty 
by William of Ockham was the most dauntless, the 
most severely reasoned, the most sternly consequent, 
of the addresses poured forth to astonished a.s. 1828. 
Christendom by these daring Revolutionists. Pope 
John commanded the Bishops of Fen*ara and Bologna 
to examine and condemn this abominable book. Five 
years after, William of Ockham, Michael de Cesena 
and Bonagratia, were arraigned at Avignon, and in 
close custody, for their audacious opinions. William 
of Ockham might already, if he had any fear, shudder 
at the stake and the fire in which had perished so many 
of his brethren. They fled, took ship at Aigues Mor- 
tes, found their way to the Court of Louis of Bavaria. 
They were condemned by the Pope, cast off by their 
own Order. The Order at the Synod of Perpignan re- 
nounced the brotherhood of these men, who denounced 
their wealth as well as that of the Pope, and would 
admit nothing less than absolute, more than apostoHc 
poverty. Their sentence was that of heretics and 

1 DiKpatatio saper potesUte eccIeBiaaticft piwlatis atqne principibas temt- 
ram commissft. — In Goldastat de Monarchia. Compare Haareau, p. 419. 
> Apnd Brown, Faacicnlna. 


schismatics, deprivation of all privileges, perpetual im* 
prisonment. But William of Ockbam, in the Court 
of Louis, at Munich, laughed to scorn and defied their 
idle terrors. He became the champion of the Imperial 
rights, of the Franciscan Antipope, Peter of Corbara. 
He did not live to put to shame by his firmer, and more 
resolute resistance to the Pope, the timid, vacillating, 
yielding Louis of Bavaria. 

William of Ockbam was in philosophy as intrepid 
and as revolutionary as in his political writings. He is 
a consummate schoolman in his mastery, as in his use of 
logic ; a man who wears the armour of his age, en- 
gages in the spirit of his age, in the controversies of 
his age ; but his philosophy is that of centuries later.^ 
The scholastic theologian can discuss with subtilty 
equal to the subtilest, whether Angelic natures can be 
circumscribed in a certain place ; the Immaculate birth 
and conception of the Virgin, on which he is faithfully 
Franciscan ; Transubstantiation, on which he enters 
into the most refined distinctions, yet departs not firom 
the dominant doctrine. As a philosopher Ockbam rev- 
erently secludes the Godhead^ from his investigation. 
Logic, which deals with finite things, must not presume 

1 Qaodlibeta. Compare Schroeckh. xxxiv. 196-7. 

^ Quodlibet ii. quest ii. Haureau, 422. — In another part M. Hanreaa 
sums op Ockbam*8 awful reserve on the notion of God so boldly formed by 
the older Schoolmen : *^ C*est pr^cis^ment cette notion rationnelle de la sub- 
stance divine que Guillaume d'Ockham critique et r^duit k un concept ar- 
bitrairement compost ; compost de concepts qui expriment bien, sans doute, 
quelque chose de Dieu {aUquod Dei,) mais ne d^signent pas Dien lni-m6me, 
la substance, Tessence de Dien, quod est Detu .... cette notion abstraite 
de Dieu, cette notion qui, on le prouve bien, ne r^pr^sente pas son objet, est 
la seule que possdde la raison humoine, la seule qui lui permet de soup^on- 
ner, de diviner, de poser I'entit^ myst^rieuse de la supreme cause. Faut-il 
desirer une connaissance plus paifaite de cette cause? Sans ancun donte; 
mais en attendant, il faut 8*en tenir k ce qu^il salt" — p. 454. See also tha 
preceding pages. 


to discuss the Infinite First Cause. He at once, and 
remorselessly, destroys all the idols of the former 
schoolmen. Realism must surrender all her multifa- 
rious essences, her abstract virtues, her species, her ideas. 
Universals are but modes of thought ; even the phan- 
tasms of Aquinas must disappear. Ideas are no longer 
things ; they are the acts of the thinking being. Be- 
tween the subject which knows and the object known 
there is nothing intermediate. The mind is one, with 
two modes or faculties, — sensibility and intelligence. 
Sensation is not sufficient to impart knowledge ; there 
must be also an act of intelligence : the former is pure-^ 
ly intuitive, the latter is, as it were, judicial. The 
difference between the sensitive and intelligent is thus 
partly by experience, partly by reason. By experience, 
the child sees through sensation, not through intelli- 
gence ; by reason, because the soul, when separate, 
sees intellectually, but not through the senses. The 
sensitive vision is the potential cause of the intellectual 
vision, but not the potential cause of the intellectual 
assent. After intuition comes abstraction, sensation, or 
the intuitive notion, being always singular ; abstrac- 
tion may, as it were, insulate that which is singular, 
disengaging it from all its surrounding* circumstances ; 
it may introduce plurality, combine, compare, multiply. 
Thus ideas are simple perceptions, or conceptions, and 
so not only fall away the Democritean notions of actual 
images which have a local existence, and pass from the 
object to the sense, but likewise even the impressions, 
as of a seal, which is the doctrine of Scotus, and the 
real phantasms of St. Thomas.^ Of course he denies 

^ D^8 que lea id^es ne sont plas conaid^r^ comme d^s choses mais com- 
me des actes da Bujet peoBant, qae de chimdres s^^vanouiAsent I — p. 439. 


not the images or similitude of things in the organ of 
sight, but they are as the reflections in a mirror : thej 
do not precede and determine, though they accompany 
the sensation. The universal is but a conception of 
the mind ; and as these conceptions are. formed or peiv 
petuated by these processes, each is the repetition, the 
reflection of the other, in intelligence, speech, writing. 
Universals are words, whether conceived, spoken, or 
written words, which by common consent express un- 
der one term many singular things,^ In this respect, 
then, is William of Ockham a Nominalist in the 
strongest sense. 

Thus may William of Ockham seem with fine and 
prophetic discrimination to have assigned their > proper, 
indispensable, yet limited power and office to the 
senses; to have vindicated to the understanding its 
higher, separate, independent ftmction; to have ai^ 
ticipated the fiimous axiom of Leibnits, that there is 
nothing in the intellect but from the senses, except 
the intellect itself; to have anticipated Hobbes ; fei^ 
shadowed Locke, not as Locke is vulgarly judged, 
according to his later French disciples, but in him- 
self;^ to have taken his stand on the same ground 
with Kant. What Ab^lard was to the ancestors cf 
the Schoolmen was Ockham to the Schoolmen them- 
selves. The Schoolmen could not but eventuate in 
William of Ockham ; the united stream could not but 

1 '* Est . . . UDivefMle, vox yd acriptnui, Mit qoodcaaqiM alind signoM 
ex meditatione vel voluntario usa, significans plant tingalaria universe." 
Qaoted in Haureau, p. 409. 

s I must be allowed to refer to tfa« excellent article on Locke in ICr. Hri> 
lam'R Literary History; and to a veiy elaborate and able review of this 
groimdwork of Loclce^s ptrilosophy in the * Edinburgh Review,* Imtoly r»> 
pabliahed among the Essays by Mi. Rogen. 


endeavor to work itself dear; the incessant activity 
of thought could hardly fiul to call forth a thinker 
like Ockham. 

Snch was the character of the Scholastic Philosophy, 
such the chief of the scholastic philosophers, such the 
final assertion and vindication of the sole dominion 
of Latin Christianity over the mind of man. Between 
the close of this age, but before the birth of modem 
philosophy, was to come the Platonizing, half Pagan- 
izing, school of Marsilius Ficinus : the age to end in 
direct rebellion, in the Italian philosophers, against 
Christianity itself. But it was an extraordinary fact, 
that in such an age, when Latin Christianity might 
seem at the height of its mediaeval splendor and power, 
the age of chivalry, of Cathedral and Monastic archi- 
tecture, of poetry in its romantic and religious forma, 
so many powerful intellects should be so incessantly 
busy with the metaphysics of religion ; religion, not 
as taught by authority, but religion under philosophic 
guidance, with the aid, they might presume to say 
with the servile, the compulsory aid, of the Pagan 
Aristotle and the Mohammedan Arabians, but still 
with Aristotle and the Arabians admitted to the honor 
of a hearing: not regarded as odious, impious, and 
godless, but listened to with respect, discussed with 
freedom, refuted with confessed difficulty. With all 
its seeming outward submission to authority. Scholas- 
ticism at last was a tacit universal insurrection against 
authority ; it was the swelling of the ocean before the 
storm ; it began to assign bounds to that which had 
been the universal all-embracing domain of Theology. 
It was a sign of the reawakening life of the human 
mind that Theologians dared, that they thought it 


their privilege, that it became a duty to philosophize. 
There was vast waste of intellectual labor; but stiO 
it was intellectual labor. Perhaps at no time in the 
history of man have so many minds, and those minds 
of great vigor and acuteness, been employed on sub- 
jects almost purely speculative. Truth was the ob- 
ject of research ; truth, it is true, fenced about by the 
strong walls of authority and tradition, but still the 
ultimate remote object. Though it was but a tram* 
melled reluctant liberty, liberty which locked again 
its own broken fetters, still it could not but keep alive 
and perpetuate the desire of more perfect, more ab- 
solute emancipation. Philosophy once heard could 
not be put to silence. 

One man alone, Roger Bacon, even in his own day, 
had stood aloof, from this all-absorbing Theology, this 
metaphysical or ontological philosophy, which, with 
all the rest, was the dominant aim of all profound and 
rigidly syllogistic investigation ; the primary, if not ex- 
clusive subject-matter of all the vast volumes, in which 
the same questions, argued in the same forms, revolved 
in eternal round. Roger Bacon alone sought other 
knowledge, and by other processes of thought and rea- 
soning. Not that physical, or mathematical, or even 
experimental sciences were absolutely disdained or pro- 
scribed among the highest Theologians : they were pur 
sued by Albert the Great with the ardor of his all 
grasping intellect. But with Roger Bacon they were 
the predominant master studies. Even he, on his side, 
could not withdraw entirely from that which had been 
so long, and was to be still, so exclusively the province 
of all human thought, which must occupy it more or 
less. Theology ; but the others were manifestly the en- 


grossing pursuit^ the passion, as far as such men are 
Capable of passion, of his mind. Tet Latin Christian- 
ity can hardly lay claim to the glory, whatever that 
might be, of Roger Bacon. The Church, which could 
boast her Albert, Aquinas, Bonaventura, Duns Scotus, 
repudiated Roger Bacon with jealous suspicion. That 
which is his fame in later days, heaped on him, in his 
own, shame and persecution. For at least ten years he 
was in prison ; it is not quite clear that he ever emerged 
from that prison. Yet, though he has no proper place, 
though he is no way the son or the scholar of Latin 
Christianity, still, in justice to the rulers in Latin Chris-* 
tendom, as well as characterizing their rule (the ex- 
ceptional man often throws the strongest light on the 
times), must be instituted a more close, yet of necessity 
rapid investigation into the extent and causes of the 
persecution of Roger Bacon. 

At Oxford, his first place of study, Roger Bacon 
was remarked for his zeal in mathematical so„^,^„^ 
and scientific studies.^ But Paris was at that ^^' 
time to Transalpine Christendom what Athens was to 
later Rome. Without having attended lectures at 
Paris, no one could aspire to learned, or philosophical, 
or theological eminence. At Paris his great talent and 
acquirements obtained him the name of the '^ Wonder* 
fal Doctor." It was at Paris no doubt that he matured 
those studies, which he afterwards developed in his 
" Greater Work."^ He could no't but excite wonder ; 
doubtless he did excite more than wonder, for he dared 

^ It is disputed whether at Merton College or Brazenose Hall. As Bacon 
was not a member of Merton College, according to the ftshion of the day 
lie may possibly at diflferent times have lodged both in one and in the other. 
The halls were merely places of residence for Scholan* 

< The Opus Majos. 

VOL. vm. 19 


to throw off entirely the bondage of the Aristotelian 
logic. When he judged Aristotle, it should seem, onlj 
by those parts of his works, matured in the Dialectics 
of the Schools, he would have been the Omar of Aris- 
totle ; he would willingly have burned all his books, as 
wasting time, as causes of error, and a multiplication 
of ignorance.^ But Aristotle, as a philosopher, espe» 
cially as commented by Avicenna, after Aristotle the 
prince of philosophers, is the object of his profound 
reverence. The studies of Roger Bacon embraced 
every branch of physical science, Astronomy, Optics, 
Mechanics, Chemistry. He seems even to have had 
some glimpses of that which has first grown into a 
science in our own day. He was an industrious stu- 
dent of all languages, Hebrew, Greek, Arabic, the 
modem tongues. He had a dim notion of their kin- 
dred and filiation. He had a vision of a Universal 
Grammar, by which all languages were to be learned 
in an incredibly short space of time.* In Paris his fel- 
low-student was the famous Robert GrostSte : the inti- 

1 " Si haberem potestatem snper libros Aristotelia, ego fiicerem omnes 
cremari, qaia non est nisi temporis amissio studere in illis, et causa eiroris, 
et mnltiplicati erroris." See on the translators of Aristotle, Opns Majna, 
quoted by Jebb in Pnefat. i. c. viii. 

3 As his astronomy sometimes tampered with astrology, his cbemistrr 
degenerated into alchemy, so his knowledge of languages was not without 
what, in modem times, might be branded as charlatanism. He professed 
that, according to his Universal Grammar, he could impart to an apt and 
diligent scholar a knowledge of Hebrew in three days, of Greek in as many 
more. '* Certnm est mihi quod intrii tres dies quemcunque diligentem et 
confidentem docerem Hebreum et simnl legere et intelligere quicqnid sane- 
ti dicunt et sapientes antiqui in expositione sacri textiis, et quicquid perti- 
net ad illius textiis oorrectionem, et expositionem, si vellet se exercere se- 
cundum doctrinam doctam: et per tres dies sciret de Gneco iterum, ut non 
solum sciret legere et intelligere quicquid pertinet ad theologiam, sed ad 
philosophiam et ad linguam Latinam.** — Epist. de Laud. S. Script, ad P. 
Clement IT. Here too he is breaking up the way to Biblical critidam. 


mate friendship of such a man could not but commend 
him to the favor of some of the loftier Churchmen. 
He returned to Oxford, and in an evil hour took the 
&tal step (it is said by the advice of Grostete, who was 
iniatuated with the yet ardent zeal of the Franciscans) 
of becoming a Franciscan Friar. Thus he became not 
merely subject to the general discipline of the Church, 
but to the narrower, more rigid, more suspicious rule 
of the Order.^ It was difficult for a man of great 
powers to escape being a Dominican or Franciscan. 
The Dominicans were severe and jealously orthodox. 
The Inquisition was intrusted to them ; but they had a 
powerful and generous corporate spirit, and great pride 
in men of their own Order who showed transcen- 
dent abilities. The Franciscan Generals were, with 
the exception perhaps of John of Parma, and of St. 
Bonaventura, men of mean talent, of contracted and 
jealous minds, with all the timidity of ignorance.^ The 
persecutor of Roger Bacon was Jerome of Ascoli, the 
General of his own Order ; first when as Cardinal he 
was aspiring towards the steps of the Papal throne ; 
afterwards when he ascended that throne as Nicolas 
IV.* Nor indeed were wanting at that time causes 
which might seem to justify this ungenerous timidity 
in the Franciscans. They were watched with the 
jealousy of hatred by the Dominicans. Masters of the 
Inquisition, the Dominicans would triumph in the de- 

' Acording to some he became a Franciscan at Paris. 

* ^ Les Franciscains, toajours gouvern^s, si Ton excepte Saint Bonaven- 
tnra, par des g^neraux d'un menu talent et d*un mediocre savoir, ne se 
sentaient qu'humili^s de la presence et de la gloire des homines de m^ 
rite, qai s'^taient ^gar^ parmi eux." — M. V. de Clerc, Hist. Lit. de la 
Fmnce, xx. p. 230. 

' Jerome d*A.scoIi was at Paris, the probable date of Bacon's persecution 
in 1278. I cannot but doubt the date usually assigned to his birth. 


tection of Franciscan heretics. There had been already 
the first rending of their body by the &tal schism, un- 
der John of Parma, hardly allayed by the gentle and 
commanding rule of Bonaventura. The fierce dem- 
ocratic Ghibellinism was even now fermenting among 
them, hereafter to break out in the Anti-Papal writings 
of William of Ockham. Roger Bacon himself might 
seem disposed to tamper with perilous politics. On his 
return to Oxford, he preached, it is said, before King 
Henry III., and denounced, in no measured terms, 
the employment of French and Gascon Nobles and 
Prelates in the great offices of State ; the prodigality 
of the King towards these foreign favorites ; his blind 
confidence in the Bishop of Winchester; his placing 
foreign Poitevins in possession of the chief forts and 
strongholds in the realm. Even in his own Order, 
Roger Bacon is said to have shown the natural con- 
tempt of a man of his high acquirements for the igno- 
rance and superstition of his brethren ; to have let fidl 
alarming words about Reform in the Franciscan Con- 
vents. Yet was he not without powerful friends ; Gro»- 
tdte, of Lincoln, and, after GrostSte's death, men at 
least of wealth and liberality. He is reported to have 
received at Oxford no less a sum than 2,000 Paris 
livres for books and instruments. Even the Church as 
yet seemed more disposed to admire and to honor, than 
to look with cold suspicion on the wonderiul man. Pope 
A.D.1286. Clement IV. accepted the dedication of the 
Work which contained all the great principles of his 
philosophy ; all on which his awe-struck brethren looked 
as fearftd magic. He received the work itself with 
some instruments invented by Bacon to illustrate his 
experiments. These Bacon, notwithstanding the direct 

Chaf. m. CLEMENT lY. 298 

prohibition of the Rulers of his Order, who threatened 
him with the forfeiture of his book, and the penalty 
of confinement on bread and water, if he ctement it. 
dared to communicate with any one what 12^1268. 
might be his unlawful discoveries,^ despatched through 
John of Paris to Borne. Philosophy was thus as it 
were entering its appeal to the Pope. Clement IV. 
was a Frenchman ; no doubt knew the fame of Bacon 
at Paris. He had written a letter to Bacon entreating 
the communication of his famous wonders. Bacon had 
not dared to answer this letter till Clement was on the 
Papal throne ; and even the Pope himself dared not 
openly to receive this appeal of philosophy. He stip- 
ulated that the books and the instruments should be 
sent as secretly as possible.^ For the ten years which 
followed the death of Clement lY., Bacon lived an ob-^ 
ject of wonder, terror, suspicion, and of petty ^ ^ ^288- 
persecution by his envious or hi& superstitious ^^' 
brethren. He attempted to propitiate Honorius IV. by 
a treatise on ^^ The Mitigation of the Inconveniences of 
Old Age."^ At the close of these ten years, came to 
Paris, as Legate from Pope Nicolas III., Jerome of 
Ascoli, General of the Franciscan Order. Jerome 
was a true Franciscan ; and before him the Franciscans 
fomid ready audience in the arraignment of that fear- 
ful magician, their Brother. It is singular that among 
the specific charges was that of undertaking to predict 

!> " Sab pnecepto et paen& amissions libri et jejunio in pane et aquA plu- 
ribns diebns, prohibueront eum a communicando scriptum aliquod a se fac- 
tum cam aliis quibuscunqne/* — Opus Majus, MS. Cott. fol. 3. 

s^'Hoc quanto Becrotios poteris, facies.'* — Wadding, Ann. 11, p. 39i, 
quoted in an eztremelj good article on Roger Bacon in Didot> new Bio- 
graphie Unirereelle, which has avoided or corrected many erron in the old 

• Honorius lY. not Nicolas IT. See Hist. Lit de la France, p. 833. 


future events. Bacon's own words show that the 
charge, however puerile, was true : " But for the stu- 
pidity of those employed, he would have framed astro- 
nomical tables, which, by marking the times when the 
heavenly bodies were in the same positions and con- 
junctions, would have enabled him to vaticinate their 
influence on human affairs."^ That which to us was 
the rare folly of a wise man, to his own age was the 
crime of a wicked one. The general accusation was 
iar more wide and indefinite, and from its indefiniteness 
more terrible. It was a compact with the Devil, from 
whom alone he had obtained his wonderful knowledge, 
and wrought his wonderful works. In vain Bacon sent 
out his contemptuous and defiant treatise on the nullity 
of magic : " Because things are above your shallow 
understandings, you immediately declare them works 
of the Devil." In such words he arraigns not the 
vulgar alone : ^^ Theologians and Canonists, in their 
ignorance, abhor these things, as works of magic, and 
unbecoming a Christian." And thus the philosopher 
spoke against his whole Order ; and before a Cardinal 
Legate, a Master of that Order. Roger Bacon was 
consigned to a Monastic dungeon at least for ten. years ; 
and as it is not likely that Jerome of Ascoli, as Pope, 
would mitigate the rigor, no doubt conscientiously ex- 
ercised, most probably for five years more, till the close 

^ Throughout Bacon*8 astrological section (read from p. 237), the facAT- 
en\y bodies act entirely through their physical properties, cold, heat, moist- 
nre, drought The comet causes war (he attributes the wars then raging 
in Europe to a comet) not as a mere arbitrary sign, nor as by ma^c influ- 
ence (all this he rejects as anile superstition), but as by its intense heat In- 
flamiug the blood and passions of men. It is an exaggeration (unphilo- 
eophical enough) of the influences of the planetary bodies, and the powers 
of human observation to trace their effects, but very different from what it 
ordinarily conceived of judicial astrology. 


of the Pontificate of Nicolas IV. If he emerged firom 
the darkness of his prison, it was not more than a year 
before his death. 

The value and extent of Roger Bacon^s scientific dis- 
coveries, or prophecies of discoveries, how far his own, 
or derived from Arabian sources, belongs rather to the 
history of philosophy than of Latin Christianity. His 
astronomy no doubt had enabled him to detect the error 
in the JuUan year: three centuries too soon he pro- 
posed to Clement IV. to correct the Calendar by his 
Papal authority : but I presume not to enter further 
into this or kindred subjects. In Optics his admirers 
assert that he had found out many remarkable laws, the 
principle of the Telescope, the Refraction of Light, the 
cause of the Rainbow. He framed burning-glasses of 
considerable magnitude. Mechanics were among his 
favorite and most successful studies.* In his Chemis- 
try he had reached, or nearly reached, the invention of 
gunpowder : it is more certain that he sought the phi- 
losopher's stone, or at least a transmuting elixir with 
unlimited powers. There are passages about mounting 
in the air without wings, and self-moving carriages, 
travelling at vast speed without horses, which sound 
like vaticinations of still more wonderful things. He 
had no doubt discovered the cause of the tides. It is 
for others, too, to decide how far in the general princi- 
ples of his 'philosophy he had anticipated his greater 
namesake, or whether it was more than the sympathy 
of two kindred minds working on the same subjects, 
which led to some singular yet very possibly fortui- 
tous coincidences of thought and expression.^ This, 

1 See Mr. Forster's ** Mohammedanism Unyeiled," and Mr. Hallam*s ja- 
Ikious remarks, Lit. Hist. 


however, is certain, that although the second Bacon^a 
great work, as addressed to Europe, might condescend 
to the Latin form, it was in its strong copious Teut(HKic 
English that it wrought its revolution, that it became 
the great fountain of English thought, of English sa- 
gacity, the prelude to and the rule of English scientific 

Roger Bacon has rather thrown us back in our chro- 
nology to the age of the older Scholasticism ; but Scho- 
lasticism ruled supreme almost to the close of exclusive 
Latin Christianity ; it expired only by degrees ; its 
bonds were loosened, but not cast off: if its forma 
had given place to others more easy, natural, rhetor- 
ical, its modes of thought, its processes of ratiocination, 
its logic, and its definitions, still swathed the dead body 
of Christian Theology. Gerson was still in a great 
degree a schoolman, Wycliffe himself at Oxford was 
a schoolman. But Latin Christianity was not all 
scholastic theology, it was religion also; it did not 
altogether forget to be piety, holiness, charity ; it was 
not content with its laborious endeavors to enlightea 
the mind ; it knew still that the heart was its proper 
domain. The religious feelings, the religious affec- 
tions, the religious emotions, were not abandoned for 
the eternal syllogisms of the schools, the interminable 
process of twenty-fold assertion, twenty-fold objection, 
twenty-fold conclusion. It was not enough that the 
human intelligence should be taught that it was an 
efflux, a part of the Divine intelligence. Nor was the 
higher office of training the soul of man to commun- 
ion with Christ by faith, purity, and love, altogether 
left to what may be called Scholastic Mysticism. In 
one remarkable book was gathered and concentred all 


that was elevating, passionate, profoundly pious, in all 
the older mystics. Gerson, Rysbroek, Tanler, all who 
addressed the heart in later times, were summed up, 
and brought into one circle of light and imitation 
heat, in the single small volume, the " Imi- ^ ^^'***- 
tation of Christ." That this book supplied some im- 
perious want in the Christianity of mankind, that it 
supplied it with a fulness and felicity, which left noth- 
ing, at this period of Christianity, to be desired, its 
boundless popularity is the one unanswerable testi- 
mony. No book has been so often reprinted, no book 
has been so often translated, or into so many languages, 
as the ^^ Imitation of Christ."^ The mystery of its 
authorship as in other cases might have added to its 
fitme and circulation ; but that mystery was not wanted 
in regard to the ^' Imitation." Who was the author 
— Italian, German, French, Fleming ?2 With each 
of these races it is taken up as a question of national 
▼anity. Was it the work of Priest, Canon, Monk ? 
This, too, in former times, was debated with the eager- 
ness of rival Orders.* * The size of the book, the nian- 

^ According to M. Michelet (whose rhapsody, as usual, contains much 
which is striking truth, much of his peculiar sentimentalism) there are 
mztj traoslationa into French ; in nome respects he thinks the French trans- 
hition, the ** Consolation/' more piou<( and touching than the original. 

^ Italian, French, German idioms have been detected. 

• Several recent writers, especially M. On^sime Roy, " Etudes sur les 
Mynt^res,*' have thought that they have proved it to be by the famous Gerson. 
If any judgment is to be formed from Gerson's other writings, the internal 
eridencc is conclussive against him. M. Michelet has some quotations from 
Thomas h Kempis, the anthor at least of a tliick volume published under 
that name, which might seem equally to endanger his claim. But to me, 
though inferior, the other devotional works there ascribed to Thomas k 
Kempis, the Soliloquium Anims, the Hortulus Rosarum, and Vallis Lilium, 
even the Sermons, if not quite so pare, are more than kindred, absolutely 
the same, in thought and language and style. See the Opera T. k Kempis: 
Antwerp, 1515. 


ner, the style, the arrangement, as well as its profound 
sympathy with all the religious feelings, wants, and 
passions ; its vivid and natural expressions, to monas- 
tic Christianity what the Hebrew Psalms are to our 
common religion, to our common Christianity ; its 
contagious piety; all conspii*ed to its universal dis- 
semination, its universal use. This one little volume 
contained in its few pages the whole essence of the 
St. Victors, of Bonaventura without his Franciscan 
{)eculiarities, and of the later mystic school. Yet it 
might be easily held in the hand, carried about where 
no other book was borne, — in the narrow cell or cham- 
ber, on the journey, into the solitude, among the crowd 
and throng of men, in the prison. Its manner, its 
short, quivering sentences, which went at once to the 
heart ; and laid hold of and clung tenaciously to the 
memory with the compression and completeness of 
proverbs ; ^ its axioms, each of which suggested end- 
less thought ; its imagery, scriptural and simple, were 
alike original, unique. The style is ecclesiastical Latin, 
but the perfection of ecclesiastical Latin — brief, preg- 
nant, picturesque ; expressing profound thoughts in the 
fewest words, and those words, if compared with the 
scholastics, of purer Latin sound or construction. The 
facility with which it passed into all other languages, 
those especially of Roman descent, bears witness to its 
perspicuitj', vivacity, and energy. Its arrangement has 
something of the consecutive progress of an ancient in- 
itiation ; it has its commencement, its middle, and its 
close ; discriminating yet leading up the student in 

1 It is niiigular how it almost escapes or avoids tliat fatal ▼ulgariam of 
most mystic works, metaphors taken from oar lower senses, the taste, the 


constant ascent ; it is an epopee of the internal history 
of the human soul. 

The " Imitation of Christ " both advanced and ar- 
rested the development of Teutonic Christianity ; it 
was prophetic of its approach, as showing what was 
demanded of the human son), and as endeavoring, in 
its own way, to supply that imperative necessity ; yet 
by its deficiency, as a manual of universal religion, of 
eternal Christianity, it showed as clearly that the hu- 
man mind, the human heart, could not rest in the Imi- 
tation. It acknowledged, it endeavored to fill up the 
void of personal religion. The Imitation is the soul 
of man working out its own salvation, with hardly any 
aid but the confessed necessity of divine grace. It 
may be because it is the work of an ecclesiastic, a 
priest or monk, but, with the exception of the exhorta- 
tion to frequent communion, there is nothing whatever 
of sacerdotal intervention : all is the act, the obedience, 
the aspiration, the self-purification, self-exaltation of 
the soul. It is the Confessional in which the soul con- 
fesses to itself, absolves itself; it is the Direction by 
whose sole guidance the soul directs itself. The Book 
absolutely and entirely supersedes and supplies the 
place of the spiritual teacher, the spiritual guide, the 
spiritual comforter : it is itself that teacher, guide, com- 
forter. No manual of Teutonic devotion is more ab- 
solutely sufficient. According to its notion of Christian 
perfection. Christian perfection is attainable by its study, 
and by the performance of its precepts : the soul needs 
no other mediator, at least no earthly mediator, for its 
union with the Lord. 

But " The Imitation of Christ," the last efibrt of 
Latju Christianity, is still monastic Christianity. It is 


absolatdj and entirely selfish in its aim, as in its acts. 
Its sole, single, exclusive object, is the purification, the 
elevation of the individual soul, of the man absolutely 
isolated from his kind, of the man dwelling alone in the 
solitude, in the hermitage of his own thoughts ; with 
no fears or hopes, no sympathies of our common na- 
ture : be has absolutely withdrawn and secluded hin^- 
self not only firom the cares, the sins, the trials, but from 
the duties, the connections, the moral and religious fate 
of the world. Never was misnomer so glaring, if just- 
ly considered, as the title of the book, the ^^ Imitation of 
Christ." That which distinguishes Christ, that which 
distingubhes Christ's Apostles, tbat which distinguishes 
Christ's religion — the Love of Man — is entirely and 
absolutely left out Had this been the whole of Chris- 
tianity, our Lord himself (with reverence be it said} 
had lived, like an Essene, working out or displajring his 
own sinless perfection by the Dead Sea : neither on the 
Mount, nor in the Temple, nor even on the Cross. 
The Apostles had dwelt entirely on the internal emo- 
tions of their own souls, each by himself, St. Peter still 
by the Lake of Gennesareth, St. Paul in the desert of 
Arabia, St. John in Patmos. Christianity had been 
without any exquisite precept for the purity, the happi- 
ness of social or domestic life ; without self-sacrifice for 
the good of others ; without the higher Christian pa- 
triotism, devotion on evangelic principles to the public 
weal ; without even the dev*otion of the missionary for 
the dissemination of Gospel truth ; without the hum- 
bler and gentler daily self^acrifice for relatives, for the 
wife, the parent, the child. Christianity had never 
soared to be the civilizer of the world. "Let the 
world perish, so the single soul can escape on its soli- 


tary plank from the general wreck," such had been its 
— terminates in self. The simple exemplary sentence, 
final axiom. The " Imitation of Christ " begins in self 
** He went about doing good," is wanting in the mo- 
nastic gospel of this pious zealot. Of feeding the hun- 
gry, of clothing the naked, of visiting the prisoner, 
even of preaching, there is profound, total silence. 
The world is dead to the votary of the Imitation, and 
he is dead to the world, dead in a sense absolutely re- 
pudiated by the first vital principles of the Christian 
fiuth. Christianity, to be herself again, must not mere- 
ly shake off indignantly the barbarism, the vices, but 
even the virtues of the Mediaeval of Monastic, of Latin 




What did Latin Christianity add to the treasures of 
Latin poetry ? Poetry, as in Greece, may have its dis- 
tinct epochs in different forms, but it rarely, if ever, 
renews its youth. ^ Hardly more than half a century 
contains all that is of tbe highest order in Latin poetry 
— Lucretius, Catullus, Virgil, Horace, the Elegiacs, 
Ovid. Even that noble declamatory verse, which in 
the best passages of Lucan, in Juvenal, and even in 
Claudian (this, with the philosophic and didactic poe- 
try, Lucretius, Virgil, and the exquisite poetry of com- 
mon sense and common life in Horace, the only indi- 
genous poetry of Rome), dies feebly out in the triumph 
of Christianity over Heathenism, as celebrated by Pru- 
dentius in his book against Symmachus. 

The three earlier forms of Christian Latin poetry 
chrtotfon were — I. Paraphrases of the Scripture, II. 
Pamphiues.' Legends of Saints, and III. Hymns, with a 
few controversial poems, like that of St. Prosper on 
Pelagianism. 1. In the Scriptural Poems the life and 

I It has done so besides in Greece, in England alone, hardly in Ifcalr, un- 
less Alfieri be admitted to make a third Epoch, with Dante and Petrardi, 
with Ariosto and Tasso. Spain has had bat one, that of Lope, Cen^antes 
and Calderon ; Germany bat one, and that a late one, of Schiller and Goe- 
the. The most striking parallel is in India, of the vast Epics, the Maha- 
barata and Ramayana, of the Drama of Calidasa, of the Lyric Gita Govinda. 


energy of the biblical annalists or poets are beaten out 
to pleonastic and wearisome length ; the antithetic or 
parallelistic form of the Hebrew poetry is entirely lost ; 
the uncongenial Orientalism of t|;iought and imagery 
will not submit to the hard inirolutions of the Latin : 
it dislocates the harmony of the verse, if verse still re- 
tains or strives after harmony, without giving its own 
rude strength or emphatic force. The Vulgate alone, 
by creating almost a new language, has naturalized the 
biblical thoughts and figures, which obstinately refuse 
to be bound in the fetters of the Latin Hexameter. 
The infallible poetic sentiment of mankind will still re- 
fuse the name of poetry to the prolix, though occasion- 
ally vigorous, versifications of Fortunatus, Juvencus, 
Sedulius, Arator, Avitus, and the rest. As to the old 
voyager in the vast interminable ocean, if he beheld on 
some dreary mass of rock a patch of brilliant green, a 
tuft of graceful trees, a cool rush of water, it became a 
paradise — a Tinian or a Juan Fernandez — and is 
described as one of the Elysian islands : so the curious 
reader, if, on travereing these endless poems, he discov- 
ers some lines more musical, some images more happily 
embodied in words, some finer or more tender thoughts 
expressed not without nature, he bursts out into rap- 
ture, and announces a deep mine of rich and forgotten 
poetry. The high-wrought expectations of the next 
visitants revenge their disappointment by exaggerating 
perhaps the dreariness and the barrenness.^ In these 

1 Even M. Guizot, in his Lectures on Civilization, cites passages from 
these authors, with praise, as it seems to me, far beyond their due. They 
are pre-Miltonic, as he asserts, in some of their thoughts, in pome of their 
imagery, that is, they are drawn from the same sources ; but what they 
want is, what Milton has given them, Poetry. So too M. Ampere in his 
valuable Lectures. The passage which I have quoted from Dracontius the 


poems creative power there is and can be none : inven* 
tion had been a kind of sacrilege. The Hebrew poe- 
try, in the coldest and most artificial translarion, pre- 
serves something of its life and sententious vigor, its 
bold figures and imagery : in the many-folded shroud 
of the Latin poetic paraphrase it is a mummy. 

The Epic Poetry of Latin Christianity (I feel the 
abuse of the words) had done its work of paraphrase, 
or had nearly exhausted itself in a few centuries ; but 
if it sunk almost 'into silence from the fifth to the 
eighth, it rose again more ambitious, and seized the 
office of the historian, or that which had been the sole 
function of the humble orator under the later empire, 
that of the panegyrist. Hardly a great historic event 
took place, hardly a great man ascended a throne or 
achieved fame, but some monkish versifier aspired to 
immortalize him with an interminable length of harsh 
hexameter or of elegiac verse. Charlemagne indeed 
was mostly reserved for later romance, and happily had 
his historian Eginhard. But Louis the Pious was cele- 
brated- by Ermoldus Nigellus in a long poem in el^iac 
verse ; the siege of Paris by the Normans was sung ib 
hexameters by Abbo ; the anonymous panegyrist en- 
deavored to raise the Italian Berengar into a hero; 
Hroswitha wrote of the deeds of the Emperor Otho ; 
Gunther, the Ligurian, those of Barbarossa ; Donizo, 
the Countess Matilda, from whom was inseparable the 
great name of Gregory VIL William the Apulian 
described the conquests of the Normans ; William of 

SfMoiard, in the History of Christisnity (iii p. 470), still sppean to me the 
mottt favorable example which has occurred in the coarse of my reading: 
and I haw toilsomely read much of that age. To me they are inferior m 
Christian Latin Poetry to Sanazzaro or Vida and to some of the Jesoits, 
who are at least correct, animated, harmonioua 


Brittany, Philip Augustas ; and so in unexhausted suc- 
cession to the Cardinal Poet of CGelestine V. and Bon- 
ifiice YIII. But from all those historical poems, who 
has yet struck out for our admiration one passage of 
genuine poetry? Perhaps their great merit is their 
want of poetry : they can lie under no suspicion of 
invention, hardly of poetic embellishment: they are 
simply verse chronicles, as veracious as the works of 
the contemporary prose historians of the cloister. 

Nor were these inexhaustible and inde&tigable writ- 
ers in Latin verse content with the domain of Lat«LMia 
history, or the reward of the panegyrical ora- '~°**' 
tor. They seized and petrified, either for their amuse- 
ment, or as a trial of skill, or for the solace and enter- 
tainment of their brother Monks, the old traditional 
Grerman poetry, the &bulous histories, the initiatory 
romances, which, in their rude vernacular form and 
language, began to make themselves heard. What the 
Court or the Castle Hall listened to in the Lay or 
the Tale of the Wandering Minstrel, was heard in the 
Cloister in a Latin version. The Monks converted to 
their own use, perhaps supposed that they were sav- 
ing from destruction, by transferring into imperishable 
Latin, the fleeting or expiring songs, which became the 
Niebelungen and the Heldenbuch. Such doubtless was 
the origin of the remarkable poem called Waltharius, 
or the expedition of Attila, founded on the Legends of 
Dietrich, Siegfried, and Etzel. But even in this very 
curious work it is remarkable that, although the innate 
poetry of the subject has given more than usual anima- 
tion to the monkish versifier, yet the prosaic and his- 
toric element predominates. The cloister poet labors 
to make that history which is pure mythic romance ; 

VOL. via. 90 


the wild song is hardened into a chronicle.^ The epic 
of John of Exeter, on the War of Troy (as no doobt 
his lost Antiocheis), is, in verse, the romance histofj 
prevalent under the authority of Dictys Cretensis and 
Dares Phrygius, during the Middle Ages.^ With other 
Poems of that class, it mingles in discordant confusion 
the wild adventures of the romance writers, the long 
desultory tales and luxuriant descriptions of the Troo- 
vdres, with the classical form of verse. Thwraghout it 
is the Monk vainly laboring to be the Bard ; it is pop- 
ular poetry cast in a form most remote from popularity, 
not only in a language, but in an artificial mould, which 
unfitted it for general acceptance. It was in truth the 
popular poetry of a small class, the more learned of 
the clergy and the Monk : the unlearned of that class 
must still have sought, and did seek, with the lay vul- 
gar, their poetic enjoyment from the vernacular min- 
strel or Trouvere. Latinized, it was, as they no doubt 
thought, chastened and elevated for their more pious 
and fastidious ears. Latin verse condescended to this 
humbler office, little suspecting that these pc^ular songs 
contained elements of the true poetic spirit, which 
would throw all the Latin epics of the Middle Ages into 
irretrievable obscurity. Nothing indeed could escape 
these all-appropriating indefatigable versifiere of the 
cloister. Almost all the vernacular poetry of the Mid- 
dle Ages has its Latin counter-type, poems of chivalry, 

^ De Expeditione AttileBf edited hy FincheTf Leipsic, 17S0: and later bj 
Grimm and Schmeller, Gottingen, 1838. Compare Gervinns, Geschichte 
der poetischen Nat. Lit. der Deutschen, i. p. 99 et geq. 

s Walton, in his History of English Poetry, girea some spirited yenea 
fipom John of Exeter. The poem may be read (it ia hard reading) snb- 
joined to the edition of Dictys Cretensis and Dares Phrygias. Amsterdam, 


poems of adventure, of course Saint-Legends, even the 
long fables, which the Germans call beast-poetry, and 
the amatory songs. The Latin version of Reynard the 
Fox ^ has not been able, in the harsh and uncongenial 
form of Monkish elegiac verse, altogether to quench 
the drollery of the original. It is written by a man 
with a singular mastery over the barbarous but expres- 
sive Latin of his day, of extraordinary ingenuity in 
finding apt and fitting phrases for all the strange no- 
tions and combinations in this bestial allegory. Bat 
" Renardus Vulpes " is manifestly of a late period ; it 
is a bitter satire on Monks and Monkery. The Wolf 
Isengrim is an Abbot: it contains passages violently 
and coarsely Antipapal.^ It belongs, the Latin ver- 
sion at least, rather perhaps to the class of satiric than 
of epic Latin poetry. 

On the whole, this vast mass of Latin poetry ofiers 
no one exception to the eternal irrepealable law, that 
no great poet is inspired but in his native language. 
The Crusades were, perhaps happily, too late even to 
tempt the ambition of the Cloister poets. By that 
time, the art of Latin versification, if not lost, was not 
so common : the innate poetry of the subject breaks 
occasionally through the barbarous but spirited prose 
of William of Tyre and James de Vitry. 

II. The poems on the Lives of the Saints, it might 
have been supposed, as treating on subjects ^^^ ^f ^i^g 
in which the mythic and imaginative element ^^^^' 

^ Renardoa Vulpes. Editio Princepe. Edited by M. Mone. Stuttgard 
et Tabmg», 1832. 

3 This alone would confute (if confutation were necessary) the theory of 
Ili0 editor M. Mone, who attributes the aim of the Satire to certain obscure 
personages in an obscure but early period in the history of Flemish Gaul. 
Kote, p. 1, el seq. The Flemish origin of the poem seems now proved, but 
the original was clearly Teutonic, not Latin. . 


of Christianity predominated, would at least display 
more freedom and originality. They were addressed 
to the higher emotions, which poetry delights to waken, 
wonder, sympathy, veneration, pity ; they were legends 
in which noble men and beautiful women, Saints and 
Holy Virgins, were at issue with power, with cruelty, 
with fate. The new poetic machinery of Angels and 
Devils was at the command of the poet ; the excited 
faith of the hearers was ready to accept fiction for 
truth ; to believe the creation of the poet with unsus- 
pecting belief. But legend only reluctantly and un- 
graciously submitted to the fetters of Latin verse ; the 
artificial form seemed to dull the inspiration. Even in 
the earliest period, the Saint-Poems and the Martyr- 
doms (except perhaps some pleasing descriptions in 
Paulinus of Nola) are, in my judgment, far inferior, 
even in poetic merit, to the prose legends. I know 
nothing equal to the Martyrs of Vienne, or the Per- 
petua and Felicitas, even in the best of Prudentius, 
who is in general insufferably long, and suffocates all 
which is noble or touching (and there is much of both} 
with his fatal copiousness. In later times the lives of 
St. Boniface, St. Gall, and St. Anschar have more of 
the imaginative tone of poetry than the hard harsh 
verses of the period. I should almost say that the 
Golden Legend awakens more of the emotion of 
poetry than any of the poetic lives of the mediaeval 

III. Even in the Hymnology ^ of the Latin Church, 
her lyric poetry, it is remarkable, that, with the excep- 
tion of the Te Deum, those hymns, which have struck, 

I Compare Thesaaros Hymnologicns. H. A. Daniel. Hales, 1S41. A 
oopioos and excellent collection. 

Chap. IV. HTMNOLOGT. 809 

as it were, and cloven to the universal heart of Chris- 
tendom, are mostly of a late period. The stanzas 
which the Latin Church has handed down in her 
services from Prudentius are hut the flowers gatliered 
from a wilderness of weeds.^ The " Pange Lingua 
Oloriosi " is attributed to Venantius Fortunatus, or 
Mamertus Claudianus, in the fifth century ; the ^^ Sta- 
bat Mater " "and the " Dies IrsB " are, the ^rst prob- 
ably by Jacopone da Todi, and the last by Thomas di 
Celano, in the fourteenth. These two, the one by 
its tenderness, the other by its rude grandeur, stand 
unrivalled ; in melody, perhaps the hymn of St. Bonar 
▼entnra to the Cross approaches nearest to their ex- 
cellences.^ As a whole, the Hymnology of the Latin 

1 The two or three stanzaSf '* Salyete Flores Mertyram/' are from the 
middle of a long, it most be confessed tiresome Poem. Cathem. xii. y. 
IflS. Pmdentiiu, even in Germany, was the great popular author of the 
Middle Ages; no worki^nt the Bible appears with so many glosses (inter- 
pretations or notes) in high Crerman, which show that it was a book of 
popular instruction. Rodolf Raumer, Einwirknng Christenthums anf die 
Althoch Deutsche Sprache, p. 222. — Seine Hymnen und die des Ambrosius, 
bilden mit den Ubrigen Christlichen Lyrikem, das Gesangbuch des mittelal- 
teriichen Klerus. — The hynms of Ambrose were translated into Grerman 
in the ninth century. 

* The two former are t4X> well known to extract. Take two stanzas of 

tiie latter: — 

** Beeofdare lanottD erads, 

Qui perlbetam riun duds, 

Deleetare Jugiter, 
SaiMta oruela vecordaTe. 
Bt in ipsft meditare 


*( Qanm quiesoas ant labons, 
Quaodo rides, qnando plonui, 

Doles skwa gaudeas, 
QuMido Tadifl, qnando Tenia, 
In aolatiis in poenia 

Cmoem eorde teneaa." 

Apud Daniel, U. p. 102. 

Of the more general hymns I would select that for the Evening, the ** De«s 


Church has a singularly solemn and majestic tone. 
Much of it, no doubt, like the Ijric verse of the 

Creator Omniam," for its gentle cadence (p. 17); the Paschal Hymn of the 
Boman Breviary (usually the best), p. 83 ; In Exequiis Defonctonim (p. 
187): — 

" Jam moesta qnieMe qaeralay 

Lacrinuui 8U«peadite matrea ; 

Nallus sua pignon plangat, 

Hon luBC repaxatto ritm «tt. * 

Qoidnam tibi saza carata, 

Quid pulcra Tolunt nonomenta 

Res quod nisi creditur iUis, 

Non mortaa, sed data eoumo." 

Or, the two attributed to St Bernard, p. 227 and 432, which show the 
height of his mysticism. Of what are called the Rhythms, by far the finest 
is that on Paradise, attributed, no doubt without ground, to St. AogBsCiiM, 
more likely by Damiani. It was never chanted in the Church; — 

" Ad perennis vitn Ibntem mens sitiTit arida, 
Claustia oanods pras to fiangi elausa qoari t aidma : 
GUadt, amUt, elnetatur cxol frui patriaf 

" Dam prsMuiis et aBrumnis at gsmit obnoziam, 
Qnam amisit, dum deliquit, oontemplator gloriam, 
Pneaeas malum anget boni perdifci memoriam. 

" Nam quia promat aummaB paeis quanta dt bstltia, 
Ubi TiTla margultia aurgunt aedifleia, 
Anio oelaa mieant taeta, xadianl trieUnia : 

<* Solis gammia pratioaia baae atmetoxta naetltar, 
Auro mnndo, tanquam vitro, urbia via atamltur, 
Abeat Umua, daeat flmoa, loaa nulla oamltnr. 


HIema homna, aataa tomoa ilUe nunqnam aaanunt, 
rioa perpetuua roaanun m aglt pacpatuom, 
Gandent lUia, rubeacit oroeua, audat balaamum. 

" Yirent prata, Temant aata, liTl melUa ooofluunt, 
Pigmentorum apirat odor, Uqoor at aravatum, 
Pandent poma flofldomm nee lapaoxa ncmonun. 

** Non altemat Inna Tieea, aol vel eniraa aUeram, 
Agnna aat fellda orUa lumen inoeddnnm* 
Nox at tempua daaunt al, diem Ibrt contiQaum." 

Daniel, i. p. 116; and in woika of St. AvgoallM. 

There are thirteen more stanxas. 

Chap. IV. HYMNOLOQT. 811 

Greeks, was twin-bom with the music ; it is insep^ 
anblj wedded with the music ; its cadence is musical 
rather than metrical. It suggests, as it were, the grave 
full tones of the chant, the sustained grandeur, the glo- 
rious burst, the tender fidl, the mysterious dying away 
of the organ. It must be heard, not read. Decom«- 
pose it into its elements, coldly examine its thoughts, its 
images, its words, its versification, and its magic is gone* 
Listen to it, or even read it with the imagination or 
the memory full of the accompanying chant, it has 
an unfelt and indescribable sympathy with the relig*> 
ions emotions, even of those whose daily service it does 
not constitute a part. Its profound religiousness has 
a charm to foreign ears, wherever there is no stem or 
passionate resistance to its power. In fact, all Hym* 
nology, vernacular as well as Latin, is poetry only to 
predisposed or habituated ears. Of all the lyric verse 
on the noblest, it might be supposed the most poetic 
subject, how few hymns take their place in the poetry 
of any language. 

But out of the Hymnology, out of the Ritual, of 
which the hymns were a considerable part, arose that 
which was the initiatory, if rude, form of religious 
tragedy. The Christian Church made some bold ad* 
vance to be the theatre as well as the temple of the 
people. But it had an intuitive perception of the dan- 
ger; its success appalled its religious sensitiveness. 
The hymn which, like the Bacchic song of the Greeks, 
might seem developing into scenic action, and becom- 
ing a drama, shrank back into its simpler and more 
lonely grandeur. The Ritual was content to worship, 
to teach the facts of the Scripture history only by the 
Biblical descriptions, and its significant symbolic cere- 


monial. Tet the Latin Mysteries, no doubt because 
they were Latin, maintained in general their grmva 
and serious character. It was when, to increase its 
power and popularity, the Mystery spoke in the yulgar 
tongue, that it became vulgar ; ^ then buffoonery, at 
first perhaps from rude simplicity, afterwards from 
coarse and unrestrained fun, mingled with the sacred 
subjects. That which ought to have been the high- 
est, noblest tragedy, became tragicomedy, and was 
gradually driven out by indignant and insulted re- 

In its origin, no doubt the Mystery was purely and 
essentially religious. What more natural than to at- 
tempt, especially as the Latin became more unfiuniliar 
to the common ear, the representation rather than the 
description of the striking or the awful scenes of the 
Gospel history, or those in the lives of the Saints ; to 
address the quick, awakened and inthralled eye, rather 
than the dull and palled ear.^ There was already on 
the walls, in the chapels, in the cloisters, the painting 
representing the history, not in words, but in act ; by 
gesture, not by speech. What a theatre I Such relig- 
ious uses could not desecrate buildings so profoundly 
hallowed ; the buildings would rather hallow the spec- 
tacle. That theatre was the Church, soaring to its 
majestic height, receding to its interminable length, 
broken by its stately divisions, with its countless chap- 

1 See in Warton (the passage is worth reading) the dull buffooneiy in- 
troduced into the Mystery on the Harder of the Innocents, peribrmed by 
the English at the Conncil of Constance. This, however, most hare 
in Latin, but probably firom an English original. — vol. ii. p. 76. 

I (• Bcgnios irritant aniuioi demissa per •anm 
Quam qua rant oeolis snl^ta fldelibiu." 

A. P. 1. 180. 


dsy and its long cloister, with its succession of concen- 
tric arches. What space for endless variety, if not for 
change of scene I How effective the light and shade, 
even by daylight ; how much more so heightened by the 
command of an infinity of lamps, torches, tapers, now 
pouring their full efiulgence on one majestic object, 
now showing rather than enlightening the deep gloom I 
How grand the music, either pervading the whole space 
with its rolling volumes of sound, or accompanying 
some solemn or tender monologue ! If it may be said 
without offence, the company was already enrolled, to a 
certain degree practised, in the dramatic art ; they 
were used to enforce their words by significant gesture, 
by movement, by dress. That which was considered 
the great leap in the Greek drama, the introduction of 
the second actor, was already done : different parts of 
the service were assigned to priest, or humbler deacon. 
The antiphonal chant was the choir breaking into two 
responsive parts, into dialogue. There were those who 
recited the principal parts ; and, besides them the choir 
of men or of boys, in the convent of females and young 
girls ; acolyths, mutes without number. Take, as an 
illustration of the effect of these dramas in their simple 
form, the Massacre of the Innocents.^ It opens with 
a procession of Innocents, doubtless children in white 
robes, who march in long lines, rejoicing, through the 
long cloister of the Monastery, and chanting, " How 
glorious is Thy Kingdom I Send down, O God, Thy 
Lamb.*' The Lamb immediately appears ; a man, with 

& Published bj Mr. Wright — Karly Mysteries, London, 1888. Several 
Latin Mysteries have been published in Paris, but only a small number of 
copies by Bibliographical Societies, and so not of general access. But in 
truth the Poem, the Mystery itself, forms a very subordinate part of these 


a banner, bearing the Lamb, takes his place at their 
head, leading them up and down, in long gleaming pro* 
cession. Herod (doubtless clad in all the splendor of 
barbaric and Oriental attire) is seated on his throne. 
A squire appears, hands him his sceptre, chanting, ^^ On 
the throne of David." In the mean time, an Angel 
alights upon the manger, singing, ^^ Joseph, Joseph, 
Joseph, thou son of Da^nd ; " and reciting the verse 
of the Gospel commanding the flight into Egypt, 
*' Weep not, O Egypt." His armor-bearer informs 
Herod of the departure of the Wise Men : he bnrBts 
out into wrath. While he is raging, the children are 
still following the steps of the Lamb, and sweetty 
chanting.^ Herod delivers the fatal sword to his ar* 
mor-bearer. The Lamb is silently withdrawn ; the chil- 
dren remain, in their fearless innocence, singing, ^' Hail, 
Lamb of God I O hail I " The mothers entreat mer- 
cy. An Angel descends while the slain children are 
dying, while they lie dead : ^^ Ye who dwell in the 
dust, awake and cry aloud I " The Innocents answer : 
" Why, O God, dost thou not defend us from blood- 
shed ? " The Angel chants : ^^ Wait but a little time 
till your number is full." Then enters Rachel, with 
two women comforting her : their musical dialogue ia 
simple, wild, pathetic.^ As they lead off the sad 

I Agno qui noeto pro nobis mortlfleato, 
Splendorem patrte. Rplendomn rirglaitetit, 
Oflerimiu Ctutoto, sub signo ntuninis lito. 

s After her first lament they reply: — 

" Noli, Virgo Rachel, noU, dalelnlflw nwlw, 
Pro Dec« puTomm fletm retinere dolomm. 
SI qiue triatark ezulta qoiB laeTimarli, 
Namqne till natl TlTant inper astn beat!/' 


'*H0o! hen! hml 
Quomodo gaodebo, dam mortua m ambra vktobo! 


mother, an Angel, hovering above, sings the antiphone, 
"Suffer little children to come unto me." At the 
voice of the Angel all the children enter the choir, 
and take up their triumphant song. Herod disappears ; 
Archelaus is on his throne. The Angel summons Jo- 
seph and the Virgin from Egypt. Joseph breaks out 
into a hymn to the Virgin. The cantor of the Church 
intones the Te Deum ; the whole Church rings with 
the august harmony. 

I have chosen this brief and simple episode, as it 
winre, in the Gospel, to show in what spirit, with what 
mm, and doubtless with what wonderful effect, these 
sacred representations were introduced in the Middle 
Ages. But there was no event, however solemn and 
appalling, up to the Passion, the Resurrection, the As- 
cension, which was not in like manner wrought into 
action, preached in this impressive way to awe^struck 
crowds. Legend, like the Gospels, lent itself ^ to the 
same purpose: instead of being read, it was thrown 

Pom >io oommots ^lero per Tisoera tote ! 
M« fkeiniit T«rt pueri doe fine dolera ! 
dolor, o pAtmm mutotaquo gmudift matrOm ! 
Ad lugubres luctus lacrimamm flindite fluotOB, 
JndMB 11or«n patrto laerlmando dolotvm." 

Alter some more verses the consolations end: — 

^* If Qoiquld fleodufl est iste 
Qui regnam poasidet ooelsste ! 
Quique prece frequente 
Miseris fratribns 
Apud Deum auxiliatar." 

Was Rachel represented by a male or a female? A Nun deploring the loss 
of her children had been somewhat incongruous: Did tiie Monks and 
Nuns ever join their companies ? In one stage direction it appears the 
women were personated by men. '* Primum procedunt tres fratres pns- 
parati et vestiti in similitudinem trium Mariamm." — Mysterium Besur- 
nctioQis, quoted by M. On^sime de Roy, Mystdres, p. 4. 

" Gaude, gaude, gaudie "* 
Haria Tirgo, ewtcUu heerueSf^* fro. 


into a sdrring representation, and so oflered to specta. 
tors as well as to hearers. When all were believers, 
for those who had. not the belief of faith and love, had 
that of awe and fear, these spectacles no doubt tended 
most powerfiilly to kindle and keep alive the religious 
interest ; to stamp upon the hearts and souls of men 
the sublime truths, as well as the pious fictions of relig- 
ion. What remains, the dry skeleton of these Latin 
mysteries, can give no notion of what they were when 
alive ; when alive, with all tlieir august, impressive, in- 
thralling accessories, and their simple, unreasoning, but 
profoundly-agitated hearers. The higher truths, as well 
as the more hallowed events of our religion, have in 
our days retired into the reverential depths of men's 
hearts and souls : they are to be awAiUy spoken, not, 
what would now be thought too familiarly, brought be^ 
fore our eyes. Christian tragedy, therefore, could only 
exist in this early initiatory form. The older Sacred 
history might endure to be poeticized in a dramatic 
form, as in the ^* Samson Agonistes ; " it might even, 
under certain circumstances, submit to public represen- 
tation, as in the Esther and Athalie of Racine, and the 
Saul of Alfieri. A martyrdom like that of Polyeucte 
might fiimish noble situations. But the history of the 
Redeemer, the events on which are founded the solemn 
mysteries of our religion, must be realized only, as it 
were, behind the veil ; they will endure no alteration, 
no amplification, not the slightest change of form or 
word : with them as with the future world, all is an 
object of " faith, not of sight." * 

The abbess of a German convent made a more ex- 
traordinary attempt to compel the dramatic art into the 
service of Latin Christianity. The motive of Hro»- 

Chap. IV. HROSWITHA. 317 

witha, declared by herself, is not less strange than her 
design.^ It was to wean the age (as far as we can 
judge, the age included the female sex — it included 
nuns, even the nuns of her own rigid order) from the 
£ital admiration of the licentious comedy of Rome.^ 
" There are persons," writes the saintly recluse, " who 
prefer the vanity of heathen books to the Sacred Scrip- 
tures, and beguiled by tlie charms of the language, are 
constantly reading the dangerous fictions of Terence, 
and defile their souls with the knowledge of wicked 
actions." There is a simplicity almost incredible, but, 
from its incredibility, showing its perfect simplicity, in 
Hroswitha's description not only of her motives but of 
her difficulties. The holy poetess blushes to think that 
she too must dwell on the detestable madness of unlaw- 
ful love, and the fatally tender conversation of lovers. 
If however she had listened to the voice of modesty, 
she could not have shown the triumph of divine Grace, 
as of course Grace in every case obtains its signal 
triumph. Each of the comedies, instead of its usual 
close, a marriage, ends with the virgin or the penitent 
taking the vow of holy celibacy. But in the slender 
plots the future saints are exposed to trials which it 
must have been difficult to represent, even to describe, 
with common decency. Two relate to adventures in 
which holy hermits set forth in the disguise of amorous 
youths, to reclaim fallen damsels, literally from the life 
of a brothel, and bear them ofi^ in triumph, but not 
without resistance, from their sinful calling. Of course 
the penitents became the holiest of nuns. And the 

1 These plays have been recently edited, and translated into French with 
great care by M. Magnin. — Th^&tre de Hroswitha. Paris, 1843. 
9 Hroswitha wrote also a long poem in hexameters, Panegyris Oddonum. 


curious part of the whole seems to be that these plays 
on such much more than dubious subjects should not 
only have been written by a pious abbess, but were 
acted in the convent, possibly in the chapel of the con- 
vent. This is manifest from the stage directions, the 
reference to stage machinery, the appearance and dis- 
appearance of the actors. And nuns, perhaps young 
nuns, had to personate females whose lives and experi- 
ences were certainly most remote from convent disci- 
pline.^ The plays are written in prose, probably b^ 
cause in those days the verse of Terence was thought 
to be prose : they are slight, but not without elegance 
of style, derived, it should seem, from the study of that 
perilously popular author, whom they were intended to 
supersede. There are some strange patches of scholas- 
tic pedantry, a long scene on the theory of music, an- 
other on the mystery of numbers, with some touches 
of buflFoonery, strange enough, if acted by nuns before 
nuns, more strange if acted by others, or before a leai 
select audience, in a convent. A wicked heathen, who 
is rushing to commit violence on some Christian vir- 
gins, is, like Ajax, judicially blinded, sets to kissing the 
pots and pans, and comes out with his face begrimed 
with black, no doubt to the infinite merriment of all 
present. The theatre of Hroswitha is indeed a most 
curious monument of the times. 

No wonder that the severer Churchmen took alarm, 
and that Popes and Councils* denounced these theatric 
performances, which, if they began in reverent sano 
tity, soon got beyond the bounds not merely of rev- 

1 See note of M. Magnin (p. 457 )« in answer to Price, the editor of War- 
ton, ii. 28. M. Magnin baft studied with great industry the origin of tht 
Theatre in Europe. 


erence, but of decencj. But, like other abuses, the 
reiteration of the prohibition shows the inveterate ob- 
stinacy and the perpetual renewal of the forbidden 
pfactice.^ The rapid and general growth of the ver- 
nacular Mysteries, rather than the inhibition of Pope 
and Council, drove out the graver and more serious 
Latin Mysteries, not merely in Teutonic countries — 
in England and Germany — but in France, perhaps in 

Latin, still to a certain extent the vernacular lan- 
guage of the Church and of the cloister, did not con- 
fine itself to the grave epic, the hymn, or the Mystery 
which sprang out of the hymn. The cloisters had 
their poetry, disguised in Latin to the common ear, and 
often needing that disguise. Among the most curious, 
original, and lively of the monkish Latin poems, are 
those least in harmony with their cold ascetic discipline. 
Anacreontics and satires sound strangely, though in- 
termingled with moral poems of the same cast, among 
the disciples of St. Benedict, St. Bernard, and St. Fran- 
cis. If the cloister had its chronicle and its hymn- 

^ The prohibltiotis sboir that the ancient use of musks was continued : -^ 
^ ijiterdam kkG fiuat m ecclesiis theatrales, et non solum ad ludibriomm 
•pectacnla introtmcontur in ets monstra larrarum, veruro etiam in aliqui- 
bus festivitatibus diaconi, presbyteri ac subdiaconi insaniae sua ludibric ez- 
eroere pnesnmunt, mandamus, quatenus ne per hujuemodi turpitudinem 
ecclesis inquinetur honestas^ prselibatam ludibriorum consuetudinem, vel 
potins comiptelam cutvtis a vestris ecclesiis extirpare." — Decret Greg. 
Boehmer, Corpus Juris Canon, t. ii. fol. 41S. — ** Item, non permittant sa- 
ceidotes ludos theatrales fieri in ecclesift et alios ludos inhonestos/* — Cone. 
Trev. A. D. 1227. Hartzheiro^ iii. p. 629. Compare Synod Dioc. Worm. 
A. D 1316. Ibid. iv. p. 258. 

* Mary Magdalen was a favorite character in these dramas. Her earlier 
life was by no means disguised or softened. See the curious extract from 
a play partly Latin, partly German, published by Dr. Hoffman, Fundgru- 
ben f^ Ge^chichte Deutschen Sprache, quoted by Mr. Wright Preface to 
'* Early Mysteries.** London, ISSS* 


books, it often had its more pro&ne song-book, and the 
songs which caught the ear seem to have been propt- 
gated from convent to convent.^ The well-known con- 
vivial song, attributed to Walter de Mapes, was no 
doubt written in England ; it is read in the collection 
of a Bavarian convent.^ These, and still more, the 
same satires, are found in every part of Latin Chris- 
tendom ; they rise up in the most unexpected quarters, 
usually in a kind of ballad metre, to which Latin lends 
itself with a grotesque incongruity, sometimes with 
Leonine, sometimes with more accurate rhyme. The 
Anacreontic Winebibber's song, too well known to be 
quoted at length, by no means stands alone : the more 
joyous monks had other Bacchanalian ditties, not withr 
out fancy and gay harmony.^ 

1 Among the collections which I have read or consulted on this prolific 
subject are the old one, of Flaodus Illyricus. — Early Mysteries and other 
Latin Poems, by Thomas Wright London, 1S3S. — Lateinische Gedichie 
des X. and XI. J. H. von Grimm und And. SchmeUer. Gottingen, 1838.' 
Poesies Populaires Latines du Moyen Age. Edelstan da Meril. Paris, 
1847. — Popular Songs — Poems of Walter de Mapes. Camden SodeQr by 
Thomas Wright 

3 This Collection, the ** Carmina Benedicto Burana " (one of the most ca- 
rious publications of the Stuttgard Union), the Latin Book of Ballads it 
may be called of the Convent of Benedict Buren, contains many love-vw- 
ses, certainly of no ascetic tendency ; and this, among many other of Um 
coarser monkish satires. 

* " Mihi est propositam in t&bemA mod, 
Yinum sit appositom morientls ori, 
Bt dioant cum venerint Angeloram ohori, 
Deus lit propitius huio potatori." 

" Ave ! color Tini clail, 
Dulcis potus non amari, 
Tua DOS inebriari 

Dlgneris potenttt. 
qoam felix creaturs, 
Qaam produzlt vltls para, 
Omnii mensa sit socaia 

In tuft prasentla. 


The Anacreons of the cloister did not sing only of 
wine : they were not silent on that subject, least ap- 
propriate, but seemingly not least congenial, to men 
under the duty, if not under the vow, of perpetual 
chastity. From the variety and number of these 
poems, which appear scattered about as freely and 
carelessly as the moral poems and satires, it might 
seem that there was a constant interchange between 
the troubadour or the minnesinger and the ecclesiastic 
or the monk. Many of the amatory Latin poems are 
apparently versions, many the originals of those sung 
by the popular poets in the vulgar tongue ; and there 
can be no doubt about the authorship of most of the 
Latin poems. They were the growth as they were the 
amusement of the cloister. They were written for the 
monks and clergy, to whom alone they were intelligi- 
ble. It may suffice in a grave history (which, however, 
as endeavoring to reveal the whole character of past 
times, cannot altogether decline such topics) to select 
one of the most curious, certainly the most graceful, 
of the poems of this class, in its language at least, if 
not altogether in its moral, inoffensive. It is a kind of 
Ek^logue, in which two fair damsels, Phyllis and Flora, 

" ! qaam plaoena in colore ! 
O ! qoun firmgians in odon ! 
0! qoam aapidum in ore! 

Dnlce linffun Tincnlom ! 
lalix Tenter quern entmbli ! 
Felix gnttur quod rigabia ! 
l^Ux oe quod tu laTabia ! 

Kft beate labia ! 

<( Irgo Tinum oollaudemuB ! 
Potatorae exultemus ! 
Non potentee oonftindamuf 
In letema supplicla ! " 

Wriglit, p. 190. 

VOL. vm. 21 


one enamored of a Knight, the other of a Clerk, con* 
tend for the superior merit of their respective loven, 
and submit their cause to the decision of the old bear 
then god, Cupid. The time of this Idyl is a beautiful 
noon in spring, its scene a flowery meadow, under tke 
cool shade of a pine by a murmuring stream.^ The 
fair champion of the knight taunts the indolence, the 
luxuriousness, tlie black dress and shaven crown of the 
clerk : she dwells on the valor, noble person, bravery, 
and glory of the knight. The champion of the clerk, 
on his wealth, superior dignity, even his learning. His 
tonsure is his crown of dominion over mankind ; he is 
the sovereign of men : the knight is his vassal.' After 

1 It is m.the CMnuna Benedicto Burana, p. 155 : — 


SoMmbftt modkom et in Ipoo grmmiiw 

Venttu tempMtlTiii, defloelwt ririu, 

locus ei»t Tiridi hnwi» atqoa gumlo 

gnmine ftiCiTiu, M urmure ludTOS. 


Ut pnellls noeeat TBntuUte foUii, 

Calor noUs minus late pandeni liniif, 

ftiit Jnzu riTnlam dm entmre potent 

Spatlon pinna enlor pengtinns. 

Conndere TirginM St dnm Mdf>t ntnqoa 

Herb* Mdam dedit, ae in sete ndit, 

Phillii propi liTuIum, amor eorda mlneimt 

Flora long^ ledet, et ntramqne tedit. 

Amor est interlus pallor genas infldt, 

latens et oocnltns, altorantnr mltas, 

et eorde eertlssimos sed in Tereenndtt 

didt lingnltas. ftaror eat sepnltns. 

s I omit other objections of Phyllis to a clerical lover. This is the 

she can say: — 


Orbam enm IsBtlfloaft in tonaoxt capitis 

hora Incis fcstas et in atift teste 

tnno apparet cleriens portans teetlmoniom 

satis inhonesto Tolttntetis mosstn. 

CiiAr. IV. 



some dispute, they mount, one a fine mule, the other a 
stately palfrey, and set off, both splendidly accoutred, 
to the Court of the God of Love. The Paradise of 
Cupid is described rapidly, but luxuriantly, with much 
elegance, and a profusion of classical lore. Silenus is 
not forgotten. The award is in favor of the clerk ; an 
award which designates him as fitter for love : and this 
award is to be valid to all future times.^ Few will 

To this Flora rejoins: — 

Non dicas opprobrium 
Si cftgooKnut morem, 
Teetem nignun clerioi , 
conuuDD breriorem ; 

UniTeFBa clerioo 
Gonatat ease prona, 
et signam imperii 
portet in ooronA, 

otiosam clerlcum 
semper emejuru, 
tUss apemit opexas 
fiitteor et daras, 

Mens est in parpuxft, 
tnosin loricA; 
tuiu est in proeHo 
mens in ketloftf 





habet ista cleriens 
ad summum lionorem, 
ut sese signiflcet 
omnibus nuyjoxem. 

Impeiat militibus, 
et largitur dona, 
fiunnlante mis}or ^^ 
imperans persona. 

sed com ^ns animns 
Xrolat ad curas, 
GoeU Tias dividit 
et reram naturas. 

nbi ihota prineipnm 
recolit antiqua, 
scribit, quserit, cogitat — 
totum de amicft. 

1 The dose ib delightfullj naive. I must only subjoin the award: -^ 


Tsntilaot Tigoram 
fentilant et xetrahimft 

Old offiOTctn cfcnciMffi 
dkunt aptiorem. 
OomprobaTit curia, 


Cnrin ilgorem 
secundum soientiam 
et secundum morem, 

dietionem Juris, 
et teneri Toluit 
etiam ftituris. 

This poem is also in Mr. Wright's English collection, who has subjoined a 
translation of the time of Qneen Elizabeth, with very many of the beau- 
ties, some of the faults of tliat age. 


question whence came this poem : that any layman 
should be so studious, even in irony, of clerical inter- 
ests, can scarcely be suspected. If the ballad poetry 
of a people, or of a time, be the best illustration of 
their history, this poem, without doubt, is significant 

It were unjust not to add that there is a great mass 
of this rhyme, not less widely dispersed, of much more 
grave and religious import — poems which embody the 
truths and precepts of the faith, earnest admonitions on 
the duties of the clergy, serious expostulations on the 
sufferings and oppressions of the poor, moral reflections 
on the times. The monkish poets more especially 
dwelt on the Crusades. Though there was no great 
poem on the subject, there were songs of triumph at 
every success — at every disaster a wild poetic wail.^ 
The Crusade was perpetually preached in verse, half 
hymn, half war-song.^ 

Yet, after all, the strength of these Monk-Poets was 
in satire. They have more of Juvenal, if not of his 
majestic march and censorial severity, of his pitiless- 
ness, of his bitterness, it may be said of his truculency, 
than of Catullus, Terence, or Horace. The invectives 

1 Carmina Benedicto Buxuna, xxu. to xxviii. : ^ 

AgBdam Chibtieola, 

M* de fide 
vq»aterli MtoU, 
mida martyr in agone, 
8p« meroedis at ooronni, 
derelictfll Babylone 

]no ooekati reglone 
et ad Titun te oompone 

* See zxTi. on the oonqoests of Saladhn ; and in Edelstan dn Meril*8 Col- 
lection — Lstara Hiemsalem. 

Chai-.iv. satiric poems. 825 

against Rome, against her pride, avarice, venality — 
against Popes and Cardinals — against the Hierarchy, 
its pomp, its luxury — against the warlike habits of the 
Prelates, the neglect of their holy duties — even against 
tlie Monks, put to the test their rude nerve and vigor ; 
and these poems in the same or in similar strain turn 
up out of the convent libraries in many parts of Ger- 
many, in France, in England, in every country beyond 
the Alps (Italy mostly expressed her Antipapal pas- 
sions in other ways). They are of all ages ; they have 
tlie merit that they are the outpourings of overbur- 
dened hearts, and are not the frigid and artificial works 
of mechanics in Latin verse ; they are genial even in 
their ribaldry ; they are written by men in earnest, 
bitterly deploring or mercilessly scourging the abuses 
of the Church. Whether from righteous indignation 
or malignity, from moral earnestness or jealousy and 
hatred of authority, whether its inspiration was holy 
and generous or sordid and coarse, or, as in most hu- 
man things, from mingling and contradictory passions, 
tlie monkish Latin satire maintained its unretracted 
protest against the Church. The Satirists imperson- 
ated a kind of bold reckless antagonist against Rome 
and the hierarchy,^ confounding together in their Go- 
lias, as Rabelais in later days, solemnity and buffoon- 

1 Mr. Wright has abundantly proved this in his preface to the Poems of 
Walter de Mapes. (Introd. p. ix., &c.) He is equally successful, according 
to my judgment, in depriving of the glory, or relieving from the reproach, 
of these compositions the celebrated Walter de Mapes. De Mapes had a 
fend with the Cistercians or White Monks, and did not spare his enemies ; 
but he was not Golias. Under that name ranked bards of a considerabla 
period, and in my opinion of more than one coimtry. Mr. Wright is not 
80 satisfactory in claiming them all for England : one poem seems to show 
itself written in Pavia. Compare the copy of the Confession in Wright 
(p. 71), and the Carmina Benedicto Burana (p. 57). 


ery, pedantic learning and vulgar humor, a profound 
respect for sacred things and freedopi of invective 
against sacred persons. The Goliards became a kind 
of monkish rhapsodists, the companions and rivals of 
the Jongleurs (the reciters of the merry and licentious 
fabliaux) ; Goliardery was a recognized kind of medi- 
aBval poetry. Golias has his Metamorphoses, his Apoc- 
alypse, his terrible Preachment, his Confession,^ his 
Complaint to the Pope, his Address to the Roman 
Court, to the impious Prelates, to the Priests of Christ, 
to the Prelates of France ; and, finally, a Satire on 
women, that is, against taking a wife, instinct with true 
monastic rigor and coarseness. Towards the Pope 
himself — though Golias scruples not to arraign his 
avarice, to treat his Bulls with scorn — there is yet 
some awe.^ I doubt if the Roman Pontiff was yet to 

1 The Confession contains the famoos drinking song. The dose is entiTO- 
ly different, and shows the sort of common property in the poems. Both 
poems mention Pavia. Tet the English copy names the Bishop of Cor- 
entry, the German '*the Elect of Cologne,** as Diocesan. 

* I have already quoted the lines in one of those songs in which he derires 
the ^ord Papa, by apocope, from pagare, ^ pay, pay.*' In his complaint to 
the Pope, Golias is a poor clerical scholar poet: — 

Tnrpe tibi, pastor bone, 
81 dirioA lecttoiM 

BpretflL flam laieas, 
Vol absolve clerleatu, 
y«l Ihe Hi in clai itato, 

PersATorBin ctoiloas. 
Dnlds erit mihi statos, 
Si prebenda maneratns 

Beddltn Tttl alio, 
ViTsm Host non batranda, 
Saltern mihi detvr viidB, 

Btodesm da propilo. 

From a vexy different author in a different tone is the following : — 



the fiercest of these poets, as to the Albigensians and 
to the Spiritual Franciscans, Antichrist. The Cardi- 

Dle x«m eharitas, 
TJbl nano haldtuf 
Aut in nJl6 Vifiionii, 
Aut In thtono Phanonis, 
Aut in alto enm Nerone, 
Ant in antro cum Timone, 
Vel in Tisoella scirpcft 
Onm Moyse plorante, 
Vel in domo Romulea 
Onm buM ftilmlnante. 


Bnlla fnlmlnanto 
Snb Judlce tonanto, 
Bco appellante, 
Sententia gxavante, 
Teritaa opprimitur, 
Diatrahitur et Tenditnr, 
Jnatftia proatante, 
Itur et ncnrritur 
Ad curiam, nee ante 
Quia quid oonaeqoatnr 
Doneo eznltur 
Ultimo quadrante. 


Beepondlt Caritaa 
Homo quid dubitaa, 
Quid me solUoitaa? 
Non sum quod uaitaa, 
Nee in euro, nee in auatro, 
Neo in foro, nee in clauatro. 
Nee In bysso, nee in eueuUa, 
Neo in bello, nee in bulla. 
De Jericho sum Teniena. 
Ploro cum sauciato 
Quem duplex Levi transiana 
Non astltit grabato. 

Gannina Befiedloto Buraoa, p. 61. 

One of these stanzu is contained is a long poem made up very uncriti- 
cally from a number of small poems (in Flacdos Illjricus, p. 29, &c.) on 
Papal absolution and indulgences: — 

Noa peeeata lelazamua 
Abaolutoa ooUoeamua 

Sedibus ethereia, 
Noa habemua noatras togas, 
Alligantea omnea legea 

In manida auxels. 

Ounn-f B. B., p. 17. 


nals meet with less respect ; that excessive and prover- 
bial venality, which we have heard denounced centnrj 
after century, is confirmed, if it needed confirmation, 
by these unsparing satirists.^ 

The Bishops are still arraigned for their martial 
habits,^ their neglect of their sacred functions, their 
pride, their venality, their tyranny. Some were mar- 
ried : this and universal concubinage is the burden of 

1 See the Poem de Riim& Boms. Wright, p. 217. Cannina B. B. 16 : — 


Vkli Tidl caput rnnndl 
Instar nurte et proftudl 
Toraz gnttur Slcnli; 
ibi mundi bithalamiB, 
• ibi sorbet aunun Cnanu 
et argeatnm saBculi. 

• • • 
Ibi pugna galeuum 
et ooncunus piratanun 
id est eardinaUum. 


Cardinales ut pnodizi, 
NoTo Jura Crueiflxi 
Vaadani patrimoninm, 
Petros foris, intos Nero, 
Intos lapa, ftnis mo 
ricut ifni OTinm. 

This ifl bat a sample of these Poems. 

' Ipiseopl oomutl 
Gontieaen mvtl, 
ad pnedam foat paiatt 
•t indeceater ooronatl 
pro Tirgft fbrnnt lancoam, 
pro Inftalft galeam, 
eUpeam pro stolft, 
(h»e mortis erlt mda) 
lorieaiB pro albi, 
hsDC oocaiio eslva, 
peUsm pro hnmeiaUf 
proiUu seenlail 
Sioat fortes inoednnt, 
•t a Deo diseedmt, 9to. 


the complaint against the Clergy.^ The Satirists are 
stem monks to others, however their amatory poetry 
may tell against themselves.^ The Archdeacons' Court 
is a grievance which seems to have risen to a great 
height in England. Henry II. we have heard bitterly 
complaining against its abuses : it levied enormous sums 
on the vices of the people, which it did not restrain.^ 

Caim. B. Bonma, p. 15. Compare Wright, Senno Golia ad Pnelatoe, 

p. 48. 

1 N«o tn particJpw 

Coi^ngia vitaB Tltio 
Namque maltos inTenlo 
qui Hunt hnyu putkipM, 
ecoleidunm priacipes. 

* O AMerdM h«o iwponde. 
qui ft«qaenter et joconde 
earn nzore donnif , iinde 
HaiM sargMU, minam diets, 
eorpTis Chriatl beDedicifl, 
poti amplezQs meretHeb, 
minus qtuun tu peocatrids. 

• • • • 
IdfOf 409, Airar plaiM 
qaod rab lllo latst pan* 
Corpus Ghristi, quod prophana 
Tnictat maaus ilia mane, 
Miror, nisi tu mirMrls, 
quod a tenft non mrberis, 
enmque snpe prohiboiis 
itorare non rererls. 

Wright, pp. 49, 60. 

S Compare in Wright the three carionfl poems, De Concubinis Sacerdo- 
tom, Consnltatio Sacerdotum, Convocatio Sacerdotom, pp. 171, 174, 180. 

Eeoe capltulum togi de moribus 
Archdlaconi, qui suls rieibns 
quioquid a prBesuUs evadit manibus 
Capit et laoerat roetris et unguibus. 

Hie plenus ocuUs sedet ad synodum, 
Lynx ad inridlas, Janun ad cominodmii, 
Axgns ad animl scelus omnimodnm, 
Xt Polyphemus est ad artls metodum. 

Doetoram statnit deonta millium, 
Qoomm est pondns supra Jus jurium, 

•> ■>■'•' 

^ ^ J J 

- - ^ . ' ' 


AU are bitterly reproached with the sale of the services 
of the Church, even of the Sacraments.^ The monks 
do not escape ; but it seems rather a quarrel of diflfer- 
ent Orders than a general denunciation of all. 

The terrible preachment of GoUas on the Last Judg- 
ment ought not to be* passed by. The rude doggerel 
rises almost to sublimity as it summons all alike before 
the Judge, clerk as well as layman ; and sternly cuts 
off all reply, all legal quibble, all appeal to the throne 
of St. Peter. The rich will find no favor before Him 
who is the Judge, the Author of the sentence, the Wit- 
ness. Grod the Judge will jndge Judges, he will judge 
Kings ; be he Bishop or Cardinal, the sinner will be 
plunged into the stench of hell. There will be no fee 
for Bull or Notary, no bribe to Chamberlain or Porter. 
Prelates will be delivered up to the most savage t<Nr» 
mentors ; their life will be eternal death.' 

Uniim qui Mdmit, leiu eit omnfaui, 
NU nMtmit priiu muta^nm 

• • • • • 
Beeksiastlea Jmm mnalift, 
ftfdt propAtalo, ted Tvnialla 
earn Tenum dederit. Toeat • fmaSk 
quam Don InTBoieiM TBnit WoclMia. 

Wright, p. 9. 

1 Jftcet ordo cleriealii 
in nspeckn laienlia, 
spina ChristI 111 moranllt 
generoaa generalli 
Veneant altute, 
Tenit eaebariitiA, 
enm sit nngatorift 
gntia TenftUs. 

Carmin. B. Bnnuia, p. 41. 

This and the following poems dwell on simony of all kinds. See the Poem 
De Crisis Monachis, Wright, p. 54. De Clarevallensibos et CloniaoensilniSi 
ib. p. 237. De Malis Monachomm, 187. 

> Qaid dictari miseri samiu ante ttuoovflif 
Ante tantnm jndleem, ante sommnm bonnm ; 


History throughout these centuries bore on its face 
that it was the work not of the statesman i^y„ 
or the warrior, unless of the Crusader or of '******'3r- 
the warrior Bishop, it was that of the Monk. . It is 
universally Latin during the earlier period : at first in- 
deed in Italy, in Latin which may seem breaking down 
into an initiatory Romance or Italian. Erchempert 
and the Salernitan Chronicle, and some others of that 
period, are barbarous beyond later barbarism. When 
history became almost the exclusive property of the 
Monks, it was written in their Latin, which at least was 
a kind of Latin. Most of the earlier Chronicles were 
intended each to be a universal history for the instruc- 
tion of the brotherhood. Hence monkish historians 
rarely begin lower than the Creation or the Deluge. 
According to the erudition of the writer, the historian 
is more or less diffuse on the pre-Christian History, and 
that of the Caesars. As the writers approach their own 

Tune son erit sliqulf lociu hie pneconum, 
Oum nestramm pnemla reddet aetionom. 

Cum perr»ntum fberit ezamen Teri, 
Ante thronnm stabimus judicis aeTeii, 
Nee erIt dlitlnctio laici Tel clexi. 
Nulla DOS excaptio poteric tueri. 

Hie Don erit lleltuni qulcquam aUegarei 
Neque Jus n^ioere. Deque replican, 
Nee ad ApostoUcam sedem appellare, 
Ben* tunc damnabitur. nee dicetnr quale. 

Cogitate diTltes qui Tel quales estis, 
Quod in hoe Judicio ikcere potestis ; 
Tunc non erit aliquis locun hie Digestls, 
Idem erit Deus hie Judex, autor, testis, 
Judicabitjudiees Judex generaliff, 
Nihil ibi proderit dlgnitas rrgaliM ; 
Bed foetorem sentiet pause gehennalis, 
SlTe sit Epiicoptts, sire Cardinalis. 

NihU ibi dabitur bullsB Tel scriptori, 
Nihil eamerario, nihil Janitori ; 
fled dabuntur praesules pemimo tortori, 
Quibus erit TtTen sine fine niorl. 

Wright, p. 68. 


age, the brief Chronicle expands and registers at first 
all that relates to the institution and interests of the 
monastery, its founders and benefactors, their lives and 
miracles, and condescends to admit the affidrs of the 
times in due subordination. But there is stiU some- 
thing of the legend. Gradually, however, the actual 
world widens before the eyes of the monkish historian ; 
present events in which he, his monastery, at all events 
the Church, are mingled, assume their proper magni- 
tude. The universal-history preface is sometimes ac- 
tually discarded, or shrinks into a narrower compass. 
He is still a chronicler ; he still, as it were, surveys 
everything from within his convent-walls, but the world 
has entered within his convent. The Monk has be- 
come a Churchman, or the Churchman, retired into the 
monastery, become almost an historian. The high name 
of Historian, indeed, cannot be claimed for any medi- 
aeval Latin writer ; but as chroniclers of their own times 
(their value is entirely confined to their own times ; on 
the past they are merely servile copyists of the same 
traditions) they are invaluable.^ Their very faults are 
their merits. They are full of, and therefore represent 
the passions, the opinions, the prejudices, the pardalir 
ties, the animosities of their days. Every kingdom, 
every city in Italy, in Germany every province, has its 
chronicler.^ In England, though the residence of the 
chronicler, the order to which he belongs, and the office 
which he occupies, are usually manifest, it is more of- 
ten the affairs of the realm which occupy the annals. 
France, or rather the Franco-Teutonic Empire, began 

1 E. g. in the Saxon Chronicle. 

3 To characterize the Chroniclea, even thoae of tha different nationa, 
woold be an endleaa labor. 

Chap. IV. CnRONICLERS. 338 

with better promise ; Eginhard has received his due 
praise ; the Biographers of Louis the Pious, Thegan, 
and the Astronomer, may be read with pleasure as with 
instruction : Nithard falls off. In England Matthew 
Paris, or rather perhaps Roger of Wendover, takes a 
wider range : he travels beyond the limits of England ; 
he almost aspires to be a chronicler of Christendom. 
The histories of the Crusades are lively, picturesque, 
according as they come directly from the Crusaders 
themselves. Perhaps the most elaborate, William of 
Tyre, being a compilation, is least valuable and least 
effective. Lambert of Hertzfield (vulgarly of Aschaf- 
fenburg) in my judgment occupies, if not the first, 
nearly the first place, in mediasval history. He has 
risen at least towards the grandeur of his subject. Our 
own chroniclers, Westminster, Knighton, and Walsing- 
ham, may vie with the best of other countries. As to 
their Latinity, Saxo Grammaticus, the Sicilian Ugo 
Falcandus, command a nobler and purer style. 

Yet after all the Chronicle must, to attain its perfec- 
tion, speak in the fresh picturesqueness, the freedom, 
and the energy of the new vernacular languages. The 
Latin, though in such universal use, is a foreign, a con- 
ventional tongue even among Churchmen and in the 
monastery. Statesmen, men of business, men of war, 
must begin to relate the affiiirs of States, the adven- 
tures and events of war. For the perfect Chronicle 
we must await Villehardouin, Joinville, Froissart. 
Villani is more than a chronicler ; he is approaching 
to the historian. 




Christianitt, indeed, must await, and not in his- 
tory alone, the creation, gix)wth, perfection of new lan- 
guages, before she can become the parent of genuine 
Christian letters and arts — of letters and arts which 
will maintain permanent influence and ascendency over 
the mind of man. But the abrogation of the Latin as 
the exclusive language of Christian letters and arts 
must be inevitably and eventually the doom of Latin 
Christianity. Latin must recede more and more into a 
learned language understood by the few. It may lin- 
ger in the religious service of all who adhere to the 
Church of Rome, not absolutely unintelligible to those 
whose language is of Latin descent, and among them 
with a kind of mvsterious and venerable indistinctness 
not unfavorable to religious awe. The Latin is a con- 
genial part of that imposing ritual system which speaks 
by symbolic gestures and genuflexions, by dress, by 
music, by skilful interchange of light and darkness, by 
all which elevates, soothes, rules the mind through the 
outward senses. A too familiar Liturgy and Hymnol- 
ogy might disturb this vague, unreasoning reverence. 
With the coarsest and most vulgar Priesthood these 
services cannot become altogether vul<jar ; and except 
to the strongest or most practical minds, the clear and 


the definite are often fatal to the faith. Tet for popular 
instruction either from the Pulpit or through the Print- 
ing Press, Christianity must descend, as it does descend, 
to the popular language. In this respect Latin has long 
discharged its mission — it is antiquated and obsolete. 

But while the modem languages of Europe survive ; 
and we can hardlj doubt the vitality of French, Italian, 
Spanish, German, and our own English (now the ver- 
nacular tongue of North America and Australia, that 
too of government and of commerce in vast regions of 
Africa and Asia), the great Christian writers, Dante, 
Ariosto, Tasso, Calderon ; Pascal, Bossuet, and the 
pulpit orators of France, with Corneille and Racine ; 
the German Bible of Luther, the English Bible, Shak- 
speare, Milton, Schiller, some of our great divines, 
Hooker, Jeremy Taylor, will only die with the lan- 
guages in which they wrote. Descartes, Bacon, Locke, 
Reid, Kant, will not share the fate of the scholastic 
philosophers, till the French, English and German are 
to new races of men what mediaeval Latin is to us. 
And religion must speak to mankind in the dominant 
languages of mankind. 

It might seem indeed that in the earliest Latin as 
distinguished from the Teutonic languages, the Ro- 
mance in its various forms, Sicilian, Italian, Catalan, 
Proven§al, poetry, the primal form of vernacular liter- 
ature was disposed to break loose from Latin Chris- 
tianity, from hierarchical utiity, even from religion. 
The Clergy in general remained secluded or shrunk 
back into the learned Latin ; the popular poetry, 
even the popular prose, became profane, unreligious, at 
length in some part irreligious. The Clergy, as has 
been seen, for their own use and amusement, trans- 


muted much of the popular poetry into Latin, bat 
it ceased thereby to be popular except among them- 
selves. They shut themselves up from the awakening 
and stirring world in their sanctity, their aathority, 
their learning, their wealth. The Jongleurs, the Troa- 
vdres, the Troubadours, became in a certain sense the 
popular teachers , the Bards and the sacerdotal order 
became separate, hostile to each other. The Clergy 
might seem almost content with the intellect of man ; 
they left the imagination, except so fiu* as it was kept 
inth railed by the religious ceremonial, to others. Per- 
haps the Mysteries, even the early Latin Mysteries, 
chiefly arose out of the consciousness of this loss of 
influence ; it* was a strong effort to recover that which 
was gliding from their grasp. Some priests were Trou- 
badours, not much to the elevation of their priestly 
character ; Troubadours became priests, but it was by 
the renunciation of their poetic fame ; and by setting 
themselves as far asunder as possible from their former 
brethren. Fulk of Marseilles ^ became the furious per- 
secutor of those who had listened with rapture to his 
poetry. Later one of the most famous of the schoolr 
men was said to have been a Troubadour.^ 

Chivaliy alone, so far as chivalry was Christian, held 
poetry to the service of Christianity, and even of the 

1 For the histoiy of Fulk of Maneilles, whose poetic fiune endured to tiia 
days of Dante, see back, vol. iv. p. 112. 

3 No less a person than William Durand, the great general of the Pope, 
the great Ecclesiastical Legif t, almost the last great Schoolman, the aatbor 
of the Speculum and the Rationale, is traditionally reported to have been a 
Troubadour. A tale is told of him very similar to that of Romeo and Ju- 
liet Conceive Romeo growing up into a High Churchman and a School- 
man ! — Ritter, Christliche Philosophie, vii. p. 19. The question is exam* 
ined with fairness and sagacity in the vol. of the Hist. Lit. de U 
France, p. 485. 


Church ; bat this was chiefly among {he Trouveres 
of Northern France or the Langue d'Oil. The Pro- 
vencal poetry of the South, the cradle of modem song, 
contains some noble bursts of the Crusading religious 
sentiment ; it is Christian, if chivalry be Christian, in 
tone and thought. But, in general, in the castle 
courts of the Provenjal Princes and Nobles poetry 
not only set itself above Christian religion, but above 
Christian morals. The highest Idealism was amatory 
Platonism, which while it professed, religious adoration 
of woman, degraded her by that adoration. It may 
be doubted whether it could ever have broken forth 
from that effeminacy to which it had condemned itself. 
Grace, perhaps tenderness, was its highest aim ; and 
Poetry soars not above its aim. But this subject has 
already found its place in our history. In its lower 
and popular form Provencal poetry, not less immoral, 
was even more directly anti-hierarchical. It was not 
heretical, for it had not religion enough to be heretical : 
religion was left to the heretic. The Fabliau, the Sa- 
tire, the Tale, or the Song^ were the broad and reck- 
less expression of that aversion and contempt into 
which the Clergy of Southern France had fallen, and 
tended immeasurably to deepen that aversion and con- 
tempt. But it has been sadly shown how the Albigen- 
sian war crushed the insurrection of Provencal poetry 
against Latin letters, together with the insurrection 
against the Latin hierarchy. The earliest vernacular 
poetry perished almost without heirs to its fame ; its 
language, which once divided France, sunk into a pro- 
vincial dialect.^ 

1 Etob in oar days ProTence has a poet, and that of no nndeserfed ftait, 
Jmadnei of coune, the language has ondergona much change. 
VOL. vui, 22 


Christendom owes to Dante the creation of Italian 
Poetry, through Italian, of Christian Poetry. It re- 
quired all the courage, firmness, and prophetic sagacity 
of Dante to throw aside the inflexible bondage of the 
established hierarchical Latin of Europe. He bad 
almost yielded and had actually commenced the Di- 
vine Comedy in the ancient, it seemed, the aniveraal 
and eternal language.^ But the Poet had profoundly 
meditated, and deliberately resolved on his appeal to 
the Italian mind and heart. Yet even then he had 
to choose, to a certain extent to form, the pure, vigor- 
ous, picturesque, harmonious Italian which was to be 
intelligible, which was to become native and popular 
to the universal ear of Italy. He had to create ; out 
of a chaos he had to summon light.^ Every kingdom, 

1 Compare among other authorities the valuable essay of Perticari, tha 
Bon-in-law of Monti (in Monti, Proposta di alcune Ck>rrezioni, &c. al Vocab. 
della Crusca, v. ii. pte ii.)* Perticari quotes the very curious letter of the 
Monk Ilario to Uguccione della Faggiuola. To this Monk the wandering 
Dante showed part of his g^reat work. The Monk was astounded to see 
that it was written in the vulgar tongue. " lo mi stupiva ch* egli avease 
cantato in quelle lingua, perch^ parea coea difficile, anzi da non credere, 
chd quegli aldssimi intendimenti si potessero significare par parole di vulgo; 
ne mi parea convenire chd una tanta e si degna scienza fosse vestita a quel 
modo si plebeo." Dante replied, that so he himself had originally tbou^t. 
He had once begun hia poem in Latin, and these were the lines ^ 

** Ultima regna eanam, fluido contermina mnndo, 
Bpiritfbus quas lata patent, qua pnemia solvunt 
Pro meritis ealcanque tuis.'* 

But he had thrown aside that lyre, ^* ed un altra ne temperai oonveniaate 
air orecchio de' modemi." The Monk concludes " molte altre coee cen 
sublimi affetti soggiunse '* (p. 328). Perticari quotes another remonstrance 
addressed to the poet by Giovanni di Virgilio da Cesena, closing with these 
words: " Se te giova la fama non sii contento a si brevi confini ni all* efiaer 
&tto glorioso dal vil giudicio del volgo" (p. 330). Conceive the Divine 
Comedy stranded, with Petrarch's Africa, high on the barren and unap- 
proachable shore of ecclesiastical Latin. 

* ** Poscia nel libro ch* ei nomina del Yulgare Eloquenza, c(iminci6 ad 
illnstrare Tidioma poetico ch* egli creaoa.** See the excellent obeervatioas 
on writing in a dead language, Foacolo, Discoiso sul Testo di Dante, p. Ml 


every province, every district, almost every city, had 
its dialect, peculiar, separate, distinct, rude in con- 
struction, harsh, in different degrees, in utterance. 
Dante in his book on Vulgar Eloquence ranges over 
the whole land,^ rapidly discusses the Sicilian and 
Apulian, the Roman and Spoletan, the Tuscan and 
Genoese, the Romagnole and the Lombard, the Tre- 
visan and Venetian, the Istrian and Friulian ; all are 
coarse, harsh, mutilated, defective. The least bad is 
the vulgar Bolognese. But high above all this dis- 
cord he seems to discern, and to receive into his pro- 
phetic ears, a noble and pure language, common to 
all, peculiar to none, a language which he describes 
as Illustrious, Cardinal, Courtly, if we may use our 
phrase. Parliamentary, that is, of the palace, the courts 
of justice, and of public affairs.^ No doubt it sprung, 
though its affiliation is by no means clear, out of the 
universal degenerate Latin, the rustic tongue, common 
not in Italy alone, but in all the provinces of the 
Roman Empire.^ Its first domicile was the splendid 

^ I can have no doubt whatever of the authenticity of the de Vulgari 
Eloquenti&; contested because Dante threw aside the vulgar Tuscan or 
Florentine as disdainfully as the rest, and even preferred the Bolognese. 
To a stranger it is extraordinary that such an Essay as that of Perticari 
should be necessary to vindicate Dante from the charge of ingratitude and 
want of patriotism, even of hatred of Florence (Florence which had exiled 
him), because Florentine vanity was wounded by what they conceived in- 
justice to pure Tuscan. See also the Preface to the de Vulgari Eloquio in 
tiie excellent edition of the Opera Minora by Fraticelli. Florence, 1833. 

^ Itaque adepti quod quserebamus, dicimus, Illustre, Cardinale, Aulicum 
et Curiale Vulgare in Latio, quod omuis Latiaa civitatis est et nullius esse 
Tidetur, et quo municipia Vulgaria omnia Latinomm mensurantur, ponde- 
rantur et comparantur. — Lib. i. cxvi. 

* Perticari has some ingenious observations on the German conquests, 
and the formation of Italian firom the Latin. The German war-terms 
weic alone admitted into the language. But his theory of the origin 
of the Romance out of the ecclesiastical Latin and still more his no- 
'ion that the ecclesiastical Latin was old lingua rustica, rest on two 


Sicilian and Apulian Coort of Frederick II., and of 
his accomplished son. It has been boldly said, that it 
was part of Frederick's magnificent design of nnivei^ 
sal empire : he would make Italy one realm, nnder one 
king, and speaking one language.^ Dante does homage 
to the noble character of Frederick 11.^ Sicily was the 
birthplace of Italian Poetry. The Sicilian Poems lire 
to bear witness to the truth of Dante's assertion, which 
might rest on his irrefragable authority alone. The 
Poems, one even earlier than the Court of Frederick,* 

bold and unproved assumptions, though doubtless there is some truth in 
both: **La flna indnstria degli Ecclesiastic], che in Romano spiegando la 
dottrina Evangelica, ed in Romano scrivendo i fatti della chiesa catfcolica, 
fkceyano del Romano il linguaggio pontifical e Cattolica cio^ umvenaU, 
Ma quetla non era pid il Latino illustre; non 1' usato da Lncresio e da Tal- 
lio, non V udito nel Senate e nella Corta di Cesare; era quel i as f i V o che par- 
lava r intero volgo deir Kuropa Latina " (p. 92). Still I know no treatisa 
on the origin of tihe Italian language more ftill| more suggestive, or more 
valuable than Perticari's. 

1 '* Federigo II. esperava a riunire V Italia sotto un solo principe,una sola 
forma di govemo, e una sola lingua.** — Foscolo sulla lingua Italiana, p. 
150. This essay, printed (1850) in the fourth volume of my poor friend's 
Works, has only just ranched ma. 

^ Quioquid poetantur Itali Sicilianum vocatur .... Sed h«c fama Tri- 
nacriae ten«, si recte signum ad quod tendit inspiciamus, videtor tantum in 
opprobrium Italorum Prindpum remansisse qui non heroico mora, sad pie- 
beo saqnuntur superbiam. Siquidem illnstres hetoes Prederieos Csaar, at 
bene genitus ejus Manfred us nobilitatem ac rectitndinem sum fomue paa- 
dentes, donee fortuna permansit, humana necuti sunt, bmtalia dedignantv, 
propter quod corde nobiles atque gratiarum dotati inhsrere tantorum ptm- 
cipum majestati conati sunt : ita quod eorum tempore qaicqnid ezeeUeataa 
Latinorum nitebantur, primitus in tantomm Coronatorum aalft prodibat 
Et quia regale solum erat Sicilia, fiictum est quicqnid noatri pTasdeceasanB 
▼ulgariter protulerunt, Sicilianum vocatur. Quod qvidem ratineons at 
DOS, nee poster! noetri permutare valebunt, Kacha! Raoha! Quid none 
parsonattuba novissimi Frederic!? quid tintinnabulum fl. CHroli? qaid 
comua Johannis et Azzonis Marchionnm potcntam? quid attomra MagD»- 
tom tibis? nisi Venite camifices! Venite altripliees! Venite wmritMe aao- 
tatores. Sed pnestat ad propositnm repedare quam fVnatra loqvL — Da 
Vulgar. Eloquio, i. xii. p. i^. There is a splendid tmaslatioa of tiua paa- 
eige In Dantesque Italian by Foscolo, Discorso, p. 256. 

* See the Rosa fresca olentissima, FmooIo, deUa LiDgna, p. UO. 

Chap. V. DANTE. 841 

those of Frederick bimself, of Pietro della Vigna,^ of 
King Enzio, of King Manfred, with some peculiaritieB 
in the formation, orthography, use and sounds of word., 
are intelligible from one end of the peninsula to the 
other.^ The language was echoed and perpetuated, or 
rather resounded spontaneously, among poets in other 
districts. This courtly, aristocratical, universal Italian 
Dante heard as the conventional dialect in the Courts 
of the Caesars,^ in the republics, in the principalities 
throughout Italy .^ Perhaps Dante, the ItaUan, the 

^ Cosi ne* veni segaenti non v' e on onico sgnunmaticaxnento d« siotaui, 
B^ on modo d* esprimeni indegante, nk nn solo vocabolo che potta panre 
tvoppo tntioo. 

*' Non Aleo eba alia vottm gnm biHiiw 
OxvQglio n<m oonT«gna e sUato bena, 
Gha a bella donna orgoglio ben oonfene, 
Gba la mantene — in prefio ad in grandMO^ 
Troppo alteren — e qualla che seonTene. 
Dl grnnda oigogUo mal bel non aTtene.*' 

Poett del lino See. 1. p. 196. 
See Foeeolo, p. 106. 

Peter dells Yigna (Peter de Vinca) did not write Sicilian from want of 
eommand of Latin : his letters, including many of the State Papers of hia 
master Frederick II., are of a much higher Latinity than most of his time. 

S See the passages from Frederick II. and King Enzio, Foscolo, p. 185. 

* See, among other instances, the pure Italian quoted from Angelati by 
Perticari, written at Milan the year before the birth of Dante. Perticari's 
graceful essay, as far as the eailier Italian poetry may be compared witii 
that cf Foscolo, sulla Lingua; the other poets Cino da Pistoia, the Gnidos 
(Foscolo ranks Gnido Cavalcanti, Dante's best friend, very high) may be 
read in a collection printed at Florence, referred to in a former volume. 
Kor must the prose be forgotten; the history of Matteo Spinelli is good 
imiversal Italian. The maritime code of Amalfi has been recently discov- 
ered, in Italian perfectly intelligible in the present day. I owe this infor* 
mation to my accomplished friend Signr. Lacaita. 

4 La lingua ch* ei nomina cortegiana, e della quale ei dispnta tuttavia, la 
sua fortttna vedevola nascere ed ampliarsi per la perpetua residenca de* 
Cesari in Roma, e fra le republiche e le tirannidi, tutte confuse in nn lol 
reame. Di questo ci ti pare certissimo come di legge preordinata delta 
Providenza e connessa al sistema del* Universo. — Compare qnotationa, 
Foeeolo, Discorao, p. 954. 


Ghibelline, the assertor of the universal temporal mon- 
archy, dwelt not less fondly in his imagination on this 
aniversal and noble Italian language, because it would 
supersede the Papal and hierarchical Latin ; the Latin 
with the Pope himself, would withdraw into the sanc- 
tuary, into the service of the Church, into affairs purely 

However this might be, to this vehicle of his noble 
thoughts Dante fearlessly intrusted his poetic immor- 
tality, which no poet anticipated with more confident 
security. While the scholar Petrarch condescended to 
the vulgar tongue in his amatory poems, which he had 
still a lurking fear might be but ephemeral, in his A^ 
lica and in his Latin verses he laid up, as he fondly 
thought, an imperishable treasure of fame.^ Even Boc- 
caccio, happily for his own glory, followed the example 
of Dante, as he too probably supposed in his least 
enduring work, his gay Decamerone. Yet Boccaccio 
doubted, towards the close of his life, whether the Di- 
vine Comedy had not been more sublime, and therefore 
destined to a more secure eternity in Latin.* 

Thus in Italy, with the Italian language, of which, 
if he was not absolutely the creator, he was the first 
who gave it permanent and vital being, arose one of 

^ Compare Petrarch's letter (Epist. Fam. xi. 12), in which he haughtilj 
Tindicates himself from all jealousy of Dante. How should he, who is the 
companion of Virgil and Homer, be jealous of one who enjoys the hoana 
Applause of taverns and markets. I may add that Mr. Bruce Whyte, in 
his curious volumes, Histoire des Langues Romanes, has given a careful 
analysis of Petrarch's *' Africa," which he has actually read, and diflooT> 
ered some passages of real merit (vol. iii. ch. xl.). 

* *' Non dico per6 che se in versi Latini fosse (non mutato il peso delle pa- 
role vulgari) ch* egli non fosse molto piii artificioso e p\ii sublime: percio* 
ch^ molto piu arte e nel parlare latino ch^ nel modemo." — Boccac Comoi. 
Div. Com. f. f. As if sublimity in poetry consisted in skilful triumph over 
difficulty. But on the old age of Boccaccio, see Foscolo, p. 213. 


the great poets of the world. There is a vast chasm 
between the close of Roman and the dawn of Italian 
letters, between the period at which appeared the last 
creative work written by transcendent human genius 
in the Roman language, while yet in its consummate 
strength and perfection, and the first, in which Italian 
Poetry and the Italian tongue came forth in their maj- 
esty ; between the history of Tacitus and the Divina 
Commedia. No one can appreciate more highly than 
myself (if I may venture to speak of myself), the great 
works of ecclesiastical Latin, the Vulgate, parts of the 
Ritual, St. Augustine : yet who can deny that there is 
barbarism, a yet unreconciled confusion of uncongenial 
elements, of Orientalism and Occideutahsm, in the lan- 
guage ? From the time of Trajan, except Claudian, 
Latin letters are almost exclusively Christian ; and 
Christian letters are Latin, as it were, in a secondary 
and degenerate form. The new era opens with Dante. 
To my mind there is a singular kindred and simil- 
itude between the last great Latin, and the Tadtiu and 
first great Italian writer, though one is a poet, ^°'** 
the other an historian. Tacitus and Dante have the 
same penetrative truth of observation as to man and 
the external world of man ; the same power of expres- 
sing that truth. They have the common gift of flash- 
ing a whole train of thought, a vast range of images 
on the mind by a few brief and pregnant words ; the 
same faculty of giving life to human emotions by nat- 
ural images, of imparting to natural images, as it were, 
human life and human sympathies : each has the intu- 
itive judgment of saying just enough ; the stern self- 
restraint which will not say more than enou!:rh ; the 
rare talent of compressing a mass of profound thought 


into an apophthegm ; each paints with words, with the 
fewest possible words, yet the picture li\'es and Speaks. 
Each has that relentless moral indignation, that awfbl 
power of satire which in the historian condemns to an 
immortality of earthly infamy, in the Christian Poet 
aggravates that gloomy immortality of this world by 
ratifying it in the next. Each might seem to embody 
remorse.^ Patrician, high, imperial, princely. Papal 
criminals are compelled to acknowledge the justice of 
their doom. Each, too, writing, one of times jnst 
passed, of which the influences were strongly felt in the 
social state and fortunes of Rome : the other of his 
own, in which he had t>een actively concerned, throws 
a personal passion (Dante of course the most) into his 
judgments and his language, which, whatever may be 
its effect on their justice, adds wonderfully to their 
force and reality. Each, too, has a lofty sympathy 
with good, only that the highest ideal of Tacitus is m 
death-defying Stoic, or an all-accomplished Roman Pro- 
consul, an Helvidius Thrasea, or an Agricola ; that of 
Dante a suffering, and so purified and beatified Chris* 
tian saint, or martyr ; in Tacitus it is a majestic and 
virtuous Roman matron, an Agrippina, in Dante an 
unreal mysterious Beatrice. 

Dante is not merely the religious Poet of Latin or 
mediaeval Christianitv ; in him that mediaeval Chris* 
tiaiiity is summed up as it were, and embodied for per- 
petuity. The Divine Comedy contains in its sublimest 
form the whole mythology, and at the same time the 
quintessence, the living substance, the ultimate conclo^ 
sions of the Scholastic Theology. The whole course 

1 It is a saTing attributed to Tallejrand of Tacitus, ** QuaDd on lit cet 
bomme-Ui on est an Confessional.** 

Orap.V. DANT£*S ghibellinism. 845 

of Legend, the Demonology, Angelology, the extra 
mundane world, which in the popular belief was vague, 
fragmentary, incoherent, in Dante, as we have seen, 
becomes an actual, visible, harmonious system. In 
Dante heathen images, heathen mythology are blended 
in the same living reality with those of Latin Christi- 
anity, but they are real in the sense of the early Chris- 
tian Fathers. They are acknowledged as part of the 
vast hostile Demon world, just as the Angelic Orders, 
virhich from Jewish or Oriental tradition obtained their 
first organization in the hierarchy of the Areopagite. 
So, too, the schools of Theology meet in the Poet. 
Aquinas, it has been said, has nothing more subtile and 
metaphysical than the Paradise, only that in Dante 
single lines, or pregnant stanzas, have the full meaning 
of pages or chapters of divinity. But though his doc- 
trine is that of Aquinas, Dante has all the fervor and 
passion of the Mystics ; he is Bonaventura as well as 
St. Thomas. 

Dante was in all respects but one, his Ghibellinism, 
the religious poet of his age, and to manyj^^^,, 
minds not less religious for that exception, ^^wbeuinkm. 
He was an ti- Papal, but with the fullest reverence for 
the spiritual supremacy of the successor of St. Peter. 
To him, as to most religious Imperialists or Ghibellines, 
to some of the spiritual Franciscans, to a vast host of 
believers throughout Christendom, the Pope was two 
distinct personages. One, the temporal, they scrupled 
not to condemn with the fiercest reprobation, to hate 
with the bitterest cordiality : Dante damns Pontiffs with- 
out fear or remorse. But the other, the Spiritual Pope, 
was worthy of all awe or reverence ; his sacred person 
must be inviolate ; his words, if not infallible, must be 


heard with the profoundest respect ; he is the Vicar of 
Christ, the representative of God upon earth. With his 
Ghibelline brethren Dante closed his eyes against the 
incongruity, the inevitable incongruity, of these two dis- 
cordant personages meeting in one : the same Bonifiice is 
in hell, yet was of such acknowledged sanctity on earth 
that it was spiritual treason to touch his awful person. 
The Saints of Dante are the Saints of the Church ; on 
the highest height of wisdom is St. Thomas, on the 
highest height of holiness, St. Benedict, St. Dominic, 
St. Francis. To the religious adversaries of the Church 
he has all the stem remorselessness of an inquisitor. 
The noble Frederick II., whom .we have just heard de- 
scribed as the parent of ItaUan poetry, the model of a 
mighty Emperor, the CaBsar of Caesars, is in hell as 
an archheretic, as an atheist.^ In hell, in the same 
dreary circle, up to his waist in fire, is the noblest of 
the Ghibellines, Farinata degli Uberti. In heU for the 
same sin is the father of his dearest friend and brother 
poet Guido Cavalcanti. Whatever latent sympathy 
seems to transpire for Fra Dolcino, he is unrelentingly 
thrust down to the companionship of Mohammed. The 
Catholic may not reverse the sentence of the Church. 

Petrarch, as an Italian poet, excepting in his Ode 
Petnrch. to the Virgin, stands almost aloof from the 
mediaBval religion ; it is only as a Latin poet, and in 
his familiar Letters, that he inveighs against the vices, 
the irreligion of the Court of Avignon. 

Boccaccio, the third of this acknowledged Trium- 
Boeeaccio. viratc, was, on the other hand, in his one 
great work, unquestionably as regards the dominant 

1 Inferno, x. 1119. Piero della Vigna Mils him — 

** Al into Signor, obe tu d* amor si degno." — Inferno^ ziU. 76. 

Chap.v. the decamerone. 347 

religion of his times, its monkhood and hierarchism, 
the most irreligious, on account of his gross immo- 
ralities, to all ages an irreligious writer. The De- 
camerone centres in itself all the wit, all the inde- 
cency, all the cleverest mockery of the French and 
Provencal Fabliaux, and this it has clothed in that 
exquisite, all-admired Florentine which has secured 
its undying fame. The awfiil description of the 
Plague in Florence has been compared, but by no 
means with justice, to that of Thucydides and that 
of Lucretius. This grave opening of the Decame- 
rone might be expected to usher in a book of the pro- 
foundest devotion, the most severe, ascetic penitential. 
After this, another Dante might summon the smitten 
city to behold its retributive doom in the Infernal 
Regions; a premature Savonarola might thunder his 
denunciations, and call on Florence, thus manifestly 
mider divine visitation, to cast all her pomps and 
vanities, her ornaments, her instruments of luxury, 
upon the frineral pyre ; to sit and lament in dust and 
ashes. This terrific opening leads, but not in bitter 
irony, to that other common consequence of such 
dark visitations, the most reckless license. Tale fol- 
lows tale, gradually sinking from indecency into ob- 
scenity, from mockery to utter profaneness. The 
popular religion, the popular teachers, are exposed 
with the coarsest, most reckless pleasantry. Eras- 
mus, two centuries later, does not scoff with more 
playful freedom at pilgrimages, relics, miracles: Vol- 
taire himself, still two centuries after Erasmus, hardly 
strips their sanctity from monks, nuns and friars, with 
more unsparing wit. Nothing, however sung or told 
in satiric verse or prose against the Court of Rome, 


can equal the exquisite malice of the story of the Jew 
converted to Christianity by a visit to Rome, because 
no religion less than divine could have triumphed over 
the enormous wickedness of its chief teachers, the 
Cardinals, and the Pope. Strange age of which the 
grave Dante and the gay Boccaccio are the repre- 
sentatives! in which the author of the Decamerone 
is the biographer of Dante, the commentator on the 
Divine Comedy, expounding, pointing, echoing, as it 
were, in the streets of Florence the solemn denuncia* 
tions of the poet. More strange, if possible, the his- 
tory of the Decamerone. Boccaccio himself bitterly- 
repented of his own work: he solemnly warned the 
youth of Florence against his own loose and pro&ne 
novels ; the scoffer at fictitious relics became the la- 
borious collector of relics not less doubtful; the 
scourge of the friars died in the arms of friars, be- 
queathing to them his manuscripts, hoping only for 
salvation through their prayers.^ Yet the disowned 
and proscribed Decamerone became the text-book of 
pure Italian. Florence, the capital of letters, insisted 
on the indefeasible prerogative of the Florentine diar 
lect, and the Decamerone was ruled to be the one 
example of Florentine. The Church was embar- 

1 See in the works of Petrarch the very curious letter to Boccaccio, dm 
Vaticinio Morientium, Opera, p. 740. Boccaccio had writteD in a parox- 
jrsm of Buperstitious terror to Petrarch concerning the prophecies of a cer- 
tain holy roan, Peter of Sienna, on the death of the two poets. Petrarch 
evidently does not believe a word of what had frightened poor Boccaccio. 
He alleges many causes of sui^picion. " Non extenuo vaticinii pondus, 
quicquid a Christo dicitiir verum est. Fieri nequit ut Veritas mentiatnr. At 
id quseritur Christiame rei hujus autor sit, an alter quispiam ad oommeDti 
fidem, quod stepe vidimus, Christi nomen assumpserit." The poet rnges 
Boccaccio, at great length, not to abandon letters, but only the lighter let- 
tan of his youth. 


rassed ; in vain the Decamerone was corrected, muti- 
lated, interpolated, and indecencies, profanenesses . an- 
nulled, erased: all was without effect; the Decame- 
rone must not be degraded from its high and exem- 
plary authority. The purity of morals might suffer, 
the purity of the language must remain unattainted ; 
till at length an edition was published in which the 
abbesses and nuns, who were enamored of their gar- 
deners, became pro&ne matrons and damsels ; friars, 
who wrought felse miracles, necromancers; adulter- 
ous priests, soldiers. But this last bold effort of 
Jesuitical ingenuity was without effect: the Decame- 
rone was too strong for the censure in all its forms ; 
it shook off its fetters, obstinately refused to be altered, 
as before it had refused tp be chastened ; and remains 
to this day at once the cleverest and bitterest satire, 
and the most curious illustration of the religion of the 

1 '^FmalnTente nn Dominicano Italiano e di natun pid facile (chiamavasi 
Kiuftaehio Locatelli, e mori tmcovo a Reggio) vi b' iiiterpo«e « per essere 
•tato confeflsore de Pio V., impetr6 di Gregorio XIII. che il Decamerone 
non fosse matilato, se non in quanto bisognava il buono nome degli Eccle- 
tiastici.*' — P. 249. The account of the whole transaction at length may 
bt read in the Disoorso prefixed to Foscolo's edition of the Decamerone, 
London, 1S25. Compare the fifth and sixth discourse of Foscolo; the most 
juftt criticism with which I am acquainted on Boccaccio, his merits, his in- 
fluence, his style, and his language. I quote Boccaccio's will on Foscolo's 
authority. There is nothing new under the sun, nothing obsolete. I pos- 
sess a translation of Eugene Sue's Wandering Jew, printed on the coarsest 
paper, the rudest type, and cheapest form, obviously intended for the lower 
Boman Catholics, in which the Jesuit becomes a Russian spy; all that is 
religious is transformed into political satire. 





Nothing is more remarkable in the civil or in the 


Fnno«. religious history of the West, nothing led to 
more momentous or enduring results, than the seces- 
sion, as it were, of the great kingdom of France from 
the Teutonic, and its adhesion to the Latin division of 
Christendom ; the fidelity of its language to its Roman 
descent, and its repudiation of the German conqueror. 
For about four centuries, loosely speaking, Gaul, fix>m 
the days of Julius CaBsar, was a province of the Roman 
Empire. During that period it became Romanized in 
manners, institutions, language. The Celtic dialect 
was driven up into the North- Western comer of the 
land. If it subsisted, as seems to have been the case 
in the time of Irenaeus, still later in that of Jerome, or 
in the fifth century,^ as the dialect of some of the peaa- 

^ Aooording to Ulpian in the second century wilb might be drawn m 
Latin or in the language of Gaul, the Celtic therefore had a legal existence. 
St. Jerome in the fourth century compares the language of the Asiatic Ga- 
latians with that which he had heard spoken in the neighborhood of 
Treves. lA the fifth, Sulpicius Severus desires one of the interlocutors is 
a dialogue to speak in Gallic or Celtic (Dialog, i. tub^ne). Sidonius Apol- 
linarius says that the nobles of his province (Auve^gne) had only jnut 
cast off all the scales of their Celtic speech: this may have been the pro- 
Donciation. The father of Ausonius, a physician at Bazas in Aquitaine, 
spoke Latin imperfectly. Compare Ampere, Hist. Lit. de la Fnmoe, pp. 36 
and 136. 


antrj ; if it left its vestiges in the names of plains, of 
forests and mountains ; if even some sounds and words 
found their way into the supervening Latin, and be- 
came a feeble constituent of French ; yet there can be 
no doubt that the great mass of the French language, 
both the Langue d'Oil of the North, and the Langue 
d'Oc of the South, is of Latin origin.^ 

For about four centuries, Teutonic tribes, Goths, 
Bnrgundians, Alemannians, Franks, ruled in Gaul, 
from the first inroad and settlement of the Visigoths in 
the South, down to the third generation after Charle- 
magne. Clovis and his race, Charlemagne and his im« 
mediate descendants, were Teutons; the language at 
the Court of Soissons, in the capitals of Neustria and 
Austrasia, as afterwards in that of Charlemagne at 
Aix-la-Chapelle, was German. Nor was it only so in 
the Court ; there were Germans throughout the Frank- 
ish realm of Charlemagne. The Council of Tours 
enacts that every Bishop should have homilies in both 
languages ; he should be able to expound them in the 
rustic Roman and in the Teutonic, so as to be intelligi- 
ble to the whole people.^ 

But the grandsons of Charlemagne behold Latin and 
Teutonic nationality, the Latin and Teutonic sepamtioa. 
language, dividing the Western Empire. The *^'^' ®*^' 
German is withdrawing, if not beyond the Rhine, to 

^ M. Faariel (Histoire de la Po^sie Provenpale, i. p. 195) observes of the 
Provencal that there are more words not of Latin origin than is commonly 
supposed. He had collected 3000. The whole Proven^nl literature might 
perhaps famish him as many. A great part he could trace to no known 
language. Some few are Arabic, many Greek, some Celtic, some Basque; 
not above fifteen Teutonic. The whole inveittigation is worthy of study. 

^A. D. 812. Labbe, Concil. vii. 1263. This injunction was renewed at 
Bheims and at Mentz a. i>. 847. There are firagments of old Grerman ser 
mons. — Raumer, p. 66. 


the provinces bordering on the Rhine ; Latin is resunn 
ing its full dominion over France and the French lan- 
guage. At Strasburg, only thirty years after the 
Council of Toui-s, France has become French, Ger- 
many German. The two Kings of the same race, 
equally near in blood to Charlemagne, take their oaths 
in languages not only dialectically different^ but distinct 
in root and origin. Germany still recedes, leaving but 
few traces of its long dominion ; the Celtic element 
probably contributes more to the French language than 
the German. In truth the Germans after all were bat 
an armed oligarchy in France, like the Turks in their 
European provinces, but by no means so inaccessibly 
shut up in their Oriental habits, in their manners, in 
their religion. Even in the Visigothic South, no sooner 
had the conquest passed over, than the native language, 
or rather the naturalized Latin, reasserted its indepen- 
dence, its jealous and exclusive superiority : and this, 
although the Goths were routed and driven out by 
another Teutonic race, the Franks of the North. 
France returned entirely to its Latinity ; and from its 
rustic Roman gradually formed that language which 
was to have such wide influence on later civilization. 

In this conservation of France to Latin and Latin 
Christianity, no doubt Latin Christianity, and the hie- 
rarchy so long, even under the German sway, of Latin 
descent, powerftdly contributed. The unity of religion 
in some degree broke down the barrier between the Teu- 
ton and the Roman Graul ; they worshipped the same 
God in the same Church ; looked for absolution from 
their sins, trembled before, or sought humbly the coun- 
sel of the same Priest. But the Clergy, as has been 
seen, remained long almost exclusively Roman. The 

chaf. yu the kobmans. 358 

Teutons, who aspired to the high places of the Church 
(for the services remained olstinately Roman), were 
compelled to possess one qualification, the power of 
ministering in that Latin service. The most rude, 
most ignorant, most worldly Bishop or Priest must 
leam something, and that lesson must he the recitation 
at least, or pronunciation of Latin. Charlemagne's 
achools, wherever the Teutonic element was the fee- 
blest, would teach in the Rustic Roman, or the Roman 
more or less rapidly tending to its new form. At least 
in the Church and in the Cloister the Latin ruled with- 
out rival ; among the people the Latin element was far 
the stronger : the stronger is ever aggressive ; and the 
Teutonic was by degrees renounced, and driven tow- 
ards the Rhine, or over the Rhine. The German 
Teuton, mindful of his descent, might still call himself 
a Frank, but the Gallic Frank had ceased to be a Geiv 

It is not the least singular &ct in the history of the 
French language, that another German, or ^h© not- 
kindred Scandinavian race, wrests a large °*°'' 
province from France. Normandy takes its name from 
its Norman conquerors : the land, according to Teu- 
tonic usage, is partitioned among those adventurers ; 
they are the lords of the soil. In an exceedingly short 
time the Normans cease to be Teutons ; they are 

^ In tfaa epitaph on Gregory V. (997), he is said to have spoken three 
languages: Prankish (Gennan), the Vulgar (Romance or Italian), and 
Latin: — 

" Uins Francifleft, rulgari, et Toce Latinft 
InBtitoit popolos eloqnio tripliei." 

Gregory (Bruno, cousin of the Emperor Otho) was a Gkrman. — Muiator. 
Diss. ii. 91. At this time in Italy traces of Italian begin to appear in wills 
and deeds. — Ibid. p. 93. 

VOL. VTII. 28 


French or Latin in language. About a century and a 
A.D. 912- '^^'f ^^^^ ^^^ establishment of the Normans 
1066. , jjj France, the descendants of RoUo conquer 
Dngland, and the Conqueror introduces not a kindred 
dialect, but the hostile and oppugnant Norman-French, 
into Anglo-Saxon England. The imposition of this 
foreign tongue, now the exclusive language of the Nor- 
mans, is the last and incontestable sign of their com* 
plete victory over the native inhabitants. This is not 
the less extraordinary when the Italian Normans also 
are found for some time obstinately refusing to become 
Italians. They endeavor to compel the Italians to 
adopt their French manners and language ; histories 
of the Norman conquest are written at Naples or with- 
in the kingdom, in Norman-French.^ The dialect has 
adopted some Italian words, but it is still French.' 
Thus within France Teutonism absolutely and entirely 
surrenders its native tongue, and becomes in the North 
and in the South of Europe a powerful propagator of 
a language of Latin descent. 

It is not the office of this history to trace the obscure 
growth of the French language out of the preexisting 
elements — the primal Celtic and the Latin. It most 
not be forgotten that higher up the Celtic and the Latin 
branch off from the same family — the Indo-Teutonic : • 

1 ** MoriboB et linguflL quoMiinqoe Toilre Tidebuit, 
Inlbmuuit propria gens efflcfattnr Qt unnm.'- 

— Qui. Appal. lib. 1. ; Hnntorif ▼. SG6. 

1 Compare on this subject M. Champollion Figeac^s preface to the French 
Chronicle of the Italian Normans, " Les Normans '* (publication of the 
Soci^t^ Ilistorique), p. xliv., &c. with the references to Falconet, Lebcsal^ 
Le Grand d'Aussy, and Tiiaboschi. 

S This fact in the history of language, first established by onr ooantiy- 
man, Dr. Prichard, in his Essay on the Eastern Origin of the Celtic Na> 
tions, is now admitted by all writers of authority. See also the exeelleDt 

Chap. VI. THE LANGU£ D'OC. 856 

SO that the actual roots of French words may be rea- 
sonably deduced from either. The Christian language, 
all the titles, terms, and words which related to the 
religion, were doubtless pure Latin, and survived, but 
slightly modified, in the French. Pronunciation is 
among the most powerful agents in the change and 
formation of language, in the silent abrogation of the 
old, the silent crystallization of the new. Certain races, 
nations, tribes, families, have a predilection, a predispo- 
sition, a facility for the utterance of certain sounds. 
They prefer labial or guttural, hard or sof); letters; 
they almost invariably substitute the mute, the surd, 
or the aspirate letter for its equivalent ; there is an 
uniformity, if not a rule of change, either from organ- 
ism or habit. The Italian delights in the termination 
of words with a soft vowel, the Langne d'Oc with a 
consonant, the French with a mute vowel. The Latih 
of the Ritual beini; a written lan^cuage, in its sflbet of 
structure as well as in its words would inflex- aerrice. 
ibly refuse all change ; it would not take the auxiliary 
Terb in place of its conjugations, the article or the prep- 
osition to designate its cases ; it would adhere to its 
own declensions, conjugations, inflections, and thus &r 
would stand aloof from the gradual change going on 
around it ; it would become in so far unintelligible to 
the vulgar ear. But not only, the roots remaining the 
same, would the great mass of the words retain their 
significance ; there would also be some approximation 
in the tone and accent. The Clergy, being chiefly of 
the country, and in their ordinary conversation using 

treatise of M. Pictet, *' L* Affinity des Langues Celtiqaes avec le Sontcrit." 
Mr. Bruce Whyte was unfortunately not master of this branch of Philology 
grfaich sapenedea at once or modifiea hia whole system. 


the language of the country, would pronounce their 
Latin with a propensity to the same sounds which were 
forming the French. Latin as pronounced by an Ital^ 
ian, a Frenchman, or a Spaniard, during the formation, 
and after the formation, of the new tongue, would have 
a tinge of Italian, French, or Spanish in its utterance. 
The music being common throughout the Church might 
perhaps prevent any wide deviation, but whatever de- 
viation there might be would tend to make the meaning 
of the words more generally and easily comprehensible* 
So there would be no precise time when the Latin Rit- 
ual would become at once and perceptibly a foreign 
tongue ; the common rustic Roman, or the Romance, 
if not the offspring was probably akin to the ecclesias- 
tical Latin, at all events all Church words or terms 
would form part of it. And so on the one hand Latin 
Christianity would have a powerful influence in the 
creation of the new language, and at the same time 
never be an unintelligible stranger, hers would be 
rather a sacred and ancient form of the same language 
among her lineal and undoubted descendants. 

The early poetry of the Langue d'Oil was either the 
Legend or the Poem of Chivalry. The Trouvdre of 
the North was far more creative than the Troubadour 
of the South. In his lighter Fabliaux the Trouv^re 
makes no less free with the Christian Clergy and with 
Christian morals than his brother of the South, but his 
is the freedom of gayety or of licentiousness, not of bit- 
ter hatred, or pitiless, and contemptuous satire. There 
is nothing of the savage seriousness of the Provencal.' 

1 It must not be forgotten that Brunetto Latini, the master of Dante (so 
little prescient was he of the glory of bis pupil), wrote his Tesoretto not ia 
Italian but in French, as of all the vernacular tongues the most likely to be 


But the higher Epopee of the Northern Trouvdre 
was almost contemporaneous in its rise with the Cru- 
sades ; its flourishing period was that of the Crusades, 
and as far as that was a real and actual state of soci- 
ety, of Chivalry. It is the heroic poetry of medi- 
aeval Christianity. The Franks were the warriors, the 
Franks the poets of the Cross. In both the great Cy- 
cles, of Charlemagne and his Peers, of Arthur and the 
Knights of the Round Table, in the* subordinate cycles, 
as of Rinaldo, or the four Sons of Aymon, the hero 
was ever a Christian knight, the enemy, whether knight, 
giant, or even dragon, was antichristian, Saracen, mi*, 
believer, or devil. Charlemagne's war is of the West 
against the East, of Latin Christianity against Islam ; 
the Grascons and the Basques at Roncesvalles become 
the splendid Saracens of Spain ; the whole misbeliev- 
ing Elast is gathered around Christian Paris. The 
Church avouched the wonders of Archbishop Turpin, 
adopted the noble fictions about Charlemagne and his 
Peers. These became part of authorized Christian 
Legend, when Legend and History were one ; when it 
would have been equal impiety to assert the mythic 
character of the former as that of the authentic Gos- 
pel.^ So, too, whether Arthur and his Knights sprung, 
as is most probable, from Breton or from British lays, 
the Saxondom of his foes recedes, the Paganism, even 
the Saracenism takes its place. It is not the ancient 
British King and his British warriors warring with 
Saxons and Anglians on the borders of Wales, Cum- 
berland, or Cornwall for the dominion of Britain ; it 
is the Christian King and the Christian Knight waging 
a general war of adventure against unbelievers. It is 

1 Tiraboflchi, 1. t. 


not the independence of Britain, it is tke mystic San- 
greal, the cup with the blood of the Redeemer, which 
is the holy object, the ideal reward of their valor ; it is 
to be the triumph of the most chaste and virtuous as 
well as of the bravest knight. The sons of Ajmon 
are Southern knights keeping the Spanish borders 
(Spain reserved her Cid for her own noble old poem), 
but the Sons of Aymon are adopted Northerns ; the 
Troubadour Poetry knows little or nothing of their 
chivalry. Toulouse owns only her own unidealized, 
unromanticized Counts: the few Provencal poems of 
chivalry are of doubtfiil origin : their Epic is the dull 
verse chronicle of the Albigensian War. 

But, after all, in this inexhaustible fecundity of her 
Romance, whether from the rudeness and imperfection 
of the language at this period of her prolific creative* 
ness, or from some internal inaptitude in French for 
this high class of poetry, from want of vigor, metrical 
harmony, and variety, or even iron its excellence, its 
analytical clearness and precision, the MediaBval Poe- 
try of Northern France, with all its noble, chivalrous, 
and crusading impulses, called forth no poet of endur- 
ing fame. The Homer of this race of cyclic poets was 
to be an Italian. It was not till these poems had sunk 
into popular tales ; till, from the poem recited in the 
castle or the court of the King or the Baron, they had 
become disseminated among the people ; ^ not till they 

1 *' Tutte le menviglie ch* oggi legguuno n6 romanzi o poemi, che baimo 
per snggetto i Paladini, erano allora raccontate al popolo dai novellatori; 
e quest* uso rimane in alcane cittii e specialmente in Venezia e in Kapoli 
rino a quest* ultimi anni. Chinnque non sapeva leggere, si raoco^era 
quasi ogni sera d*e8tate intorno il noveUatore su la riva del mare,** &c &c. 
FoscolOi DiscorsOi ▼. p. 229. This accounts at once for the adoption of socfa 
subjects by Pulci, BoiardO| and Ariosto, when the high tide of classical let- 

Chap. YI. MEMOIBS. 859 

had spread into Italy, and as the ^' Reali di Francia '* 
had been over and over again recited bj the profes- 
sional story-tellers, and been rudely versified by hum- 
bler poets, that they were seized first by the bold and 
accomplished Boiardo, afterwards by the inimitable 
Ariosto, and in their full ancient spirit, yet with some 
fine modem irony, bequeathed to mankind in the most 
exquisite and harmonious Italian. Even the Crusades 
were left to the gentle and romantic Tasso, when the 
religious fire of the Crusades and of Chivalry was all 
but extinct in its cold faint embers. 

But if the Crusades, and by the Crusades Latin 
Christianity, did not create enduring French poetry, 
they created the form of history in which France has 
excelled all Europe. Perhaps of vernacular history, 
properly so called, the Florentine Villani is the parent ; 
of political history, Dino Compagni ; but that history, 
which delights from its reality and truth, as springing 
from the personal observation, instinct with the per- 
sonal character, alive with all the personal feelings of 
the historian, the model and type of the delightftil Me- 
moir, is to be found first in Villehardouin and Joinville, 
to rise to still higher perfection in Froissart and in De 
Comines. No cold later epic on St. Louis will rival 
the poetry of Joinville. 

tera had not paised away; as well as for the unboanded popularity of their 
poems, and of countless other epics, once common as the stones in the 
streets, now the rarities of the choicest libraries. 




In all the Romance languages, as it has appeared, 
Teutonic ^^ ^^^ languages of Latin descent, Italian, 
langoagcfl. French both in its northern and southern 
form, Spanish in all its dialects, the religious vocab- 
ulary, every word which expressed Christian notions, 
or described Christian persons, was Latin, only length* 
ened out or shortened, deflected, or moulded, according 
to the genius of each tongue ; they were the same 
words with some difierence of pronunciation or form, 
but throughout retaining their primal sense : the words, 
even if indistinctly understood, had at least an asso- 
ciated significance, they conveyed, if not fully, partially 
to all, their proper meaning. 

In the Teutonic languages it was exactly the reverse. 
For all the primal and essential Christian notions the 
German found its own words ; it was only what may 
be called the Church terms, the ecclesiastical functions 
and titles, which it condescended or was compelled to 
borrow from the Latin;^ The highest of all, " God," 

i M. Regnier, in a M^moire in the last year's Transactions of the Acade- 
my (p. 324 )f has stimmed up in a few clear French sentences, the substance 
of a learned work by Rudolf Raumer, which I have read with much profit 
'* Die Einwirkung des Christenthums auf die althochdeutsche Sprache.** 
Berlin, 1851. " Un fait remarquable, et qui prouve bien avec quel soin ja- 
loox la langae se conservait pure de tonte melange ^trangdre, c'est qu'aa 


with all its derivatives, the '^ Godhead, godlj, god- 
like," was in sound entirely remote from ^^ Deus, the 
deity, the divinity, the divioe." As to the attribates 
of God, the German had his own word for almighti- 
neesj for the titles the all-merciful or all-gracious.^ For 
the Trinity, indeed, as in all Indo-Teutonic languages, 
the numerals are so nearly akin, that there would be at 
least a close assonance, if not identity, in the words ; 
and the primitive word for " fiither " is so nearly an 
universal, that the Latin "Pater" might be dimly 
discerned under the broader, Teutonic pronunciation, 
"Fader." But the "Son and the Holy Ghost "« 
were pure, unapproaching Teuton. The names ot 
the Saviour, " Jesus," and " the Christ," passed of 
course into the creed and ritual ; but the " Lord," 
and the German " Herr," were Teuton, as were the 
^^ healer, health," for the " Saviour and salvation," the 
"atonement" for the "propitiation."® In the older 
versions the now ignoble words " hanging and the gal- 
lows" were used instead of the Crucifixion and the 
Cross : the " Resurrection " takes the German form.* 
The " Angels and the Devils " underwent but littltf 
change ; but all the special terms of the Gospel, " the 

moment mdme de rintrodaction du Christianisme, qni apportait tant 
d^ldien nouvelles, elle n*eut pas besoin d'emprunter au Grec et an Latin lea 
mots qui les rendaient, que ses propres ressources lui saffirent en grande par- 
tie, Burtout pour I'expreMion des sentiments qui appartenaient 4 la foi 
Chr^tienne, et que ce ne fut fpi^re que pour Torganisation ext^rieure de 
TEglise, qu*elle reput en partie du dehors les mots avec les fkits.*' — In a 
note M. Begnier illustrates these assertions by examples, many of them the 
same as those cited in my text. 

^ Compounds from Maeht — Barmherzigkeit — Gnade. 

> Der Sohn, der Heilige Geist. 

s Der Herr, Heiland, Ueil. 

* Notker and Otfried use *^ hengan und galgen." — Aoferstehmg, Bodolf 
Raomer, b. iii. 


soul, sin, holiness, faith, prayer, repentance, penance, 
confession, convei*sion, heaven and hell. Doomsday, 
even Baptism and the Lord's Supper," were new and 
peculiar.^ The Book ; ^ the Seer not the Prophet ; • 
above all, the great Festivals of Christmas and Easter,^ 
were original, witliout relation in sound or in letters 
to the Latin. Of the terms which discriminated the 
Christian from the Unbeliever one was different ; the 
Christian, of course, was of all languages, the Gren- 
tile or the Pagan became a " heathen." So too " the 
world " took another name* To the German, in- 
structed through these religious words, the analogous 
vocabulary of the Latin service was utterly dead and 
without meaning ; the Latin Gospel was a sealed book, 
the Latin service a succession of unintelligible sounds. 
The offices and titles of the Clergy alone, at least of 
the Bishop and the Deacon, as well as the Monk, the 
Abbot, the Prior, the Cloister, were transferred and 
received as honored strangers in the land, in which the 
office was as new as the name.^ ^^ The Martyr " was 
unknown but to Christianity, therefore the name lived. 

1 Seele, Siinde, Schuld, Heiligkeit, GUube, Gebete, Beue, Basse, Beichte, 
Bekehrung, Himmelf HollCf Taufe, Heiliges Abendroahl. 

> Kodolf Raumer, b. iii. 

* Ulphilas used the word praufetas. See Zahn^s glossary to bis edition 
of Ulphilas, p. 70. The German word is Seher, or Wahrsager. 

4 Weihnacht. Ostara (in Anglo-Saxon, Easter) paraft avoir d^sign^ 
dans des temps plus anclens une D^esse Germaniqne dont la ftlte se c^l^- 
brait vers la meme ^poque que notre Fdte de P&ques, et qui avait donnd 
son nom au mois d*Avril. — Grimm, Mythologie, p. 267, 8vo., 2e edit., Arc 
&C. M. Regnier might have added to his authorities that of Bede, who In 
his de Comp. Temporum gives tliis derivation .... Pfingsten is Pen- 

s Pfaffe, the more common word for Clericns, is from Papa. — Banmer, 
p. 295. It is curious that in the oldest tnuuUtors the High Priests, Annas 
and Caiaphas, are Bishops. — n>id. 297. 

Chap. Vn. THE ANGLO-SAXONS. 868 

" The Church " the Teuton derived, perhaps through 
the Gothic of Ulphilas, from the Greek ; ^ but besides 
this single word there is no sign of Greek more than 
of Latin in the general Teutonic Christian language.* 
The Bible of U]philas was that of an ancient race, 
which passed away with that race ; it does not appear 
to have* been known to the Germans east of the Rhine, 
or to the great body of the Teutons, who were con- 
verted to Christianity some centuries later, from the 
seventh to the eleventh. The Germans who crossed 
the Rhine or the Alps came within the magic circle of 
the Latin ; they submitted to a Latin Priesthood ; they 
yielded up their primitive Teuton, content with for- 
cing many of their own words, which were of absolute 
necessity, perhaps some of their inflections, into the 
language which they ungraciously adopted. The de- 
scendants of the Ostrogoths, the Visigoths, the Bur- 
gundians, the Lombards, by degrees spoke languages 
of which the Latin was the groundwork ; they became 
in every sense Latin Christians. 

Our Anglo-Saxon ancestors were the first Teutonic 
race which remained Teuton. It is a curious ^ j^ 
problem how the Roman Missionaries from ^•*°"* 
the South, and the Celtic Missionaries from the North, 
wrought the conversion of Anglo-Saxondom.^ Proba- 
bly the early conversions in most parts of the island 
were hardly more than ceremonial ; the substitution of 
one rite for another; the deposing one God and ac- 
cepting another, of which they knew not much more 

1 WalafVid Strabo gives this derivation from the Greek through the 
Gothic The word is, I believe, not found in the extant part of Ulphilas. 
* Even the word " Catholic ** is superseded by ** Allgemeine.'* 
s Angufltine addressed Ethelbert through an interpreter. The Queen and 
her retinue were French, and used to intercourse with a Latin priesthood. 


than the name ; and the subjection to one Priesthood, 
who seemed to have more powerful influence in heaven, 
instead of another who had ceased to command success 
in war, or other blessings which they expected at his 
hands. This appears fi*om the ease and carelessness 
with which the religion was for some period accepted 
and thrown off again. As in the island, or Jn each 
separate kingdom, the Christian. or the Heathen King, 
the Christian or the Heathen party was the stronger, 
so Christianity rose and fell. It was not till the rise 
of a Priesthood of Anglo-Saxon birth under Wilfrid, 
or during his time, that England received true Chris- 
tian instruction ; it was not till it had, if not an Anglo- 
Saxon ritual, Anglo-Saxon hymns, legends, poetry, 
sermons, that it can be properly called Christian ; and 
all those in their religious vocabulary are Teutonic, not 
Latin. It was in truth notorious that, even among 
the Priesthood, Latin had nearly died out, at least if 
not the traditional skill of repeating its words, the 
knowledge of its meaning. 

Our Anglo-Saxon Fathers were the first successfiil 
missionaries in Trans-Rhenane Germany. The Celt 
Columban and St. Gall were hermits and coenobites, 
not missionaries ; and with their Celtic may have com- 
municated, if they encountered them, with the aborigi- 
nal Gauls, but they must chiefly have made their way 
through Latin. They settled within the pale of Ro- 
man Gaul, buil^ their monasteries on the sites of old 
Roman cities ; their proselytes (for they made monks 
at least, if not numerous converts to the faith) were 
Gallo-Romans.^ But no doubt the Anglo-Saxon of 

I Columban has left a few lines of Latin poetiy. While his Celticifln 
appean from hit obstinate adherence to the ancient British usage about 


Winfnd (Boniface) and his brother apostles of Ger- 
many was the means of intercourse ; the kindred lan- 
guage enabled them to communicate freely and success- 
folly with the un-Romanized races : Teutons were the 
apostles of Teutons. It was through the persuasive ac- 
cents of a tongue, in its sounds as in its words closely 
resembling their own^ not in the commanding tones of 
foreign Latin, that the religion found its way to their 
hearts and minds. Charlemagne's conversions in the 
farther north were at first through an instrument in 
barbarous ages universally understood, the sword. 
Charlemagne was a Teuton warring on Teutons: he 
would need no interpreter for the brief message of his 
evangelic creed to the Saxons — " Baptism or death." 
Their conversion was but the sign of submission, shaken 
off constantly during the long wars, and renewed on 
every successful inroad of the conqueror. But no 
doubt in the bishoprics and the monasteries, the relig- 
ious colonies with which Charlemagne really achieved 
the Christianization of a large part of Germany, though 
the services might be in Latin, the schools might in- 
struct in Latin, and the cloister language be Latin, 
German youths educated as Clergy or as Monks could 
not forget or entirely abandon their mother-tongue.^ 

EasteTf it 18 Btrsnge that he nhoald be mixed up with the controversy about 
the "three Chapters.'* M. Ampere has pointed out the singular contrast 
between the adulation of Columban's letter to Pope Boniface on this sub- 
ject, " pulcherrimo omnium totius Europe ecclesiarum capiti . . . Papse 
pr«dict0f pnecelso, pnesenti (prtestanti?) pastomm pastori . . . hnmillimuB 
celsistimo, agrestis urbano,'* and the bold and definite language of the let- 
ter itself: " Jamdiu enim potestas apnd vos erit, quamdiu recta ratio per- 
manserit. Dolere se de infkmi& qu» cathedme S. Petri innritur." — Annal. 
Benedict, i. 274. Compare Ampere, Hist Lit. de la France^ iii. p. 9. The 
Celt is a Latin in language rather than in thought. 

1 Dem Kloster S. Gallen wird im lOten Jahrhundert nachgeriihmti dass 
anr die kleinsten Knaben seiner Schnle sieh der deutschen Sprache be- 


Latin .and German became insensibly mingled, and in- 
terpenetrated each other. As to the general language 
of the country, there was an absolute necessity that 
the strangers should yield to the dominant Tentonism, 
rather than, like Rome of old in her conquered prov- 
inces, impose their language on the subject people. 
The Empire of Charlemagne till his death maintained 
its unity. The great division began to prevail during 
the reign of Louis the Pious, between the German and 
the Frank portions of the Empire. By that time the 
Franks (though German was still spoken in the north- 
east, between the Rhine and the Meuse) had become 
blended and assimilated with those who at least had be- 
gun to speak the Langue d*Oil and the Langue d'Oc.^ 
But before the oath at Strasburg had as it were pro- 
nounced the divorce between the two realms, Teutonic 
preachers had addressed German homilies to the peo- 
ple, parts of the Scripture had found their way into 
Germany, German vernacular poets had begun to fr- 
miliarize the Gospel history to the German ear, the 
Monks aspired to be vernacular poets.^ As in Anglo- 
Saxon England, so in the dominions of Louis the Pious, 

dienten ; alle ubrigen aber mussten ihre ConveTsation LateiniMh ftihren. In 
den meisten Fallen aber lief natilrlich der Gebraiich der deutschen Hatter' 
sprache neben dem der Lateinischen her. Daher ent«tand jene Hischang 
Lateinischer mit deutschen Worten, die wir in so vielen GIoesenhandKhrifteD 
der Althochdeutschen Zeit finden. Man erklarte bei der Auslegung Li- 
teinischer Texte die schwierigeren Wurter entweder durch gelaufigere Li- 
teinische oder auch durch entsprechende Deutsche. Dadurch mui>9te eine 
fortdauemde Wechselwirkung zwischen dem Lateinischen und Deatwrhoi 
in den KUistem entstehen. — Raumer, p. SOI. Otfried, the German saaed 
poet, owed his education to the scholar and theologian, H. KhabannsMaums. 

} See above, from the canons of the Councils of Tours, Rlieims, and 

3 See on the Vienna fVagments of the old Grerman translation of St Mat- 
thew, and the version of the Go<tpel Harmony of Ammianna, Notker'i 
Psahns, the Lord's Prayer, and Creed. — Baumer, pp. 36 ei $eq. 

Chap.YIL conversion OF GEBKANT. 807 

and of Lothaire, the Heliand, and the Harmony of the 
Grospels by Otfried, had opened the Bible, at least the 
New Testament, to the popular ear. The Heliand was 
written in the dialect of Lower Saxony. Otfried, a 
Monk of Weissenberg in Alsace, wrote in High Ger- 
man. The Heliand is alliterative verse, Otfried in 
rhyme. Otfried wrote his holy poem to wean the 
minds of men from their worldly songs ; the history 
of the Redeemer was to supplant the songs of the old 
German heroes. How far Otfried succeeded in his 
pious design is not known, but even in the ninth cen- 
tury other Christian poetry, a poem on St. Peter, a 
legend of St. Grail, a poem on the miracles of the 
Holy Land) introduced Christian thoughts and Chris- 
tian imagery into the hearts of the people.^ 

Thus Christianity began to speak to mankind in 
Greek ; it had spoken for centuries in the commanding 
Latin ; henceforth it was to address a large part of the 
world in Teutonic. France and Spain were Roman- 

1 On the Heliand and on OtfHed see the powerful criticism of Gervinus, 
Geschichte der Poetischen National Literatur der Deutschen, i. p. 84, tt teq. 
Neither are translators ; they are rather paraphra^ts of the Gospel. The 
Saxon has more of the popular poet, Otfried more of the religious teacher; 
in Otfried the poet appears, in the Saxon he is lost in his poetry. Where 
the Saxon leaves the text of the Gospel, it is in places where the popular 
poetry offers him matter and expression for epic amplification or adorn- 
ment, as in the Murder of the Innocents ; and where in the description of 
the Last Judgment he reminds us of the Scandinavian imagery of the de- 
struction of the world : in this not altogether unlike the fragment of the 
Muspeli edited by Schmeller. Instead of this, OtfHed cites passages of the 
Prophets Joel and Zepbaniah. On the whole, the Saxon has an epic, Otr 
fried a lyric and didactic character. Gervinus thinks but meanly of OtfHed 
as a poet The whole passage is striking and instructive. The Heliand 
has been edited by Schmeller; and OtfHed best b}' Graff, Konigsberg, 
1831. Compare Lachman*s article in firsch und Gruber*s Encyclopftdie. 
The Poem on St. Gall exists only in a fragment of a Latin translation in 
Pertz, ii. p. 38. The first is in Hoffman, Geschichte des Deut«ichen Kirch- 
enliedes; the last in Yit. Altman. in Pez. Script. Rer. Austriac. i. p. 117. 


ized as well as Christianized. Germany was Chris- 
tianized, but never Romanized. England, Germanized 
by the Anglo-Saxon conquest, was partially Romanized 
again by the Normans, who, in their province of 
France, had entirely yieldcid to the Gallo-Roman ele- 
ment. Westward of the Rhine and south of the Dan- 
ube, the German conquerors were but a few, an armed 
aristocracy ; in Germany they were the mass of the 
people. However, therefore, Roman religion, to a cer- 
tain extent Roman law, ruled eastward of the Rhine, 
each was a domiciled stranger. The Teuton in char- 
acter, in habits, in language, remained a Teuton. As 
their tribes of old united for conquest; the conquest 
achieved, severed again to erect independent kingdoms ; 
as the Roman Empire in Germany was at last but a 
half-naturalized fiction, controlled, limited, fettered by 
the independent Kings, Princes, and Prelates : so, as 
our History has shown, there was a constant struggle 
in the Grerman Churchman between the Churchman 
and the Teuton — a gravitating tendency towards Ro- 
man unity in the Churchman, a repulsion towards 
independence in the Teuton. But for the Imperial 
claims on Italy and on Rome, which came in aid of 
the ecclesiastical centralization under the Papacy, Tea- 
tonism might perhaps have much earlier burst free 
from the Latin unity. 

The Norman conquest brought England back into 
the Roman pale ; it warred as sternly against the in- 
dependence of the Anglo-Saxon Bishop as against that 
of the Anglo-Saxon thane ; it introduced the Latin 
religious phraseology. Hence in England we in many 
cases retain and use almost indiflPerently both the Latin 
and the Teutonic terms ; in some instances only we in- 

Chap. YII. THE NOBMANS. 869 

flexibly adhere to our vemacolar religious language, 
and show a loyal predilection for the Saxon tongue. 
^* God " and '^ the Lord '' retain their uninvaded maj- 
esty. ** The Son '^ admits no rival, but we admit the 
Holy Spirit as well as the Holy Ghost^ but the Holy 
Ghost ^^ sanctifies." The attributes of God, except his 
Almightiness and his wisdom, ai*e more often used in 
theological discussion than in popular speech. There- 
fore his " omnipresence," his " omniscience " (he is 
also " all-knowing "), his " ubiquity," his " infinity," 
his ^^ incomprehensibility," are Latin. In the titles of 
Christ, " the Saviour," the " Redeemer," the " Inters 
cessor," except in the *^ Atonement," instead of the 
*^ Propitiation or Reconciliation," Latin has obtained 
the mastery. " Sin " is Saxon ; " righteousness " a 
kind of common property ; " mercy and love " may 
contend for preeminence ; " goodness " is genuine Ger- 
man ; ^^ &ith and charity " are Latin ; ^^ love," German. 
We await " Doomsday, or the Day of Judgment ; " 
but *• Heaven and Hell " are pure Teutonisms.^ " Bap- 
tism " is Latinized Greek. The " Lord's Supper " con- 
tests with the " Eucharist ; " the " Holy Communion " 
mingles the two. "Easter" is our Paschal Feast. 
We speak of Gentiles and Pagans, as well as " Hea- 
thens." Our inherited Greek, " Church," retains its 
place ; as does " priest," firom the Greek presbyter. In 
common with all Teutons, our ecclesiastical titles, with 
this exception, are borrowed. 

During this period of suspended Teutonic life in 
England, Germany had not yet receded into her rigid 
Teutonism. The Crusades united Christendom, Latin 

1 The German Heiden is clearly analogoiu in its meaning to Pagan ; the 
word is not the Greek Ethnic 

TOL. Tin. M 


and German, in unresisting and spontaneous confedei^ 
acj. The Franks, as has been seen, were in the van ; 
Germany followed sluggishly, reluctantly, at intervals^ 
made at least two great paroxysmal efforts under the 
Emperors, who themselves headed the armaments, but 
then collapsed into something bordering on apathy. 
From that time only single Princes and Prelates girt 
themselves with the Cross. The long feud, the open 
war of the Emperors and the Popes, was no strife be- 
tween the races ; the Emperor warred not for German 
interests, but for his own ; it was as King of the Ro- 
mans, with undefined rights over the Liombard and 
Tuscan cities, later as King of Naples as well as Em- 
peror of Germany, that he maintained the internecine 
strife. If Frederick II. had been a German, not a 
Sicilian ; if his capital had been Cologne or Mentz or 
Augsburg, not Palermo or Naples ; if his courtly lan- 
guage, the language of his statesmen and poets, had 
been a noble Grerman, rising above the clashing and 
confused dialects of High and Low, Franconian, Swib- 
bian, Bavarian ; if he had possessed the power and the 
will to legislate for Germany as he legislated for Apu- 
lia, different might have been the issue of the conflict. 

Throughout all this period, the true mediaeval period, 
Germany was as mediaeval ad the rest <^ Christendom. 
Her poets were as fertile in chivalrous romances ; 
whether translated or founded on those of the Troo-' 
vdres, there is not a poem on any of the great cycles, 
the classical or that from ancient history, those of 
Charlemagne or of Arthur, not a tale of adventum, 
which has not its antitype in German verse, in one or 
other of the predominant dialects. The legends of the 
Saints of all classes and countries (the romances of 


religious adventure) are drawn out with the same in- 
exhaustible fecundity, to the same interminable length.^ 
The somewhat later Minnesingers echo the amatory 
songs of the Troubadours ; and everywhere, as in 
France and England, the vernacular first mingles in 
grotesque incongruity with the Latin Mystery ; scenes 
of less dignity, sometimes broadly comic in the vul- 
gar tongue, are interpolated into the more solemn and 
stately Latin spectacle. 

When the Norman dynasty, and with the Noiman 
dynasty the dominance of the Norman language came 
to an end, nearly at the same period the English con- 
stitution and the English language began to develop 
themselves in their mingled character, but with Teu- 
tonism resuming its superiority. As in the constitution 
the Anglo-Saxon common law, so in the structure and 
Vocabulary of the language the Anglo-Saxon was the 
broad groundwork. Poetry rose with the language; 
and it is singular to observe that the earliest English 
poems of original force and fancy (we had before only 
the dry dull histories of Wace, and Robert of Glouces- 
ter, Norman rather than English ^), the Vision and the 
Creed of Piers Ploughman, while they borrow their 
allegorical images from the school of the Romance of 
the Rose, adopt the alliterative verse of the old Anglo- 
-Saxon. The Romance of the Rose by its extraordi- 

^ Many of these poems, sacred and profane, of enormous length, Titurel, 
the Kaiser Chronik, Eutnin, as well as the great " Passional " and the 
" Harienleben,*' are in course of publication at Quedlinburg, in the Biblio- 
tfaek derDeutschen National Literatur. 

^ The Ormulum, excellently edited by Dr. Meadows White, Oxford, 
1852, is a paraphrase of the Gospels (it is curious to compare it with the 
older Teutonic Heliand and OtfKed) in Terse and language, of a kind of 
tnnMtion period, by some called semi-Saxon. See on the Ormulum, In- 
Ezoduction to Bosworth's Anglo-Saxon Dictionaiy. 


nary popularity had introduced the Impersonated Vir- 
tues and Vices, which had almost driven out the knights 
and the saints of the Romance and the Legend ; in- 
stead of the wild tale of chivalrous adventure, or the 
holy martyrdom, poetry became a long and weary alle- 
gory : even the Mystery before long gave place to the 
Morality. In some degree this may have been the 
Morals of Christianity reasserting coequal dignity and 
importance against ritual observances and blind sacer* 
dotal authority: it is constantly rebuking with grave 
solemnity, or keen satire, the vices of the Clergy, the 
Monks, and the Friars. 

Before Chaucer, even before Wycliffe, appeared with 
his rude satire, his uncouth alliterative verse, his home- 
ly sense, and independence of thought, the author of 
Piers Ploughman's Vision.^ This extraordinary man- 
ifestation of the religion, of the language, of the social 
and political notions, of the English character, of the 
condition, of the passions and feelings of rural and 
provincial England, commences, and with Chancer and 
WycliflFe completes the revelation of this transition pe- 
riod, the reign of Edward III. Throughout its institu- 
tions, language, religious sentiment, Teutonism is now 
holding its first initiatory struggle with Latin Chris- 
tianity. In Chaucer is heard a voice from the court, 
from the castle, from the city, from universal England. 
All orders of society live in his verse, with the truth 
and originality of individual being, yet each a type of 
every rank, class, every religious and social condition 
and pursuit. And there can be no doubt that his is a 

1 The Vision bean its date about 1365. Chaacer^s great woik u about 
twenty yean later. Wycliffe was hardly known, bat by his tract on tlM 
Last Days, before 1870. Whitaker, p. xxxvi. and last note to Introdoctioii. 
Also Wrights Preface. 


voice of freedom, of more or less covert hostility to the 
hierarchical system, though more playful and with a 
poet's genial appreciation of all which was true, health- 
Ail, and beautiful in the old &ith. In Wycliffe is heard 
a voice from the University, from the seat of theology 
and scholastic philosophy, from the centre and strong- 
hold of the hierarchy ; a voice of revolt and defiance, 
taken up and echoed in the pulpit throughout the land 
against the sacerdotal domination. In the Vision of 
Piers Ploughman is heard a voice from the wild Mal- 
vern Hills, the voice it should seem of an humble par- 
son, or secular priest. He has passed some years in 
London, but his home, his heart is among the poor rural 
population of central Mercian England. Tradition, un- 
certain tradition, has assigned a name to the Poet, Rob- 
ert Langland, born at Cleobury Mortimer, in Shrop- 
shire, and of Oriel College, Oxford. Whoever he was, 
he wrote in his provincial idiom, in a rhythm perhaps 
from the Anglo-Saxon times famiUar to the popular 
ear ; if it strengthened and deepened that feeling, no 
doubt the poem was the expression of a strong and 
wide-spread feeling. It is popular in a broader and 
lower sense than the mass of vernacular poetry in Ger- 
many and England. We must rapidly survey the 
religion, the politics, the poetry of the Ploughman. 

The Visionary is no disciple, no precursor of Wyc- 
lifie in his broader religious views : the Loller of Piers 
Ploughman is no Lollard; he applies the name as a 
term of reproach for a lazy indolent vagrant.^ The 
Poet is no dreamy speculative theologian ; he acqui- 
esces seemingly with unquestioning faith in the creed 

1 PasBus Sextas, p. 76 and elsewhere, Loller's life is begging at buttery 
batches, and loitering on Fridays or Feast Days at Church, p. 76. 


and in the usages of the Church. He is not pro&ne 
but reverent as to the Virgin and the Saints. Pilgrim- 
ages, penances, oblations on the altar, absolution, he 
does not reject, though they are all nought in compari* 
son with holiness and charity; on Transubstantiation 
and the Real Presence and the Sacraments he is almost 
silent, but his silence is that of submission not of 
doubt.^ It is in his intense absorbing moral feeling 
that he is beyond his age : with him outward observ- 
ances are but hollow shows, mockeries, hypocrisies with- 
out the inward power of religion. It is not so mach 
in his keen cutting satire on all matters of the Church 
as his solemn installation of Reason and Conscience as 
the guides of the self-directed soul, that he is breaking 
the yoke of sacerdotal domination : in his constant ap- 
peal to the plainest, simplest Scriptural truths, as in 
themselves the whole of religion, he is a stem reformer. 
The sad serious Satirist, in his contemplation of the 
world around him, the wealth of the world and the 
woe,^ sees no hope, no consolation but in a new order 
of things, in which if the hierarchy shall subsist, it 
shall subsist in a form, with powers, ih a spirit totaD j 

1 There is a veiy cnriooB pasaage as to the qaestions even then ag^ 

** I hftTe Heard High men, — eating at the table, 
Oarp aa though they Oleika warn, — of Ghrlat and hk mtghit 
And laid Fanlta on the Vather — that Vonned na aU . . . 
Why would our Saiionr Snifer, — Sooh a worm in hk bite 
That bagnUad the wooiaa, — and ttM man after." 

Wilght, 179. 

The religious poet puts down these questions with holy indignation. 

I quote mostly from Dr. Whitaker*s edition, sometimes from WrigfatTi, 
taking the liberty of modernising only the spelling, which shows how 
most of it is to our vernacular English. 

* " And BfarreUonaly me Met — aa I Hay you tell, 

AU the Wealth of the World —and the Woo both."— p. 2. 


opposite to that which now rules mankind. The my^* 
tenons Piers the Ploughman seems to designate from 
what quarter that reformer is to arise. Piers the Plough* 
man, who at one time was a sort of impersonation of the 
Industrious and at the same time profoundly religious 
man, becomes at the close Piers Pardon Ploughman, 
the great publisher of the pardon of mankind through 
Christ. In him is the teaching, absolving power of 
the Church ; he is the great assertor and conservator 
of Unity. 

With Wycliffe, with the^ spiritual Franciscans, Lang* 
land ascribes all the evils, social and religious, of the 
dreary world to the wealth of the Clergy, of the 
Monks, and the still more incongruous wealth of the 
Mendicants. With them he asserts the right, the duty, 
the obligation of the temporal Sovereign to despoil the 
hierarchy of their c6rrupting and fatal riches.^ As he 
has nothing of the scholastic subtilty, of the Predes^ 
tinarianism* or speculative freedom of Wycliffe, so he 
has nothing of the wild spiritualist belief in the proph- 
ecies of ages to come. With the Fraticelli, to him the 
fatal gift of Constantine was the doom of true religion ; 
with them he almost adores poverty, but it is indus- 
trious down-trodden rustic poverty ; not that of the 
impostor beggar,^ common in his days, and denounced 

1 " For If PoiMoloii be Potoon —and imPerftot these make 
The Heads of Holy Ohnrch, 

It were Ohaiity to disCharKe them (br Holy Church sake, 
And Puge them of the old Poiaoii.*' — p. 386. 

See the whole passage. 

3 See Passos iv. where Waster refuses to Work, and Piers sommons Want 
to seize him by the paunch, and wring him well. The whole contrast of 
the industrions and idle poor is remarkable. Also the Impostors and Jolly 
Beggars, as of oar own days, and the favorable view of*' God's Minstrels/* 
— Whitaker, p. 154. This passage was not in Mr. Wright's copy. 


as sternly as by the political economy of oar own, stiD 
less of the religious mendicant. Both these are fierce- 
ly excluded fi:x)m his all-embracing charity.^ 

Langland is Antipapal, yet he can admire an ideal 
Pope, a general pacificator, reconciling the Sovereigns 
of the world to universal amity.' It is the actual 
Pope, the Pope of Avignon or of Rome, levying the 
wealth of the world to slay mankind, who is the object 
of his bitter invective.* The Cardinals he denounces 
with the same indignant scorn ; but chiefly the Cardi- 
nal Legate, whom he has seen in England riding in his 
pride and pomp, with lewdness, rapacity, merciless ex- 
tortion, insolence in his train.^ Above all, his hati^ (it 
might seem that on this all honest English indignation 
was agreed) is against the Mendicant orders. Of the 
older monks there is almost total silence. For St. Ben^ 
diet, for St. Dominic, for St. Francis he has the pitH 
foundest reverence.^ But it is against their degenerate 
sons that he arrays his allegorical Host ; the Friars fiir- 

1 Pass. vi. p. 76. 

I " Sithen Pnyed to the Pope, — hmTe Pity of Holy Ohvrah, 
And DO Oraoe to Orant — tiU Good lore ware, 
Among all Kind of Kings — orer Christian people, 
Comnuuid all Conftason that any King shrive 
Bqjoin him Peace for his Penance — and Perpetaal forgiveness." — p. K. 

* Simony mnd Civil go to Rome to pnt themselyes under the Pope's pfo- 
tectioD. — P. iii. p. 86. 

" And Ood amend the Pope — that Pilleth Holy Ohareh, 
And Claimeth hy force to be King — to be Keeper over Chrlstelldoa^ 
And Connteth not how Christian Men be Killed and robbed, 
And Findeth Folk to Fight, — and Christian blood to apUI.** 

Do Best, p. 1, p. 

Compare p. S97. 

* *' The Oonntry is the Cuneder, — that Cardinala Come in. 
And where they Lie and Linger, — Lechery there relgneth." 

Wright, p. 420. 
A Pass. ▼. p. 70. 


nish every impersonated vice, are foes to every virtue ; 
his bitterest satire, his keenest irony (and these weapons 
he wields with wonderfiil poetic force) are against their 
dissoluteness, their idleness, their pride, their rapacity, 
their arts, their lies, their hypocrisy, their intrusion 
into the functions of the Clergy, their delicate attire, 
their dainty feasts, their magnificent buildings,^ even 
their proud learning; above all their hardness, their 
pitilessness to the poor, their utter want of charity, 
which with Langland is the virtue of virtues. 

Against the Clergy he is hardly less severe;* he 
sternly condemns their dastardly desertion of their 
flocks, when during the great plague they crowded to 
London to live an idle life : that idle life he describes 
with singular spirit and zest. Yet he seems to recog- 
nize the Priesthood as of Divine institution. Against 
Ihe whole host of officials, pardoners, summoners. Arch- 
deacons, and their functionaries ; against lawyers, civil 
as well as ecclesiastical, he is everywhere fiercely and 
contemptuously criminatory. 

His political views are remarkable.^ He has a notion 

I He scoffii at those who wish their names to appear in the rich p^in*^ 
windows of the Franciscan dwrches. The Friar absolves Mede (Bribeiy) — 

" And sithen he seyde, 
We hftTe a window in werkynge. 
Wof dest thon glase that gablfe. 
And grave there thy name, 
Nigger should thy sonl be ■ 
Heayen to have." — Wright, p. 46. 

There is a fhll account in ^* the Creed" of a spacious and splendid domini- 
can Convent, very curious. " The Creed '* is of a later date, bj another 
author, an avowed Lollard. 

* He declares that the Clergy shall fall as the Templars had fiiUen. — Do 
Bet, i. p. 297. Bat eompare Wright, i. p. 238. 

* There is a strange cross of aristocratical feeling in Langland's levelling 
actions. That slaves and bastards should be advanced to be clergymen is a 


of a king mling in the affections of the people, with 
Reason for his chancellor, Conscience for his justiciary. 
On such a King the commonalty would cheerfolly and 
amply bestow sufficient revenue for all the dignity of 
his office, and the exigencies of the state, even for his 
conquests. No doubt that Conunonalty would first 
have absorbed the wealth of the hierarchy.^ He is 
not absolutely superior to that hatred of the French, 
nor even to the ambition for the conquest of France 
engendered by Edward's wars and by his victories. 
And yet his shrewd common-sense cannot but see the 
injustice and cruelty of those aggressive and sanguinary 

As a Poet Langland has many high qualities. He 
is creating his own language, and that in a rude and 
remote province: its groundwork is Saxon-English^ 
exclusively so in most of its words and in its idioms* 
It admits occasionally French words, but they appear 
like strangers ; his Latinisms, and words of Latin de> 

oying grievance. They should be sons of finmkliiis and freemen, if not 
of Lords: 

** And such Bondamens Bairns ha^v Been made Bidiopa, 
And Barona Baataxda have Been Arehdeaeons, 

And Soapen (aoap-bollen) and their Bona for SilTer ham been Kolghta, 
And Lorda lona their labourers." 

The Barons mortgaged their estates to go to the wars. ' They were bought, 
this is curious, by traders. 

I What the Ck>mmons require of the King is Law, Love, and Truth, and 
himself for their Lord antecedent (p- 67): 

** And I date Lay my lUb that LoTe ironld Lend that rilTar 
To Wage (to pay the wagea of) them, and help Win that thou Wlttest alter, 
Moie than all the Merchants, or than the Mitred Biahopa, 
Or Lombards of Lnoca, that Lire by Lore aa Jews." — p. 74. 

* Had Mede been Seneschal in France, K. Edward would have conqueied 
the length and breadth of the land. — Pass. iv. p. 61. In another passage, 
be had won France by gentleness. — Do Wei, p. 260. 

Chap. VII. ALLEGORY. 879 

acent, might seem drawn directlj from the Vtilgate 
Scriptures and the Church services. These he con- 
stantly cites in the original Latin. With his Anglo- 
Saxon alliteration there is a cadence or rhythm in his 
verse ; while Chaucer is writing in rhyme Langland 
seems utterly ignorant of that poetic artifice. The 
whole poem is an allegory, hy no means without plan, 
but that plan obscure, broken, and conAised ; I am in* 
dined to think wanting its close. The Allegory is all 
his own. The universal outburst of Allegory at this 
time in Paris, in Germany, in England is remarkable. 
Jt had full vogue in Paris, in Rutebeuf, and in the 
Romance of the Rose, which Chaucer translated into 
English. As the chivalrous romance and the fabliaux 
bad yielded io the allegorical poem, so also the drama. 
It might seem, as we have said, as if the awakening 
moral sense of men, weary of the saints, and angels, 
and devils, delighted in those impersonations of the 
unchristian vices and Christian virtues. That which 
to us is languid, wearisome, unreal, seized most power- 
fully on the imagination of all orders. Nor had alle- 
gory fulfilled its office in the imaginative realm of 
letters till it had called forth Spenser and Bunyan. 
Langland, I am disposed to think, approaches much 
nearer to Bunyan than the Romance of the Rose to 
the Fairy Queen. But Langland, with all his bold- 
ness, and clearness, and originality, had too much 
which was temporary, much which could not but 
become obsolete. Bunyan's vision was more simple, 
had more, if it may be so said, of the moral, or of 
the scheme, of perpetual, universal Christianity. But 
Spenser himself has hardly surpassed some few touches 
by which Langland has designated his personages; 


and there is at times a keen quiet irony too fine for 

The Poem is manifestly in two parts: the poet, 
asleep on the Malvern Hills, beholds the whole world ; 
eastward a magnificent tower, the dwelling of Tmth ; 
opposite a deep dale, the abode of unblessed spirits; 
between them a wide plain, in which mankind are fol- 
lowing all their avocations. He dwells rapidly on the 
evils and abuses of all Orders. A stately lady, in 
white raiment (Holy Church) offers herself as guide 
to the Castle of Xruth, in which is seated the Blessed 
Trinity. The first five passages of the first part are 
on the redress of civil wrongs, the last on the correo* 
tion of religious abuses. Mede (Bribery) with all her 
crew are on one side ; Conscience, who refuses to be 
wedded to Mede,^ with Reason on the other. It closes 
with the King's appointment of Conscience as his Jus- 
ticiary, of Reason as his Chancellor. In the Sixth 
Passage the Dreamer awakes ; he encounters Reason. 
As Reason with Conscience is the great antagonist o{ 
social and political evil, so again, Reason, vested as a 
Pope, with Conscience as his Cross Bearer, is alone to 

1 Conscience objects to Mede that she is fklse and fkithless, misleadiiig^ 
men by her treasure^ leading wives and widows to wantonness. Fahehood 
and she undid the King's Father (Edward 11.), poisoned Popes, impaired 
H0I7 Church; she is a strumpet to the basest Sizours of the common law, 
summoners of the civil law prize her highly, sheriffs of counties would be 
undone without her, for she causes men to forfeit lauds and lives; she 
bribes gaolers to let out prisoners, imprisons true men, hangs the innocent. 
She cares not for being excommunicated in the Consistory Court; she biiys 
absolution by a cope to the Commissary. She can do almost as much work 
as the King's Privy Seal in 120 days. She is intimate with the Pope, as 
provisors show. She and Simony seal his Bulls. She consecrates Bishops 
without learning. She presents Rectors to prebends, maintains priests in 
keeping concubines and begetting bastards contrary to the Canon, &c. &c. 
—P. iii. p. 46. 

Chap.vil description of the poem. 381 

subdue religious evil. For that evil God is visiting 
the earth with awful pestilences and storms. To avert 
God's wrath the domestic duties must be observed with 
fervent affection ; the Pope must have pity on the 
Church, the religious Orders keep to their rule, those 
who go on pilgrimages to the Saints seek rather Truth. 
Truth is the one eternal object of man. After Repent- 
ance has brought all the seven deadly sins to confes- 
sion ^ (a strange powerful passage), Hope blows a 
trumpet, whose blast is to compel mankind to seek 
Grace from Christ to find out Truth. But no pilgrim 
who has wandered over the world can show the way 
to Truth. Now suddenly arises Piers Ploughman ; he 
has long known Truth ; he has been her faithful fol- 
lower. Meekness and the Ten Commandments are 
the way to, Grace is the Portress of the noble Castle 
of, Truth. After some time Truth reveals herself. 
She commands Piers to stay at home, to tend his 
plough ; of the young peasantry industry in their call- 
ing is their highest duty ; to the laborious poor is of- 
fered plenary pardon, and to those who protect them, 
Kings who rule in righteousness, holy Bishops who 
justly maintain Church discipline. Less plenary pardon 
is bestowed on less perfect men, merchants, lawyers 
who plead for hire. What is this pardon ? it is read 

1 The oonfesBioii of oovetoiuness is admirable : — 

" Didst thou ever make restitution? 
Tea, I onee Bobbed some Obapmen, and Rifled their trunks.'* 

CovetoQflness would go hang herself — but even for her Repentance has 
comfort: — 

" Have Merey in thy Mind — and with thy Mouth beseech it, 
Vor Goddee Mercy is More — tlian all his other works, 
And all the Wickedness of the World — that man might Work or think 
Is no More to the Mercy of God — than in the Sea a glede (a spark of fire).** 

Wright, p. M< 


by a Priest ; it contains but these words : ^^ They that 
have done good shall go into life eternal, they that hare 
done evil into everlasting fire."^ 

Thus with Piers Ploughman, a holy Christian life, a 
life of love, of charity, of charity especially to the poor, 
is all in all ; on the attunment of that life dwells the 
second Vision, the latter part of the poem. There are 
three personages by the plain names of Do Well, Do 
Bet (do better), and Do Best. The whole of this 
ascent through the different degrees of the Christian 
life is described with wonderfiil felicity ; every power, 
attribute, &culty of man, every virtue, every vice is 
impersonated with the utmost life and truth. The 
result of the whole is that the essence q{ the Chrit- 
tian life, the final end of Do Well, is charity. Do Bet 
appears to have a higher office, to teach other men ; and 
this part closes with a splendid description of the R&* 
deemer's life and passion, and that which displays the 
poetic power of Robert Langland higher perhaps than 
any other passage, that mysterious part of the Saviour's 
function between his passion and resurrection commonly 
called the ^* harrowing of hell,'* the deliverance of tbit 
spirits in prison.' In Do Best Piers Ploughman a{K 

litis added — 

** Wvt win men ben holden 
To Parehaie yon Pudon And the Popee boltas, 
At the Dreedflil Doom when the Deed ihaU ariM, 
And Come all belbre GhriBt| aeOoonts to yield 
How thon Leddeat thy life here, and hla Lawi kept. • • • • 
A Pouch Aill of Pardons tberd^ nor PioTinelato Lettan, 
Though ye be Found In the fraternity of all the Four Ordeit, 
And hate InDnlgenoea Double fold, If Do Wei yon hrip 
I set your Patanta and your Paidona at one Plaa worth.** 

Wtfght, 1. p. IM. 

* It is odd that Mshamet (Mahomet) defends the realm of Ludftr against 
the Lord with guns and mangonels — a whimsical anticipation of Milton. 

Cha^th. aioral of the po£m. 888 

pears as a kind of impersonation of the Saviour, or of 
bis faith ; the Holy Ghost descends upon him in light- 
ning ; Gmce arrays him with wonderful power to 
sustain the war with coming Antichrist; Piety has 
bestowed upon him four stout oxen (the Evangelists) 
to till the earth ; four bullocks to harrow the land (the 
four Latin Fathers) > who harrow into it the Old and 
New Testaments ; the grain which Piers sows is the 
cardinal virtues. The poem concludes with the resur- 
rection and war of Antichrist, in which Piers, if victor, 
is hardly victor — " a cold and comfortless conclusion," 
aays the learned editor. Dr. Whitaker. I am persuaded 
that it is not the actual or the designed conclusion. 
The last Passage of Do Best can hardly have been 
intended to be so much shorter than the others. The 

" There had been a loud cry. Lift np your heads, ye gates, and be je lift 
up, ye everlasting doors." At length, 

*' What Lord art thou ? quoth Lueifer. A toIoo aLoud said, 
Th« Lord of Might and of HeaTen, that Made all thin^, 
Duke of this Dim place. Anon unDo the gates 
That Christ may eomen in, the SUng's son of heaven. 
And with that Break HeU Brake, with aU Belial's Ban, 
Nor any Wight or Ward Wide opened the gates, 
Patriarehs and Prophets, Populus in tenebria, 
Sang out with Saint John, Ecce Agnus Dei." 

I am tempted to give the close of this canto — so characteristic of the poem. 
He had said in Latin, tMercy and Charity have met together; Righteous- 
ness and Peace have kissed each other: — 

" Truth Trumpeted them, and sung * Te Deum landamus,* 
And then saLuted Love, in a Loud note, 

Bcoe quam bonum et quam Jocundum est habltare fratres in nnum. 
Till the Day Dawned, ttiere Damsels Daunsed, 
' That men Rang to the Resurrection. And with that I awaked, 
And eaHed Kitty my wife, and Kalotte my daughter, 
A Rise and go Rererenoe Oods Resurrection, 
And Creep on knees to the Gross, and Kiss it for a Jewel, 
And RightftiUest of Reliqnes, none Richer on earth, 
Vor Gods Blessed Body it Bare for our Bote (good). 
And it a Feareth the Ilend ; for such is the might, 
Hay no Orlsly Ghost Glide where it shadoweth." 


poet may have broken off indeed in sad despondency, 
and left his design unfinished ; he may have been pre- 
vented irom its completion; or, what is fiur less im- 
probable, considering the way in which the Poem has 
survived, the end may have been lost. 

The Poet who could address such opinions, though 
wrapt up in prudent allegory, to the popular ear, to the 
ear of the peasantry of England ; the people who could 
listen with delight to such strains, were fiur advanced 
towards a revolt from Latin Christianity. Truth, true 
religion, was not to be found with, it was not known 
by. Pope, Cardinals, Bishops, Clergy, Monks, Friars. 
It was to be sought by man himself, by the individual 
man, by the poorest man, under the sole guidance of 
Reason, Conscience, and of the Grace of God, vouch- 
safed directly, not through any intermediate human 
being, or even Sacrament, to the self-directing soul. 
If it yet respected all existing doctrines, it respected 
them not as resting on traditional or sacerdotal author* 
ity. There is a manifest appeal throughout, an uncon- 
scious installation of Scripture alone,^ as the ultimate 
judge ; the test of everything is a moral and purely 
reUgious one, its agreement with holiness and charity. 

English prose in Wycliffe's Bible, the higher Eng- 
lish poetry in its true father, Chaucer, maintained this 
prevailing and dominant Teutonism. Wycliffe's Bible, 

1 <* And ]m Run to Beligion, and hath Rendored the Bibk, 
And Preacheth to the People St. Panics words." 

Wright, p. 166. « 

He quotes, "Ye suffer fools gladly" (1 Cor.). Is this Wydiffe? Cktgj 
(Theology) weds a wife ; her name is Scripture. — Wright, p. 182. I take 
the opportunity of observing that the fiimous prophecy, ascribed to Lang- 
land, about the King who should suppress the monasteries, is merely a 
Tague and general prediction ; though the naming the Abbot of Abingdon 
is a luc-ky coincidence. — See Wright, p. 192. 


as translated from the Vulgate, had not so entirely 
shaken off the trammels of Latinity as our later ver- 
sions ; but this first bold assertion of Teutonic inde- 
pendence immeasurably strengthened, even in its lan- 
guage, that independence. It tasked the language, as 
it were, to its utmost vigor, copiousness, and flexibility : 
and by thus putting it to the trial, forced out all those 
latent and undeveloped qualities. It was constantly 
striving to be English, and by striving became so more 
and more. Oompare the j&eedom and versatility of 
Wycliffe's Bible with Wycliffe's Tracts. Wycliffe has 
not only advanced in the knowledge of purer and more 
firee religion, he is becoming a master of purer and 
more fi'ee English. 

Geofirey Chaucer, among the most remarkable of 
poets, was in nothing more remarkable than in being 
most emphatically an English poet. Chaucer lived in 
courts and castles : he was in the service of the King, 
he was a retainer of the great Duke of Lancaster. In 
iise court and in the castle, no doubt, if anywhere, with 
the Norman chivalrous magnificence lingered whatever 
remained of Norman manners and language. Chaucer 
had served in the armies of King Edward III. ; he had 
seen almost all the more flourishing countries, many of 
the great cities, of the Continent, of Flanders, France, 
Italy. It may be but a romantic tradition, that at the 
wedding of Violante to the great Duke of Milan he 
had seen Petrarch, perhaps Boccaccio, and that Frois- 
sart too was present at that splendid festival. It may 
be but a groundless inference from a misinterpreted 
passage in his poems, that he had conversed with Pe- 
trarch (November, 1372) ; but there is unquestionable 
evidence that Chaucer was at Genoa under a commisp 

VOL. VIII. 25 


sion from the Crown. He visited brilliant Florence, 
perhaps others of the noble cities of Italy. Five years 
later he was in Flanders and at Paris. In 1378 he 
went with the Embassy to demand the hand of a French 
Princess for the young Richard of Bordeaux. Still 
later he was at the gorgeous court of the Visconti at 
Milan. ^ Chaucer was master of the whole range of 
, vernacular poetry, which was bursting forth in such 
young and prodigal vigor, in the languages bom from 
the Romance Latin. He had read Dante, he had read 
Petrarch ; to Boccaccio he owed the groundwork of 
two of his best poems — the Knight's Tale of Palamon 
and Arcite and Griselidls. I cannot but think that he 
was familiar with the Troubadour poetry of the Langoe 
d'Oc ; of the Langue d'Oil, he knew well the knightly 
tales of the Trouvdres and the Fabliaux, as well as the 
later allegorical school, which was then in the height 
of its fashion in Paris. He translated the Romance of 
the Rose. 

It is indeed extraordinary to see the whole of the 
mediaeval, or post-mediaeval poetry (with the great ex- 
ception of the Dantesque vision of the other world) 
summed up, and as it were represented by Chaucer in 
one or more perfect examples, and so offered to the 
English people. There is the legend of martyrdom in 
Constance of Surrie ; the miracle legend, not without 
its harsh alloy of hatred to the unbeliever, in Hugh of 
Lincoln ; the wild, strange, stirring adventures told in 
the free prolix Epopee of the Trouvdre, in its roman- 
ticized classic form, in Troilus and Cressida ; in the 
wilder Oriental strain of magic and glamour in the half- 

1 Comptfe the lives of Cluiacer, especially the latest by Sir Harris NieiK 


told tale of Cambuscan ; the chivalroas in Palamon 
and Arcite ; to which perhaps may be added the noble 
Franklin's Tale. There is the Fabliau in its best, in 
its tender and gracefiil form, in Griselidis ; in its gayer 
and more licentious, in January and May; in its 
coarser, more broadly humorous, and, to our finer man- 
ners, repulsive. Miller's Tale ; and in that of the Reve. 
The unfinished Sir Thopas might seem as if the spirit 
of Ariosto or Cervantes, or of lighter or later poets, 
was struggling for precocious being. There is the 
genial apologue of the Cock and the Fox, which might 
seem an episode from the universal brute Epic, the 
Latin, or Flemish, or German or French Reynard. 
The more cumbrous and sustained French allegory ap- 
pears in the translation of the Romaunt of the Rose ; 
the more rich and simple in the Temple of Fame. 
There are a few slighter pieces which may call to mind 
the Lais and Serventes of the South. 

Yet all the while Chaucer in thought, in character, 
in language, is English — resolutely, determinately, al- 
most boastfully English.^ The creation of native poe- 
try was his deliberate aim ; and already that broad, 
practical, humorous yet serious view of life, of life in 
its infinite variety, that which reaches its height in 
Shakspeare, has begun to reveal itself in Chaucer. 
The Canterbury Tales, even in the Preface, represent, 
as in a moving comedy, the whole social state of the 
times ; they display human character in action as in 

1 There is a ctuiouB passage in the Prologue to the Testament of Love on 
the Boveran wits in Latin and in French. " Let then Clerkes enditen in 
Latin, for thej have the propertie of science, and the knowlege in that fac- 
nltie ; and let Frenchmen in their French also enditen their qaaint termes, 
for it is kindely to their monthes ; and let ns shew onr fantasies in such 
wordes as wee leameden of our dames tongue." — Fol. 271. 


speech ; and that character is the man himself, the 
whole man, Mrith all his mingling, shifting, crossing, 
contradictory passions, motives, peculiarities, his great- 
nesses and weaknesses, his virtues and his vanities ; 
every one is perfectly human, yet every one the indi- 
vidual man, with the very dress, gesture, look, speedii, 
tone of the individual. There is an example of every 
order and class of society, high,* low, secular, religioas. 
As yet each is distinct in his class, as his class from 
others. Contrast Chaucer's pilgrims with the youths 
and damsels of Boccaccio. Exquisitely as these are 
drawn, and in some respects finely touched, they are 
all of one gay light class ; almost any one might tell 
any tale with equal propriety ; they difier in name, in 
nothing else. 

In his religious characters, if not in his religious tales 
(religion is still man's dominant motive), Chaucer is 
by no means the least happy. In that which is purely 
religious the poet himself is profoundly religious ; in 
his Prayer to the Vii^n, written for the Duchess 
Blanche of Lancaster, for whom ako he poured forth 
his sad elegy ; in his Grentle Martyrs St. Constantia and 
St. Cecilia : he is not without his touch of bigotry, as 
has been said, in Hugh of Lincoln. Bnt the strong 
Teutonic good sense of Chaucer had looked more 
deeply into the whole monastic and sacerdotal system. 
His wisdom betrays itself in his most mirthful, as in 
his coarsest humor. He who drew the Monk, the Par- 
doner, the Friar Limitour, the Summoner, had seen 
far more than the outer form, the worldliness of the 
Churchman, the abuse of indulgences, the extortions 
of the friars, the licentiousness of the Ecclesiastical 
Courts, of the Ecclesiastics themselves : he had pen- CHAtrCER'S RELIGION. 889 

etrated into the iimer depths of the religion. Yet his 
wisdom, even in his most biting passages, is tempered 
with charity. Though every order, the Abbot, the Pri- 
oress, the Friar, the Pardoner, the Summoner, are im- 
personated to the life, with all their weaknesses, follies, 
affectations, even vices and falsehoods, in nnsparing 
£reedom, in fearless truth, yet none, or hardly one, is 
absolutely odious ; the jolly hunting Abbot, with his 
dainty horses, their bridles jingling in the wind, his 
greyhounds, his bald shining head, his portly person^ 
his hood fastened with a rich pin in a love-knot : the 
tender and delicate Prioress, with what we should now 
call her sentimentality, virtuous no doubt, but with her 
broad and somewhat suspicious motto about all-coib- 
quering love : the Friar, who so sweetly heard confes- 
sion, and gave such pleasant absolution, urging men, 
instead of weeping and prayers, to give silver to the 
friars ; with his lisping voice and twinkling eyes, yet 
the best beggar in his house, to whom the poorest 
widow could not deny a farthing : the Pardoner with 
his wallet in his lap, brimful of pardons from Rome, 
with his relics or pillowbeer covered with part of our 
Lady's veil and the glass vessel with pig's bones : yet 
in Church the Pardoner was a noble Ecclesiast, read 
well, chanted with such moving tones, that no one 
could resist him and not throw silver into the offertory. 
The Summoner, whose office and the Archdeacon's 
Court in which he officiated seem to have been most 
unpopular, is drawn in the darkest colors, with his fire- 
red cherubim's face, lecherous, venal, licentious. Above 
all^ the Parish Priest of Chaucer has thrown off Roman 
mediaeval Sacerdotalism ; he feels his proper place ; he 
arrays himself only in the virtues which are the essence 


of his holy fbnctioii. This nnriyalled picture is the 
most powerfiil because the most quiet, nninsnlting, un- 
exasperating satire. ChaWs Parish Priest might 
have been drawn from Wycli£k, from W jcliffs at Lnt- 
terworth, not at Oxford, from Wydiflfe, not the fierce 
controversialist, but the a£fectionate and beloved teacher 
of his hnmble flock. The Priest's Tale is a sermon, 
prolix indeed, but, except in urging confession and 
holding up the confessorial office of the Priesthood, 
purely and altogether moral in its scope and language.^ 
The translation of the Romaunt of the Rose, with all 
its unmitigated bitterness against the Friars, is a fur- 
ther illustration of the religious mind of Chaucer. If 
we could interpret with any certainty the allegory and 
the mystic and poetic prose in the Testament of Love, 
we might hope for more light on the religion and on 
the later period of Chaucer's life.* It is evident that 
at that time, towards the close of his life, he was in 
disgrace and in prison. Other documents show that 
his pensions or allowances from the Crown were, for a 
time at least, withdrawn. There is no doubt that his 
imprisonment arose out of some turbulent and popular 
movements in the City of London. There is eveiy 
probability that these movements were connected with 
the struggle to reinvest the Wycliffite (and so long as 
the Lancastrian party was Wycliffite) Lancastrian 

1 1 have little doubt that in the Retractation aaciibed to Chaneer at tiia 
doee of this Sermon, Tjmrhitt is right in that part wfcich he ma^s (br in- 
terpolation. Bead the passage without it, all is clear. 

^ Speght in his argument to the Testament of Love, if it be Spe|^t*a. 
^ Chaucer did compile this booke as a comfort to himselfe after great greefin 
conceived for some rash attempts of the Commons, with which bee had 
joyned, and thereby was in feare to lose the fiivour of his best firiends." — 
Fol. 272. 


Mayor,^ John of Northampton in the civic dignity. 
The Londoners were Lollards, and if on the people's 
side, Chaucer was on the Lollards' side. Chaucer, in 
his imprisonment, would, like Boethius of old, ftom 
whom the Testament of Love was imitated, seek con- 
solation, but his consolation is in religion, not philos- 
ophy. His aspiration is after the beautiful and all- 
excelling Margarita, the pearl of great price, who, like 
the Beatrice of Dante, seems at once an ideal or ideal- 
ized mistress, and the impersonation of pure religion. 
Love alone can bestow on him this precious boon ; and 
divine love, as usual, borrowing some of its imagery 
and language from human love, puriBes and exalts the 
soul of the poet for this great blessing by imparting 
the knowledge of God in the works of his power, and 
the works of his grace and glory. More than this the 
obstinate obscurity of the allegory refuses to reveal. 

We must turn again to Germany, which we left in 
ite intermwliate state of slowly dawning Teutonism. 
Germany, it has been seen, rejected the first free move- 
ment of her kindred Teutons in England, because it 
was taken up with such passionate zeal by the hostile 
Sclavonians. The reformation in Bohemia, followed 
by its wild and cruel wars, civil and foreign, threw 
back the German mind in aversion and terror upon 
Latin Christianity. Yet Teutonism only slumbered, 
it was not extinguished ; it was too deeply rooted ; 

1 See the whole very carious but obscure passage, fbl. 277 : " Then, La- 
dy, I thought that every man that by anye way of right, rightfully done, 
may helpe any commune (helpe) to been saved." Chaucer was in the se- 
crets of his party, which he was urged to betray. He goes on to speak of 
the *' dtie of London, which is to me so deare and sweet, in which I was 
forth growne; and more kindly love have I to that place than to anye other 
in yearth." 


it had been slowly growing up from its undying n)ot 
for centuries. The strife of ages between the Em- 
peror and the Pope could not but leave a profound 
jealousy, and even antipathy, tn a great mass of the 
nation. Throughout there had been a strong Impe- 
rialist, a German faction. The haughty aggresskm 
of John XXII. (a Pontiff not on the Papal throne 
at Rome) was felt as a mere wanton and unprovoked 
insult. It was not now the Pope asserting against 
the Emperor the independence of Italy or of Rome ; 
not defending Rome and Italy &om the agression of 
Transalpine barbarians by carrying the war against 
the Emperor into Grermany. Louis of Bavaria waald 
never have descended into Italy if the Pope had left 
him in peace on his own side of the Alps. The shame 
of Germany at the pusillanimity of Louis of Bavaria 
wrought more strongly on German pride : the Pope 
was more profoundly hated for the self-«ought humil- 
iation of the Emperor. At the same time the rise 
of the great and wealthy commercial cities had cre- 
ated a new class with higher aspirations for freedom 
than their turbulent princes and nobles, who yv^ire 
constantly in league with the Pope against the Em- 
peror, of whom they were more jealous than of the 
Pope ; or than the Prince Bishops, who would set 
up a hierarchical instead of a papal supremacy. The 
burghers, often hostile to their Bishops, and even to 
the cathedral Chapters, with whom they were at strife 
for power and jurisdiction in their towns, seized per- 
petually the excuse of their papalizing to eject their 
Prelates, and to erect their lower Clergy into a kind 
of spiritual Republic. The Schism had prostrated 
the Pope before the temporal power ; the EmpercH* 


of Grermanj had compeDed the Pope to summon a 
Council ; at that Council he had taken the acknowl- 
edged lead, had almost himself dq)osed a Pope. It 
is true that at the close he had been out-manoeuTPed 
by the subtle and pertinacious Churchman ; Martin Y. 
had regained the lost ground; a barren, ambiguous, 
delusive Concordat had baffled the peremptory de- 
mand of Germany for a reformation of the Church 
in its head and in its members.^ Yet even at the 
height of the Bohemian war, dark, deepening mur- 
murs were heard of German cities, German Princes 
joining the Antipapal movement. During the Council 
of Basle, wh«a Latin Christianity was severed into two 
oppugnant parties, that of the Pope Eugenius lY. and 
that of the Transalpine reforming hierarchy, Germany 
had stood aloof in cold, proud neutrality : but for the 
subtle poUcy of one man, ^neas Sylvius, and the 
weak and yielding flexibility of another, the Exd- 
peror Frederick III., there might have been a Ger- 
man spiritual nationality, a German independent 
Church. The Pope was compelled to the humilia- 
tion of restoring the Prelate Electors whom he had 
dared to degrade, to degrade their successors whom 
he had appointed. Gregory of Heimberg, the rep- 
resentative of the German mind, had defied the Ro- 
man Court in Rome itself, had denounced Papal 
haughtiness to the face of the Pope.^ But for one 

1 Banke has written thus (I should not quote in English, if the English 
were not Mrs. Austin's): " Had this course been persevered in with unioB 
and constancy, the German Catholic Church, established in so many great 
principalities, and splendidly provided with the most munificent endow- 
ments, would have acquired a perfectly independent position, in which she 
might have resisted the subsequent political storms with as much fiimneas 
as England." — Reformation in Gennany, vol. i. p. 48. 

' Banke, p. 49. Compare these passages above. 


event, all the policy of .tineas Sylvius, and all the 
subserviency of Frederick III. to him who he sup- 
posed was his counsellor, but who was his ruler, had 
been unavailing. As the aggressive crusade to Pal- 
estine gave the dominion of Latin Christendom to 
the older Popes, so the defensive crusade against the 
terrible progress of the Turk, which threatened both 
Teutonic and Latin Christendom, placed the Pope 
again at the head, not in arms, but in awe and influ- 
ence, of the whole West. Germany and the Pope 
were in common peril, they were compelled to close 
alliance. In justice to ^neas Sylvius, when Pius II., 
it may be acknowledged that it was his providential 
sagacity, his not ungrounded apprehension of the great- 
ness of the danger, which made him devote his whole 
soul to the league against the Ottoman ; if it was also 
wise policy, as distracting the German mind from 
dangerous meditations of independence, this even with 
Pius II. was but a secondary and subordinate con- 
sideration. The Turk was the cause of the truce of 
more than half a century between the Papacy and 
the Empire. 

But throughout all that time the silent growth of the 
German languages, the independent Teutonic thought 
expressed in poetry, even in preaching, was widening 
the alienation. During the century and a half in 
which English Teutonism was resolutely bracing it- 
self to practical and political religious independence, 
and the English language ripening to its masculine 
force, with the Anglo-Saxon successfully wrestling 
for the mastery against the Southern Latin ; in Grer- 
many a silent rebellious mysticism was growing up 
even in her cloisters, and working into the depths of 


men's hearts and minds. The movement was more 
profound, more secret, and unconseioas even among 
those most powerfully under its influence. There 
was not only the open insurrection of Marsilio of 
Padua and William of Ockham against the Papal 
or hierarchical authority, and the wild revolt of the 
* Fraticelli; there was likewise at once an acknowl- 
edgment of and an attempt to satisfy that yearning 
of the religious soul for what the Church, the Latin 
Church, had ceased to supply, which was no longer 
to be found in the common cloister-Ufe, which the 
new Orders had ceased to administer to the wants of 
the people. During this time, too, while Germany 
luxuriated in the Romance Legend, as well as in the 
Chivalrous Romance, and the Hymn still in some 
degree vied with the Lay of the Minnesinger, Ger- 
man prose had grown up and was still growing up 
out of vernacular preaching. From the ear- German 
liest period some scanty instruction, catechet- p^""***"*- 
leal or oral, from the glosses or from fragments of the 
Scripture, had been communicated in German to the 
people : some German homilies, translated from the 
Latin, had been in use. But the great impulse was 
given by the new Orders. The Dominican Conrad 
of Marburg had been forced at times to leave the 
over-crowded church for the open air, on account of 
the multitudes which gathered round the fierce In- 
quisitor, to hear his sermons, to witness the conclusion 
of his sermons, the burning of a holocaust of here- 
tics. Far different was the tone of the Franciscan 
Bertholdt of Winter thur,^ who from 1247 to Berthowt. 

1 Compare Lejaer, EinleitaDg. Deutsche Predigten des viii. und xiv. 
Jahrhnnderts, Quedlinburg, 18dS, p. xvi., for the life of Bertholdt GervinuB 

896 ULTix cHBisTUNrnr. Bookxiv 

1272 preached with amaang sacoess throoghoat Bava- 
ria, Austria, Moravia, Thnringia. EUs sermons, takes 
down by the zeal of his hearers, were popular in the 
best sense ; he had the instinct of eloquence ; he is 
even now by the best judges set above Tauler him- 
8el£ In earnestness, in energy, in his living ima- 
gery from external nature, Bertholdt was the popular 
preacher in the open field, on the hill-side, Tauler 
the contemplative monk in the pulpit of the cloister- 
chapel.^ Nor did Bertholdt stand alone in these 
vivid popular addresses. That which, notwithstand* 
ing these examples, was at least inefficiently be- 
stowed by the Church, stirring and awakening ver>- 
nacnlar instruction, was prodigally poured fi>rth from 
other quarters. The dissidents under their various 
names, and the Beghards, were everywhere. At 
the beginning of the fourteenth century Alsace was 
almost in possession of the Brethren and Sisters of 
the Free Spirit; they were driven out and scattered, 
but expulsion and dispersion, if it does not multiply 
the numbers, usually increases the force and power of 
such communities.^ Mysticism within the Church 
strove to fill the void caused by their expulsion. Of 
these Mystics the most famous names are Rysbroeck 
of Cologne, Master Eckhart, John Tauler, Nicolas 
of Suso. The life of Tauler will show us the times 
and the personal influence of these men, and that of 
their opinions. It occupies all the early part of the 
fourteenth century. 

(Deutsche Poeeie) writes, *' Die Tortrefflidikeit der Bertboldt'icheii Predi^ 
ten, die weit die Schriften Taalera ilbertrifit." — Vol. ii p. 14S. Sdunidl, 
Joannes Tauler, p. 82. 

^ Lejser, Deutsche Predigten. 

> Schmidt, Tauler, p. 7. In 1317, there wbs a Tident penecatioo by 
John of Ochsenatein, Bishop of Straabuig. 

CttAP. Vn. TATTLER. 897 

John Tauler^ was bom in Strasburgin 1290. At 
tJiie age of eighteen the religious youth entered the 
Dominican cloister. He went to study at Paris ; but 
at Paris the Doctors were ever turning over the leaves 
of huge books, they cared not for the one book of 
life.^ Probably on his return to Strasburg he came 
nnder the influence of Master Eckhart. This re- 
markable man preached in German ; countless hear- 
ers thronged even to Eckhart's vernacular sermons. 
But Eckhart was a Schoolman in the incongruous 
(rfBce of a popular preacher; he was more than a 
Schoolman^ he aspired to be a philosopher. His was 
not a passionate, simple, fervent theology, but the 
mystic divinity of Dionysius the Areopagite; it ap- 
proached the Arabic Aristotelian philosophy. He 
held, indeed, the Creation out of nothing, and in 
theory repudiated the Eternity of Matter ; but Crefr- 
Hon seemed a necessity of the divine nature. The 
Universal could not but be particular ; so Grod was 
all things, and all things were God. The soul came 
fefd) from God, it was an emanation ; it had part of 
the light of God, in itself inextinguishable, but that 
Kght required kindling and quickening by divine 
grace.^ Thus man stands between the spiritual and 
the corporeal, between time and eternity. God will 
reveal himself fully, pour himself wholly into the rear 
sonable soul of man. It is not by love but by in- 

^ JoAnnea TaiUer von Strasbarg, von D. Carl Schmidt. Hambufg, 1S41. 

3 Tauler, p. 3. Quotation from Tauler's Sermon in note. 

8 See the Chapter on Eckhart. Ritter, Christliche Philosophie, iv. p. 
488, &c. ** Eckhart iat mit den Theologen seiner Zeit von der IJeberzeug- 
ung durchdrangen, dass die vemunftige Seele des Menschen dazu bestimmt 
aei in der innigsten Verbindong mit Grott, des hochsten Gutes, ganz und 
ohne alle Schmalerungf theilhaftig za werden • . . Gott soil sich ganz 
offenbaren, wir ihn ganz erkennen : er soil ganz unser weiden." — P. 503. 


telligence that the mystic reunion takes place with 
God ; by knowledge we are one with God ; that which 
knows and that which is known are one. Master 
Eckhart is the parent of German metaphysical theol- 
ogy. But if Tauler was caught with the glowing 
language in which Eckhart clothed these colder opin- 
ions, he stood aloof from the kindred teaching of the 
Beghards, with their more passionate, more religious 
Pantheism — the same in thought with Eckhart, more 
bold and fearless in expression. 

But if of itself the soul of Tauler sought a deeper 
and more fervent faith, the dark and turbulent times 
would isolate or make such a soul seek its sympathy 
within a narrower circle. It was the height of tlie war 
between John XXII. and Louis of Bavaria, and no- 
where did that war rage more violently than in Straa- 
burg. The Bishop John of Ochsenstein was for the 
Pope, the Magistrates, the people, for the Emperor, or 
rather for insulted Germany. The Bishop laid his in- 
terdict on the city ; the Magistrates, the Town Council, 
declared that the Clergy who would not perform their 
functions must be driven from the city.* The Clei^, 
the Monks, the Friars, were divided: here the bells 
were silent, the churches closed ; there they tolled for 
prayers, and the contumacious Clergy performed for- 
bidden services. No wonder that religious men sought 
that religion in themselves which they found not in the 
church or in the cloister ; they took refuge in the sanc- 
tuary of their own thoughts, from the religion which 

1 ** Do soltent ro ouch f&rltM slngen, 
Oder aber xu dnr atatt spiingeii.*' 

Konigfho/fn Orofueif , 1S8-9. 
Schmidt, p. 14. 
See Book zii. c. 7. 


was contesting the world. In all the great cities rose 
a secret unorganized brotherhood, bound together only 
by silent infelt sympathies, the Friends of God. This 
appellation was a secession, a tacit revolt, an assump- 
tion of superiority. God was not to be worshipped in 
the church alone, with the Clergy alone, with the 
Monks alone, in the Ritual, even in the Sacraments ; 
he was within, in the heart, in the life. This and kin- 
dred brotherhoods embraced all orders. Priests, Monks, 
Friars, Nobles, Burghers, Peasants ; they had their 
Prophets and Prophetesses, above all, their Preachers.^ 

1 On the " Friends of God.** see Schmidt, Anhang. M. Carl Schmidt 
has now discovered and printed some very curious documents, which throw 
more full but yet dubious light on the " Friends of God/* and their great 
leader Nicolas of Basle. They were Mystics to the height of Mysticism : 
each believer was in direct union with God, with the Trinity not the Holy 
Ghost alone. They were not Waldensians. They were faithful to the 
whole medieval imaginative creed, Transubstantiation, worship of the 
Virgin and Saints, Purgatory. Their union with the Deity was not that 
of Pantheism, or of passionate love ; it was rather through the fantasy. 
They had wonders, visions, special revelations, prophecies. Their peculiar 
heresy was the denial of all special prerogative to the Clergy, except the 
celebration of the Sacraments ; the layman had equal sanctity, equal com- 
munion with the Deity, saw visions, uttered prophecies. Their only sym- 
pathy with the Waldensians was Anti-Sacerdotalism. Neither were they 
Biblical Christians ; they honored, loved the Bible, but sought and obtained 
revelation beyond it. They rejected one clause of the Lord*8 Prayer. 
Temptations were marks of Grod^s favor not to be deprecated. But though 
suffering was a sign of the Divine Love, it was not self-inflicted suffering. 
They disclaimed asceticism, self-maceration, self-torture. All things to the 
beloved were of God ; all therefore indifferent, seclusion, poverty. In 1367 
Nicolas of Basle, with his twelve friends or disciples (so commanded by a 
dream), set forth from the Oberland under the guidance of a dog to find a 
domicile. After a wild journey over moss and moor, the dog barked and 
scratched up the earth. They determined to build (with the permission of 
the Duke of Austria to whom the land belonged) a chapel, with a pleasant 
chamber for each; here they dwelt, recluses, not monks, under no vows, 
withdrawn from the world, but well informed of what passed in the world 
Eight of them afterwards went into foreign lands to Hungary, to Italy. 

They had other places of retreat, and it should seem multitudes of fol- 
'owers attached to them with more or less intimacy. Nicolas of Basle, as 


Some convents were entirely in thdr power. In one 
thing alone they sided with the Town Councils — in 
denouncing the unlawfulness, the wickedness of closing 
the churches against the poor ; they rejected the mon- 
strous doctrine that the Pope and the Bishops might 
withhold the blessings of religion from the many for 
the sins, or what they chose to call the sins, of the 
few. Christian love was something higher, holier than 
Bishop or than Pope. John Tauler was an earnest 
disciple, a powerful apostle of this lofty mysticism ; he 
preached with wonderful success in Strasburg, in some 
of the neighboring convents, in towns and villages, in 
the cities. He journeyed even to Cologne, the seat 
of this high mysticism; there the fiunous Rysbroeck 
taught with the utmost power and popularity. Tauler 
was ofien at Basle, where Henry of Nordlingen, who 
had respected the Papal interdict at Constance, re- 
sumed his forbidden functions. Tauler threw aside all 
scholastic subtilties ; he strove to be plain, simple, com- 

specially inflpired, held boundless influence and authority over all, whether 
" Friends of God," or not, over Tauler, Rulman Merswin, and othen. 

As the days of the Church grew darker under the later Popes at Avig- 
non, and during the Schism, visions, dreams multiplied and darkened 
aroimd them. Nicolas visited Gregoiy XL at Rome; he reproved the 
Pope's inertness, his sins. Gregory, at first indignant, was overawed, and 
won by the commanding holiness of Nicolas. In 1278 Nicolas with his 
followers prayed together from the 17th to the 25th March to God, to dispd 
tha dark weather which overhung the Church. They were directed to 
'* wait." The time of '* waiting " lasted to March 26th, 1383. In the mean 
time they scrupled not to speak with the utmost freedom of the Pope and 
the Clergy. They disclaimed both Popes. Many awful visions were sees 
by many believers; many terrible prophecies were sent abroad. 

At length Nicolas and some of his chief followers set out as preachers of 
repentance. In 1893 Martin of Maintz was buried in Cologne; othen in 
Heidelberg; Nicolas with two of hia chief and oonatant disciplea at Vienna 
in Danphiny. — See die Gotteafrennde ia xit. Jahzhondeft von Cari 
Schmidt lena, 1865. 


prehensible to the humblest understanding ; he preached 
in German, but still with deferential citations in Latin. 
Tauler sought no Papal license ; it was his mission, 
it was his imperative duty as a Priest, to preach the 

But Tauler was to undergo a sterner trial, to be 
trained in another school. In Basle he had been 
marked by men of a different cast, the gauge of his 
mind had been taken, the depth of his heart sounded, 
his religion weighed and found wanting. In Strasburg 
appeared a stranger who five times sat at the feet of 
Tauler, and listened to his preaching with serious, 
searching earnestness. He was a layman, he sought 
an interview with Tauler, confessed to him, received 
the Sacrament at his hands. He then expressed his 
wish that Tauler would preach how man could attain 
perfection, that perfection to which he might aspire on 
earth. Tauler preached his loftiest mysticism. The 
stem man now spoke with authority, the authority of 
a more determinate will, and more firm convictions. 
" Thou art yet in slavery to the letter ; thou knowest 
not the life-giving spirit ; thou art but a Pharisee ; thou 
trustest in thine own power, in thine own learning ; 
thou thinkest that thou seekest God's honor, and seek- 
est thine own." Tauler shuddered. " Never man be- 
fore reproved me for my sins." He felt the spell of a 
master. " Twelve y6ars," said the layman (who was 
rebuking the self-righteousness of Tauler 1), " I have 
been toiling to the height of spiritual perfection, which 
I have now attained, by the study of German works, 
by self-mortification and chastisements which have now 
ceased to be necessary." He gave Tauler certain sim- 
ple moral rules, counselled him to preach no more, to 

▼OL. VIII. 96 


hear no more confession, to deny himself, and to med- 
itate on the life and death of Christ till he had attained 
humility and regeneration.^ The stronger, the more 
positive and peremptory mind subdued the gentler. 
Tauler, for above two years, despite the wonder of his 
friends, the taunts of his enemies, was silent. The 
first time, at the end of that period, when he attempted, 
A.D. 1840. under permission (for the inflexible layman 
watched him unceasingly), he broke down in floods of 
tears. This stranger was the famous Nicolas of Basle. 
The secret influence of these teachers, unsuppressed by 
years of persecution, may appear irom the work thus 
wrought on the mind of Tauler, and from the fact that 
it was not till towards the close of the century, long 
after Tauler's death, that Nicolas of Basle, venturing 
into France, was seized and burned as a heretic at Vi- 
enne in Dauphiny. 

Tauler adhered to the Church ; many of the Wat 
denses and others did so to escape persecution,^ and to 
infiise their own sseal ; Tauler, it seems, in honesty and 
simplicity. But from that time the German preaching 
of Tauler — now unmingled with Latin, in churches, 
in private assemblies, in the houses of Beguines, in 
nunneries — was more plain, earnest, and, as usnal, 
flowed from his own heart to the hearts of others. He 
taught estrangement from the world, self-denial, pov- 

1 D. Carl Schmidt has taken the whole of this from an old narratiTe **of 
a Teacher of Holy Scripture and a Laynian/* of which he does not doubt 
the authenticity. It is well translated in Miss Winkworth*s Life and Timea 
of Tauler. London, 1857. 

s " Auf diese Weise die Waldenser in die Kirche selber Eingang fiuid«a 
nnd auf die beriihmtesten Doctoren und namlich auf Domtnicaner, deren 
Beruf es war die Ketzer zu bek&mpfen, so miichtig wirkten '* — Schmidt, 
p. 37. But M. Schmidts new authorities show that Nicolas was not a 


erty of spirit, not merely passive surrender of the soul 
to God, but, with this, love also to the brethren and 
the discharge of the duties of life. Men were to seek 
peace, during these turbulent times, within their own 
souls. He not only preached in German, he published 
in German, "the following the lowly life of Christ."^ 
The black plague fell on the city of Stras- a.d. 184S-9. 
burg, on Strasburg still under the ban of the Pope. In 
Strasburg died 16,000, in Basle 14,000 victims. Amid 
these terrible times of wild visions, wild processions of 
self-scourged penitents, of crowded cloisters, massa- 
cred Jews, the calm voice of Tauler, and of some who 
spoke and wrote in the spirit of Tauler, rose against 
the unpitying Church. A remonstrance was addressed 
to the Clergy, that the poor, innocent, blameless people 
were left to die untended, unabsolved, under the inter- 
dict, and boldly condemning the Priests who refused 
them the last consolations of the Gospel.^ "Christ 
died for all men ; the Pope cannot, by his interdict, 
close heaven against those who die innocent." In an- 
other writing the abuse of the spiritual sword was 
clearly denounced, the rights of the Electors asserted. 
The broad maxim was laid down, that " he who con- 
fesses the true faith of Christ, and sins only against the 
person of the Pope, is no heretic." It is said that the 
people took comfort, and died in peace, though under 
the Papal interdict. It was for these unforgiven opin- 
ions that Tauler and his friends, Thomas of Strasburg, 
an Augustinian, and Ludolph of Saxony, first a Do- 
minican then a Carthusian, fell under the suspicion of 
the new Bishop Bertholdt and the Clergy. He had 

1 Der Nachfolgang des armen Lebens Christi. 
9 Schmidt, Tauler, p. 52. 


been called to render an account of his faith before 
A.1). 1848. Charles IV., " the Priests* Emperor/' when 
at Strasburg. The Mystics were commanded to recant, 
and to withdraw from their writings these obnoxious 

Tauler disappeared from Strasbnrg; he was now 
heard in Cologne; there he taught his own simpler 
doctrines, and protested against the Pantheistic tenets 
of the Beghards, and even of those dreamy fanatics who 
would yield up their passive souls to the working of 
Divine grace. He returned to Strasburg only to die. 
&.D. 18S1. His last hours were passed in the garden of 
the convent in which his only sister had long dwelt, 
a holy and blameless nun. He sought her gentle 
aid and consolation. One hard Mystic reproached 
his weakness in yielding to this last earthly affection. 
He was buried in the cloisters, amid the respectful 
sorrow of the whole city. 

Tauler had been dead nearly a century before the 
close of our History, but his Sermons lived in the 
memory of men ; they were transcribed with pious 
solicitude, and disseminated among all who sou^t 
something beyond what was taught in the Church, or 
taught by the Clergy; that which the Ritual, per* 
formed perhaps by a careless, proud, or profligate 
Priest, did not suggest; which was not heard in the 
cold and formal Confessional ; which man might learn 
for himself, teach to himself, which brought the soul 
in direct relation with God, trained it to perfectioii, 
to communion, to assimilation, to unity with Grod. 
Herder, perhaps the wisest of German critics, con- 
demns the Sermons of Tauler for their monotony : ^ 

1 The two latter parts of Dr. Schmidt's Tauler are on Ihe writiogs and 


^^ He who has read two of Tauler^s Sermons has read 
all."^ But perhaps in that monotony lay mneh of 
their strength. Religious men seek not variety but 
emotion ; it i& the key*note which vibrates to the 
heart. Tauler had Mysticism enough to awaken 
and keep alive all the most passionate sentiments of r^ 
ligion, yet with a seeming clearness and distinctness as 
if addressed to the reason ; his preaching appeared at 
least to be intelligible ; it addressed the whole man, 
his imagination, his reason, his affection. 

But Tauler's Mysticism was &r beyond the sublime 
selfishness of the Imitation of Christ; it embraced 
fiilly, explicitly the love of others; it resembled the 
Imitation of a Kempis, in that it was absolutely and 
entirely personal religion, self-wrought out, self-dis- 
ciplined, self-matured, with nothing necessarily in- 
termediate between the grace of God and the soul of 
man. The man might be perfect in spirit and in 
tfuth within himself, spiritualized only by the Holy 
Ghost. Tauler's perfect man was a social being, not 
a hermit ; his goodness spread on earth, it was not all 
drawn up to heaven. Though the perfect man might 
not rise above duties, he might rise above observances ; 
though never free from the law of love to his fellow- 
creatures, he claimed a dangerous freedom as regard- 
ed the law and usage of the Church, and dependence on 
the ministers of the Church. Those who were con- 
tent with ritual observances, however obedient, were 
still imperfect; outward rites, fastings, were good as 
means, but the soul must liberate itself from all these 

doctrines of Taaler, illustrated with abundant extracts. Miss Winkworth 
has well chosen, and rendered well some of his best Sermons. 1857. 
1 Theologische Briefe 41, quoted by Schmidt, p. 84. 

406 lATDT GHBISTIANrnr. Book XIT. 

ootwaid means. The soul, having dischai^ed all this, 
must still await in patience something higher, some- 
thing to which all this is but secondary, inferior ; hav- 
ing attained perfection, it may cast all these things 
awaj as nnnecessary. Tanler's disciple respects the 
laws of the Chnrch because they are the laws of the 
Chnrch ; he does not willingly break them, but he is 
often accDsed of breaking them when intent on higher 
objects. But the whole vital real work in man is 
within. Penance is nooght without contrition : **' Mor- 
tify not the poor flesh, but mortify sin.'' Man must 
confess to (jod; unless man forsakes sin, the absoIi>- 
tion of Pope and Cardinals is of no efiect ; the Con- 
fessor has no power over sin. Tauler's religion is still 
more inflexibly personal : ^^ His own works make not 
a man holy, how can those of others ? Will God re- 
gard the rich man who buys for a pitiful sum the pray- 
ers of the poor? Not the intercession of the Virgin, 
nor of all the Saints, can profit the unrepentant siiv 

All this, if not rebellion, was sowing the seeds of 
rebellion against the sacerdotal domination ; if it was 
not the proclamation, it was the secret munliur prepar- 
atory for the assertion of Teutonic independence. 

Tauler lived not only in his writings ; the cherished 
treasure of Mysticism was handed down by minds of 
kindred spirit for nearly two centuries. When they 
were appealed to by Luther as the harbingers of his 
own more profound and powerful religiousness, the 
Friends of God subsisted, if not organized, yet main- 
taining visibly if not publicly their succession of Apos- 
tolic holiness. 

Ten years after the death of Tauler, Nicolas of 

Chap.VU. friends of GOD. 407 

Basle, not yet having ventured on his fatal mission 
into France, is addressing a long and pious monition to 
the Brethren of St. John in Strasburg.^ 

Near the close of the century, Martin, a Monk, was 
arraigned at Cologne as an in&tuated disciple of Nico- 
las of Basle.^ From this process it appears that many 
Friends of God had been recently burned at Heidel- 
berg.® The heresies with which Martin is charged are 
obviously misconceptions, if not misrepresentations, of 
the doctrine of perfection taught by Tauler and by 
most of the German Mystics. 

Tauler was thus only one of the voices, if the most 
powerful and influential, which as it were appealed di- 
rectly to God from the Pope and the Hierarchy ; which 
asserted a higher religion than that of the Church ; 
which made salvation dependent on personal belief 
and holiness, not on obedience to the Priest ; which 
endeavored to renew the long-dissolved wedlock be- 
tween Christian faith and Christian morality; and 
tacitly at least, if not inferentially, admitted the great 
Wycliffite doctrine, that the bad Pope, the bad Bishop, 
the bad Priest, was neither Pope, Bishop, nor Priest. 
It was an appeal to God, and also to the moral sense 

1 Schmidt, Anhang 5, p. 233, dated 1377. 

9 ** Qnod qoidam Laicus nomine Nicolaus de Basiled, cui te funditns 
snbmisisti, clarios et perfectius evangeliam quain aliqni Apostoli, et beatus 
Paulas hoc intellexerit .... quod praedicto Nicolao ex perfectione sub- 
missionis sibi facta contra pnecepta cujuscunque Pralati etiam Papae licite 
et nne peccato obediro." — He was accused of having said, That he was re- 
stored to his state of primitive innocence, emancipated from obedience of 
the Church, with full liberty to preach and administer the Sacraments 
without license of the Church. Of course the charge was darkened into 
the grossest Antinomianism. 

< 1393. ** Quod judicialiter convict! et per ecclesiiam condempnati ac 
impenitentes heretic! aliquando in Heidelberg& concremati fuerunt et sunt 
amci Dei."'' — Anhang 6, p. 238. 


of man ; and throughout this period of nearly two cen- 
turies which elapsed before the appearance of Luther, 
this inextinguishable torch passed from hand to hand, 
from generation to generation. Its inOuence was seen 
in the earnest demand for Reformation hy the Coun- 
cils ; the sullen estrangement, notwithstanding the re- 
union to the sacerdotal yoke, during the Hussite wars ; 
the disdainful neutrality when reformation by the Coun- 
cils seemed hopeless ; it is seen in the remarkable book, 
the " German Theology," attributed by Luther to Tau- 
ler himself, but doubtless of a later period J Ruder 
and coarser works, in all the jarring and various dia- 
lects, betrayed the German impatience, the honest bqt 
homely popular alienation from ecclesiastical dominion, 
and darkly foreshowed that when the irresistible Rer- 
olution should come, it would be more popular, more 
violent, more irreconcilable. 

1 Two tnmslations have recentlj appeared in England of this book, of 
which the real character and importance cannot be appreciated without a 
ftill knowledge of the time at which it oiiginallj appeared. It was not •• 
mnch what it taught aa " Gennan Theology," but what it threw aaide, as b» 
part of genoine Christian Faith. 




LiTERATURB was thus bursting loose from Latin 
Christianity ; it had left the cloister to converse with 
men of the world ; it had ceased to be the prerogative 
of the Hierarchy, and had begun to expatiate in new 
regions. In Italy erelong, as in its classical studies, so 
in the new Platonism of Marsilius Ficinus and the 
Florentine school, it almost threatened to undermine 
Christianity, or left a Christianity which might almost 
have won the assent of the Emperor Julian. In all 
the Teutonic races it had begun to assert its ft'eedom 
from sacerdotal authority ; its poets, even its preachers, 
were all but in revolt. 

But Art was more &ithful to her munificent patron, 
her bold and prolific creator, her devout wor- Anhieeetaro 
shipper. Of ^ all the arts Architecture was the chnroh. 
that which owed the most glorious triumphs to Chris- 
tianity. Architecture must still be the slave of wealth 
and power, for majestic, durable, and costly buildings 
can arise only at their command ; and wealth and 
power were still to a great extent in the hands of the 
Hierarchy. The first sign and prophetic omen of the 
coming revolution was when in the rich commercial 
cities the town-halls began to vie in splendor with / 
the Churches and Monasteries. Yet nobler gratitude, 



if sach incentive were possible, might attach Architec- 
ture to the cause of the Church. Under the Church 
she had perfected old forms, invented new ; she had 
risen to an unrivalled majesty of design and skill in 
construction. In her stateliness, solemnity, richness, 
boldness, variety, vastness, solidity, she might compete 
with the whole elder world, and might almost defy 
future ages. 

Latin Christianity, during a period of from ten to 
Ghorehw twelvc ccuturies, had covered the whole of 
chrirtendom. Westcm Europc with its still multiplying 
Churches and religious buildings. From the Southern 
shores of Sicily to the Hebrides and the Scandinavian 
kingdoms, from the doubtfiil borders of Christian Spain 
to Hungary, Poland, Prussia, not a city was withoat 
its Cathedral, surrounded by its succursal churches, its 
^nasteries, and convents, each with its separate church 
j or chapel. There was not a town but above the lowly 
houses, almost entirely off wood, rose the churches of 
stone or some other solid material, in their superior di^ 
nity, strength, dimensions, and height ; not a village 
was without its sacred edifice : no way-side without its 
humbler chapel or oratory. Not a river but in its 
course reflected the towers and pinnacles of many ab- 
beys ; not a forest but above its \oftj oaks or pines 
appeared the long-ridged roof, or the countless turrets 
of the conventual church and buildings. Even now, 
after periods in some countries of rude religious fanat- 
icism, in one, France (next to Italy, or equally with 
Italy prodigal in splendid ecclesiastical edifices), after 
a decade of wild iireligious iconoclasm ; after the total 
suppression or great reduction, by the common consent 
of Christendom, of monastic institutions, the secularian 


tion of th^ir wealth, and the abandonment of their 
bnildings to decay and ruin ; our awe and wonder are 
still commanded, and seem as if they would be com- 
manded for centuries, by the unshaken solidity, spa- 
ciousness, height, majesty, and noble harmony of the 
cathedrals and churches throughout Western Europe. 
We are amazed at the imagination displayed in every 
design, at the enormous human power employed in 
their creation ; at the wealth which commandt^d, the 
consummate sciehce which guided that power ; at the 
profound religious zeal which devoted that power, 
wealth, and science to these high purposes. 

The progress and development of this Christian Arch- 
itecture, Roman, Byzantine, Romanesque or Lombard, 
Norman, Gothic in its successive forms, could not be 
compressed into a few pages : the value of such survey 
must depend on its accuracy and truth, its accuracy 
and truth on the multiplicity and fulness of its details 
ahd on the fine subtilty of its distinctions, and might 
seem to demand illustration from other arts. It is 
hardly less difficult to express in a narrow compass the 
religious hierarchical, and other convergent causes 
which led to the architectural Christianization of the 
West in its two great characteristic forms. These 
forms may perhaps be best described as Cisalpine (Ital- 
ian) and Transalpine (Gothic), though neither of them 
respected the boundary of the other, and the Teutonic 
Gothic in the North arose out of the Southern Roman- 

Our former history has surveyed Christian Archi- 
tecture in its origin ; it has traced the primitive form 
of the churches in the East ; ^ so far as they differed 

1 History of Chriatianity, vol. ii. p. 298. Church of Tyre, described by 


in their distribution from the Western, resembling the 
Pagan rather than the Jewish temple, yet of necessity 
assuming their own peculiar and distinct character. It 
has seen in the West the Basilica, the great hall of 
imperial justice, offering its more commodious plan and 
arrangements, and becoming with far less alteration a 
Christian edifice for public worship and instruction.^ 
This first epoch of Christian Architecture extended, 
even after the conversion of Constantine and the build- 
ing of Constantinople, to the reign of Justinian, un- 
der whom Byzantine Architecture, properly so distin* 
guished, drew what may be called the architectural 
division between the East and the West* Even in 
Architecture the Greek and Latin Churches were to 
be oppugnant ; though the Byzantine, as will appear, 
made a strong effort, and not without partial success, 
to subjugate the West. 

To Rome, not to Greece, Christian Architecture 
jig^a^^ owed its great elementary principle, the key- 
wehitcetiira. g^Q^e, as it werc, to all its greatness; and this 
principle was carried out with infinitely greater bold- 
ness and fulness in the West than in the East. And 
surely it is no fanciful analogy .that, as the Roman 
character contributed so powerfully to the great hierar- 
chical system of the West, so the Roman form of build- 
ing influenced most extensively Christian Architecture, 
temporarily and imperfectly that of the East, in per- 
petuity that of the Latin world. After a few centu- 
ries the more dominant hierarchism of the West is 
manifest in the oppugnancy between Greek and Latin 
Church Architecture. The East having once wrought 
out its aivhitectural type and model settled down in 

2 Vol. ii. pp. 411, 416, and vol. iii. p. 4S8. 


onprogressive, tmcreative acquiescence, and went on 
copying that type with servile and almost undeviating 
uniformity. In the West, within certain limits, with 
certain principles, and with a fixed aim, there was free- 
dom, progression, invention. There was a stately uni- 
ty, unity which seemed to imply immemorial antiquity, 
and to aspire to be an unalterable irre])ealable law for 
perpetuity, in the form and distribution, in the propor- 
tions and harmony of the sacred buildings ; but in the 
details, in the height, the dimensions, the character, the 
ornaments, the mechanical means of support, infinite 
inexhaustible variety ; it ranged from the most bare 
and naked Romanesque up to the most gorgeous 

Latin Christianity by its centralization, its organiza- 
tion arising out of Roman respect for law and usage, 
its rigid subordination, its assertion of and its submis- 
sion to authority, with a certain secondary freedom of 
action, had constituted its vast ecclesiastical polity ; so 
one great architectural principle carried out in infinite 
variety and boundless extent, yet in mutual support 

^ Compare Hope on Architecture, p. 59. All that has been discovered of 
the knowledge and me of the Arch in Egypt and in other countries^ tends 
to the same resalt as that to which Mr. Hope arrived : " The Arch which 
tiie Greeks knew not, or if they knew, did not employ." So with other 
nations. It was first among the Romans an elementary and universal prin- 
ciple of construction. It is impossible not to refer with respect to the first 
modem philosophical and comprehensive work on Architecture, that by the 
author of Anastasius. Some corrections, manifold details, much scientific 
knowledge, have been added by the countless writers on Christian Archi- 
tecture, of which England has famished her full share, — Whewell. Willis, 
Petit, the Author of the Glossary of Architecture, the late Mr. Gaily 
Kni^t But who of all these will not own his obligations to Mr. Hope? 
The recollection of much friendly kindness in my youth enhances the 
|deasnre with which I pay this tribute to a man of real and original 




a,nd mutual dependence, that of the Arch (if not abso- 
l lutelj unknown, of rare and exceptional application 
' among the Greeks), had given soHdity and stability to 
tfie gigantic structures of Rome, which spread out and 
0oared above each other in ambitious unending rivalir* 
/Hence the power of multiplying harmonious parts, of 
/ enclosing space to almost infinite dimensions, of sup- 
f porting almost in the air the most ponderous roo&, of 
making a vast complicated whole, one in design, one in 
structure, one in effect. The Greek temples and the 
Roman temples on the Greek model, limited in size and 
extent by the necessity of finding support for horizontal 
pressure, were usually isolated edifices, each in its ex- 
quisite harmony and perfection, complete, independent, 
simple. If they were sometimes crowded together, as 
in the Acropolis of Athens, or the Forum at Rome, yet 
each stood by itself in its narrow precincts ; it was a 
separate republic, as it were the domain and dwelling 
of ite own God, the hall of its own priesthood. 

But through that single principle of the Arch the 
Roman had attained a grandeur and vastness of con- 
struction as yet unknown. It was not like the colos- 
sal fsLixes of Egypt, either rocks hewn into temples, or 
rocks transported and piled up into temples ; or the 
fabrics supported on the immense monolithic pillars in 
the Eastern cities (which the Romans themselves in 
the time of the Antonines and their successors rivalled 
at Baalbec and Palmyra) ; nor yet the huge terraced 
masses of brickwork in the &rther East. The tran- 
scendent and peculiar Architecture of the Romans was 
seen in their still more vast theatres and amphitheatres, 
which could contain thousands and thousands of spec- 
tators ; in their Caesarean palaces, which were almost 

OKAr.yin. THE BASILICA. 415 

cities ; in their baths, in which the population of con- 
sderable towns, or whole quarters of Rome, found 
space not for bathing only, but for every kind of recre- 
ation and amusement ; in their bridges, which spanned 
the broadest and most turbulent rivers; and their aque- 
ducts, stretching out miles after miles, and conveying 
plentiful water to the central city. It remained only 
to apply this simple, universal principle. By resting 
not the horizontal entablature, but the succession of 
arches on the capitals of the pillars, the length might 
be infinitely drawn out ; the roof, instead of being lim- 
ited in its extent by the length of the rafters, might be 
vaulted over and so increased enormously in width ; 
and finally, suspended as it were in the air, soar to any 

Christian Architecture, when the world under Con- 
stantino became Christian, would of course coMtantine 
begin to display itself more boldly, more os- "*® ®"**' 
tentatiously. It would aspire to vie with the old relig- 
ion in the majesty of its temples. Not but that long 
before it had its public sacred edifices in the East and 
the West. Still it would be some time before it would 
confront Paganism, the Paganism of centuries. It must 
still in vastness and outward grandeur submit to the 
supremacy of the ancestral temples of the city. The 
Basilica, too, in its ordinary form, though in its length, 
height, and proportions there might be a severe and 
serious grandeur, was plain. A high unadorned wall 
formed its sides, its front was unbroken but by the por- 
tals : it had not its splendid rows of external columns, 
with their interchanging light and shade ; nor the rich 
and sculptured pediment over its entrance. Constan- 
tine, before his departure to the East, erected more 


than one clmrch, no doubt worthy of an imperial 
proselyte, for the new religion of the empire. But 
earthquakes, conflagrations, wars, tumults, the prodigal 
reverence of some Popes, the vast ambition of others, 
have left not a vestige of the Constantinian buildings 
in Rome. The Church of the Lateran, thrown down 
by an earthquake, was rebuilt by Sergius III. That 
built in honor of St. Peter ^ (it was asserted and be- 
lieved over the place of his mart^nrdom), with its splen- 
did fore-court and its five aisles, which to the time of 
Charlemagne, though the prodigal piety of some Popes 
had no doubt violated its original, it should seem, al- 
most cruciform, outline, and sheathed its walls in gold 
and precious marbles ; yet maintained the plan and dis- 
tribution of the old church. It stood, notwithstanding 
the ravages of the Saracens, the si^es of the Emper- 
ors, the seditions of the people, on its primitive Con- 
stantinian site for many hundred years after, and was 
only swept away by the irreverent haughtiness of Ju- 
lius II., to make way for what was expected to, and 
which does, command the universal wonder of man- 
kind, the St. Peter^s of Bramante and Michael Angelo. 
The noble church of St. Paul, without the walls, built 
by Theodosius the Great, stood as it were the one ma- 
jestic representative of the Imperial Christian Basilica 
till our own days.' The ground-plan of the Basilica 
must be sought in the humbler Church of St. Cle- 
mente,^ which alone retains it in its integrity : St 

^ On the old St. Peter* s, see the curious work of Boiumni, Historia Tem- 
pli Vatican! (Roma, 1706), and the elaborate chapter in Bonsen and Plat- 
ner, Rdm*s Beschreibnng. 

< The author saw this stately and venerable building in the nnnmer of 
1822: it was bnmed down in the autumn of that year. 

* See the St. Clemente in Mr. Gaily Kaight's tplendid and monil 


Maria Maggiore, St. Lorenzo, and one or two others, 
have been so overlaid with alterations as only to reveal 
to the most patient study distinct signs of their original 

Constantinople rose a Christian city, but a Christian 
city probably in most parts built by Roman hands, or 
by Greeks with ftiU command of Roman skill and sci- 
ence, and studiously aspired to be an eastern Rome. 
As her Senators, her Patricians, so probably many 
of her architects and artists came from Rome ; or if 
Greeks, were instructed and willing to conform to Ro- 
man habits and usage. The courtiers of Constanti- 
nople, who migrated from the old to the new Rome, 
¥^re surprised, it is said, to find palaces so closely re- 
sembling their own, that they hardly believed them- 
selves to have been transported from the banks of the 
Tiber to the shores of the Bosphorus. Constantine 
himself was a Western by birth and education ; Rome 
therefore rather than the East would furnish the first 
model for the Christian Churches. In old Byzantium 
there were probably few temples of such magnificence 
as to tempt the Christians to usurp them for their own 
uses, or allure them to the imitation of their forms. 
Nor did such temples, dilapidated and deserted, as in 
later times in Rome and Italy, furnish inexhaustible 
quarries from which triumphant Christianity might 
seize and carry ofi^ her legitimate spoils. There were 
not at hand rows of noble pillars, already hewn, fiuted 
or polished, with their bases and capitals, which, accus- 
tomed to form the porch, or to flank the heathen tem- 
ple, now took their stand along the nave of the church, 

work; which has the rare excellence, that the beauty of the engnvinga 
does not interfere with their scrupnlous accuracy. 

voIn viii. 27 


or before the majestic vestibule. Though Ckmstantine 
largely plundered other w<Nrks o^ art, statues of bronae 
or marble (somewhat incongruous heathen ornaments 
of a Christian city), yet he can have had no great 
quantity of materials from old temples, unless at much 
cost of freight from more remote cities^ to work up in 
his churches.^ On the other hand neither were there 
many, if there was a single Basilica, such as were 
found in most Italian cities, re&dy to undergo the slight 
necessary transmutation. Yet there can be no doubt 
that the first churches in Constantinople were in the 
Basilican form ; that St. Sophia was of an oblong 
shape there is satisfiictory authority; it was not tiU 
the reign of Constantius that the area was enlarged 
to a square.' 

This, then, which may be called the Roman or Basil- 
ican, may be considered as the first Age of Christiaii 

II. Of true Byzantine Architecture Justinian iras 
the parent. Time, earthquakes, seditions nowhere so 
fiirious and destructive as in Constantinople, especially 
the famou:^ one in the reign of Justinian ; more ainl»» 
tions or more prodigal Emperors, or more devout and 
wealthy Christians, denied duration to the primitiTe 

1 See Hist, of Christianity, ii. p. 409. 

2 It was of great length, dpofUKOC the form of a DronoK, or CiRts Hr 
raceK. See Ducange, Descriptio S. Sophin ; and also oa the eolaigemeot 
by Constantius. The Church in the Blacbeme, built so late as Justin, had 
straight rows of pillars and a timber roof. The Church of S. .John Studiin, 
still existing, is of the basiliean form ef that period. — SchnaaM, GescU* 
chte der Biklenden Konst, iiL |i. 123, note. On the other hand the Churdi 
of Antioch, described by Kusebius and by Theophilus, was an octagon, as 
was that of Nazianzum. — Scfanaase, p. 194. The round form, not ii»> 
known in the East, nor in the West, as that of St. Constanza near Borne, 
was more used for Baptisteries, and for raonnmental chapels, as the tomb of 
Galla Placidia at Ravenna. 

Chap. VIH. ST. SOPHIA. 419 

Charches of Constantinople. The edifices of Constan- 
tine, in all likelihood hastily run up, and, if splendid, 
wanting in strength and solidity, gave place to more 
stately and enduring churches. The St. Sophia of 
ConstantUie was razed to the ground in a fierce tu* 
mult; but on its site arose the new St. Sophia, in 
the East the pride, in the West the wonder, of the 
world.' The sublime unity and harmony of the de- 
sign, above all the lightness and vastness of the cupola, 
were too marvellous for mere human science* Even 
the skill of the fiimous architects Anthimus o£ Tralles 
and Isidore of Miletus were unequal to the conception* 
An angel revealed to the Emperor (Justinian himself 
must share in the gloiy) many of the forms of th« 
bnilding ; the great principle of the construction of the 
eupola, sovght in vain by the science of the architects, 
flashed across the mind of the Emperor himself in a 
dream^ The cupola did not seem, according to the 
historian Procopius, to rest on its supports, but to be 
let down by a golden chain from heaven.^ Santa 
Sophia was proclaimed in the West as the most con* 
sommate work of Christian Architecture.^ 

1 To the poem of Paulas Sllentiarius, on the building and dedication of 
St. Sophia (Edition Bonn), are appended the laborious diasertation of Du- 
cange, and the perspicuous illustrative essay of Bonduri. They oontaa 
everything relating to the structure. 

* TovTov de Tov KVKXorepovc vctmuyt'^Q knavaaniKvia rug aip<upoetd^ 
^6Xo( noteiTcu, abrd 6uu^p6vT(JC evitpooumav * 6oKd d^ ovk km areppdf r^ 
otKoSofiiag 6ia rd irapeifiivov r^ olicodofuac karavai^ dX^ r^ aeipy ry XP*^ 
in^ rov cvpavoS k^mtevri Ka^amreiv rdv it^P^* — Procop. de ^dif. i. pw 
177, Edit Bonn. 

* ** Cojus opus adeo cuncta »dificia ekoelltt ut in totis terrarum spabii 
baic simile non possit inTeniri." — Paul WamefHd. St. Sophia and some 
oCber Constantinopolitaa dmrches have become better known during tba 
last year (1854) fVom the i^plendid work published by M. 8al»enberg, at the 
expend of the King of Prussia. An Itidian architect, M. Foesato, having 


But Justinian was not content to be the founder and 
lawgiver of Christian art ; as in empire, so he aspired 
in all things, to bring the whole Roman world under 
his dominion. To conquered Italy he brought back 
the vast code of the Civil Law, which he had organ- 
ized and adapted to Christian use ; to Italy came also 
his architecture, an immense amplification of the Ro- 
man arch, which was to be, if not the law, the perfect 
form of the Christian Church. San Vitale arose io 
Ravenna, the Constantinople of the West. In dimen- 
sions only and in the gorgeousness of some of its mate- 
rials, San Vitale must bow before its Byzantine type 
Santa Sophia, but it closely resembled it in plan and 
arrangement. The Mosaics of the Emperor and of 
the Empress Theodora in the choir might seem as 
though they would commend San Vitale as the per- 
fect design for a Christian Church to subject Italy 
and to the West. Rome indeed might seem, even 
in Ravenna, to offer a more gallant resbtance to the 
arts than to the arms of Justinian. To San Vitale 
she would oppose the noble St. Apollinaris, in her own 
basilican form. Of the ancient basilicas, since the 
destruction of St. Paul without the walls at Rome, 
St. Apollinaris at Ravenna, with its twenty-four col- 
umns of rich Greek marble from Constantinople, and 
its superb mosaics, is undoubtedly the most impres- 
sive and august in the world.* 

Thus, then, there were two forms which contested 
for the supremacy in Italy. One was the old Roman 

been intrusted with the re{>ain, the whole stracture has been sorvejedf 
mea«uredf and drawn. Many mosaics covered up since the tnuismntatMNi 
into a mosque have for a time revealed again in all their brilliancy 
very remarkable specimens of Byzantine mosaic art. 
^ See this church in Gaily Knight. 


Basflica, with its stately length, which by slow and 
imperceptible degrees became cruciform by the exten- 
sion into transepts of the space between the end of 
the nave (where rose a great arch, called the Arch 
of Triumph, as opening upon the holy mysteries of 
the faith), and the conch or apse, before which stood 
the high altar. The other was square or octagon, 
which in the same manner and l^ the same slow pro- 
cess broke into the short equal-limbed Greek cross.^ 
This latter form, with the cupola, was the vital dis- 
tinction of the Byzantine style.2 Rome remained 
faithful to her ancient basilican form ; but in many 
of ^the cities of Northern Italy the more equal propor- 
tion of the length and width, with the central cupola, 
sometimes multiplied on the extended limbs of the 
transept ; these, the only creations of Byzantine ar- 
chitecture, found favor. Venice early took her east- 
em character ; the old church of St. Fosca in Torcello, 
in later times St. Mark's maintained the Byzantine 
form.* St. Mark's, with her Greek plan, her domes, 
her mosaics, might seem as if she had prophetically 
prepared a fit and congenial place for the reception of 
the spoils of the Constantinopolitan Churches after the 
Latin conquest. But many other of the Lombard 
Churches, in Pavia, Parma, the old cathedral at Bres- 

1 It is not known when the form of the Cross began. Mr. Gaily Knight 
observes that the form of the Cross was for many centuries the exception 
rather than the rule. 

3 Procopius states of St Sophia, e^pog dk ain^ Kot fi^Kog cXnug kv hnnj- 
6ei(f) kniTeropvevercUf dare Kcd irepifj^icrfc, Koi dAo^f eipela oi}K imb rponoo 
eifufaeraif p. 174. — So too that of St. Mary and St. Michael, c. iii. p. 174. St 
Anthimus, c. vi. p. 194. That of the Apostles was a Greek Cross, c. iii. 
p. 188. 

' The round churches, which were few, gave place to Baptisteries, for 
which or for sepulchral chapels they were mostly originally designed. 


cia, were square, octagon, or in the form of the Greek 
cross. As late as the tenth century Ancona, still a 
Greek city, raised the Chorch of St. Cyriac, with 
mach of what is called Lombard, more properly Ro* 
manesque ornament, but in form a strictly Byzantine 

Yet on the whole the architectural, as the civil con* 
siAranM of qnests of J.Qstinian, were bat partial and un- 
ttuMTfiecs. enduring. The Latin Architecture, with 
these exceptions, even in Italy, adhered to the basili- 
tan form or to the longer Latin cross : beyond the 
Alps the square form was even more rare. But it is 
singular to observe in both the development of tbe 
hierarchical principle according to the character and 
circumstances of the Eastern and the Western Church. 
As the worship throughout Christendom became more 
local, more material, the altar was now the Holy of 
Holies, the actual abode of the Real Presence of 
Christ* The Clergy withdrew more entirely into their 
unapproachable sanctity ; they would shrond thenn 
selves from all profane approximation by solemn mys- 
tery, the mystery which arises from remoteness, from 
obscurity or dimness, or even from secrecy. For this 
tod, to heighten the awe which he would throw around 
the tremendous sacrifice, and around himself the hal- 
lowed minister of that sacrifice, the Greek, in himself 
less awful, had recourse to artificial means. The Latin 
trusted to his own inherent dignity, aided only by more 
profound distance, by the splendor which environed 

1 It i« carious thut Charlem«gne*§ caChedml at Aiz-la-^hApelle is the 
one true Bysantine church or typ% of a Bjxantine chureh beyood the 
Alps — in form, construction, even in mosaics. Charlemagne h«d periuipa 
Greek architects, he had seen Rarenna, he drew ornaments and materiiUa 
from Barenna. Compare Schnaase, vol. xir, 4SS tt seq. 


him, splt»]dor more effective as heightened by sur- 
rounding darkness. The shorter Greek cross did notV 
repel the adoring worshipper far enough off; tlie Greek 
therefore drew a veil. At length he raised a kind of 
wall between himself and tlie worshippers, and behind, 
in that enclosed sanctuary, he performed the mys- 
tery of consecration, and came forth and showed him- 
self in turn at each of the side-doors of the Holy of 
Holies, rarely at the central or royal gate, with the 
precious paten and chalice in his hands. When the 
service was over, he withdrew again with his awful 
treasure into its secret sanctuary,^ In the longer 
Latin cross the hierarchy might recede to a command- 
ing distance from the great mass of worshippers, yet 
all might remain open ; the light rails of the chancel 
were suiScient, with their own inherent majesty, to 
keep the pro&ne on their lower level, and in their 
humble posture of far-off adoration. In the West the 
crypt under the altar, to contain the bones of the saint 
or martyr, was more general ; the altar therefore was 
more usually approached by a flight of steps, and thua 
elevation was added to distance : and to distance and 
elevation were added by degrees the more dazzling 
splendor of the altar-furniture, the crosses, the can- 
dlesticks, the plate, the censers, and all the other gor- 
geous vessels, their own dresses, the violet, green, 
scarlet, cloth of gold, the blaze of lamps and tapers, the 
clouds of incense. At one time the altar and the offi- 
ciating clergy were wrapped in the mystery of sub- 
lime gloom, at the next the whole altar, and all un- 

1 Smith's account of the Greek Church, p. 64. This, called the Iconos- 
ftasis, is. general in the Russian churches. There is a curious ei^ample «t 
Pcsth in Hungary. 


der the stately Baldachin, btii^t out into a concentred 
^brilliancy of light. The greater length of the build- 
ing, with its succnrsal aisles and ambulatories and 
chapels, as so admirably adapted for processional ser- 
vices, wonld greatly promote their introduction and 
use. The Clergy would no longer be content with 
dim and distant awe and veneration ; this was now 
inherent in their persons: and so, environed with 
their sacred symbols, bearing their banners embla- 
zoned with the image of the crucified Redeemer, of 
the Virgin, of the Saints, and the crosses, the emblems 
of their own authority and power, and in their snow- 
white or gorgeous dresses, they would pass through 
the rows of wondering and kneeling worshippers, vrith 
* their grave and solenm chant, or amid the peals of 
the thundering organ, bringing home, as it were, to 
the hearts of all, the most serious religious impres- 
sions, as well as those of their own peculiar inalienable 

But the oppugnancy was not only in the internal form 
and arrangements of the sacred buildings or the more 
effective display of ecclesiastic magnificence. In splen- 
dor of dress, in the richness of their church furniture 
and vessels, in the mysterious symbolism of their ser- 
vices, the East boasted itself even superior to the WesL 
But the more vigorously developed hierarchical spirit 
among the Latins displayed itself in nothing more than 
in its creativeness, in its progressive advancement in 
Christian Architecture. The Emperors were in gen- 
eral the founders and builders of the great Eastern 
Churches, in the West to a vast extent the Church 
herself. Though kings and nobles were by no means 
wanting in these signs of prodigal piety — the Catholic 

Chap.VIIL wealth OF THE CLERGY. 425 

Lombard kings, the priest-ruled Merovingians, Charle- 
magne and his descendants, the sovereigns in Eng- 
land — there were also, besides these royal and noble 
devotees, the magnificent Prelates, the splendid Abbots, 
the opulent Chapters. In the East it was the State 
acting it might be under the influence, in obedience to, 
or at the suggestion of the Priesthood ; in the West 
with the Monarch and the Baron, it was the whole ec- 
clesiastical Order out of its own enormous health of 
wealth, its own vast possessions, and still ac- ***• ***'*'' 
cumulating property. From the seventh at least to the 
close of the fourteenth century this wealth was steadily 
on the increase, at times pouring in like a flood ; if 
draining ofi^, draining but in narrow and secret chan- 
nels. It was in the nature of things that a large por- 
tion of this wealth should be consecrated, above all 
others, to this special use. It had long been admitted 
that a fifth, a fourth, a third of the ecclesiastical en- 
dowments belonged to the sustentation^ to the embel- 
lishment of the religious fabrics. But it needed no law 
to enforce on a wide scale this expenditure demanded 
at once by every holy and generous principle, by every 
ambitious among the more far-sighted and politic, as 
well as by every more sordid, motive. Throughout 
Christendom there was the high and pure, as well as 
the timid and superstitious religion, which invited, en- 
couraged, commanded, exacted, promised to reward in 
this world and in the next, these noble works of piety. 
Without as within the Church these motives were in 
perpetual, unslumbering activity. Church-building was, 
as it were, the visible personal sacrifice to God, a sacrifice 
which could never be fully accomplished ; it was the 
grateful or expiatory oblation to the Redeemer and to 


the Saints. The dying king, the dying noble, the 
dying rich man, or the king, noble, or rich man, undw 
strong remorse during his lifetime, might with more 
lofty and disinterested urgency be pressed by the priest 
or the confessor to make the bequest or the gift to 
a holy work in which the clergy had no direct advan- 
tage, and which was in some sort a splendid public 
benefaction. The Church was built for the poor, for 
the people, for posterity. What the splendor of the 
old Asiatic monarchs had done for the perpetuation 
of their own luxury and glory, the Egyptians for their 
burying-places, as well as in honor of their gods; 
what the narrower patriotism of the Greeks for the 
embellishment of their own cities^ for the comfort and 
enjoyment of the citizens: what the stem pride of 
the older, the enormous wealth and ostentation of 
the later republicans at Rome ; what the Pagan j^m- 
perors had done, the elder Caesars to command the 
wonder, gratitude, adulation of the mistress of the 
world ; Trajan, Hadrian, the Antonines, from policy, 
vanity, beneficence, on a wider and more cosmopolitan 
scale throughout the Empire : what had been thus done 
in many various ways, was now done by most kings 
and most rich men in one way alone.^ Besides temples 
the heathen Caesars had raised palaces, theatres, am« 
phitheatres, circuses, baths, roads, bridges, aqueducts, 
senate-houses, porticos, libraries, cemeteries. Now 
the only public buildings, unless here and there a 
bridge (until the burghers in the conunercial cities 

I Let it be remembered that in Paris, in the time of Philip the Fair, the 
house of the Templars was stronger if not more ma^niificent than the 
King's palace in the Louvre. What in comparison were the more sumpt- 
uous religious buildings? 

f I 


began to raise their guildhalls) were the church and 
the castle. The castle was built more for strength 
than for splendor. Architecture had the Church alone 
and her adjacent buildings on which to lavish all her 
skill, and to expend the inexhaustible treasures poured 
at her feet. To build the Church was admitted at 
once as the most admirable virtue, as the most uncon* 
tested sign of piety, as the fullest atonement for sin, as 
the amplest restitution for robbery or wrong, as the 
bounden tribute of the loyal subject of God, as the 
most unquestioned recognition of the sovereignty and 
mercy of God. 

If these incentives were forever working without the 
Church, besides these, what powerful concur- incwitivei 

J , .J. ^. . ,. for Church 

rent and subsidiary motives were in action buudings. 
within the Church ! Every Prelate, even each mem- 
ber of a Chapter (if he had any noble or less sordid . 
feeling than personal indulgence in pomp and luxury, 
or the least ecclesiastical public spirit), would feel 
emulation of his spiritual ancestors : he would delight 
to put to shame the less prodigal, the more parsimoni- 
ous, generosity of his predecessor, would endeavor to | 
transcend him in the richness of his oblation to God } 
or to the Patron Saint. He would throw down that 
predecessor's meaner work, and replace it by some- 
thing more splendid and enduring. Posthumous glory 
I would assume a sacred character : the Prelate would 
* not be inflexibly and humbly content with obscure 
goodness, or with the unwitnessed virtues, which would 
rest entirely on the reward in the world to come. The 
best and wisest might think that if their names lived 
on earth with their imperishable Cathedrals, it was 
a pardonable, if not a pious and laudable ambition. 



Their own desire of glory would so mingle with what 
they esteemed the glory of God, as to baffle their dis- 
crimination. So too national, municipal, coq)orate, 
lopal pride and interest would disguise themselves as 
tae love of God and man. The fane of some tute- 
lary saint, or some shrine of peculiar holiness or of 
'onder-working power, which attracted more numer- 
ous and more devout pilgrims, as it enriched the 
Church, the city, the town, the village, so it would 
demand even from gratitude a larger share of the 
votive offerings. The Saint must be rewarded for 
his favors, for his benefits; his church, his chapel, 
and his shrine must be more splendid, as more splen- 
did would be more attractive ; and thus splendor would 
beget wealth, wealth gladly devote itself to augment 
the splendor. 

Throughout, indeed, there was this latent, and un- 
The Church, couscious it might be, but undeniable infla- 
The PrieBtii. ^^^^ Operating through the whole sacerdotal 
Order, through the whole Monkhood, and not less 
among the more humble Friars. Every church was 
i^ot merely the house of God, it was dso the palace 
ivhere the religious Sovereign, the Ek^clesiastic, from 

i ihe Pope to the lowliest Parish Priest, held his state ; 

* \t was the unassailable fortress of his power ; it was, I 
use the word with reluctance, the Exchange where, by 
the display of his wealth, he immeasurably increased 
that wealth. To the Ecclesiastic belonged the chancel, 
not to be entered by unsanctified feet ; to him in his 
solitary or in his corporate dignity, only attended by a 
retinue of his own order ; his were the costly dresses, 

* the clouds of incense. The more magnificent the 
church, and the more sumptuous the services, the 

broader the line which divided him from the vulgar, // 
the rest of mankind. If he vouchsafed some distinc- 
tion, some approach towards his unapproachable majes- 
ty, as when the Emperor took his seat at the entrance 
or within the chancel, read the Gospel, and was gra- 
ciously permitted to perform some of the functions of a 
Deacon, this but threw back the rest of mankind to 
more humble distance. Those passages which the 
haughtiest Popes alleged in plain words, as "Ye are 
Gods," which was generally read, " Ye are Christs 
(the anointed of God)," almost revoked, or neutralized 
in the minds of the Priesthood, the specious reservation 
that it was God in them, and not themselves, which 
received these honors. Popular awe and reverence 
know no nice theological discrimination ; at least a 
large share of the veneration to the Saint or the Re- 
deemer, to God, rested, as it passed, on the Hierarchy. 
They were recognized as those without whose media- 
tion no prayer passed onw^ard to the throne of grace ; 
they stood on a step, often a wide step, higher in the 
ascent to heaven. Everywhere, through the whole 
framework of society, was this contrast, and the con- 
trast was to the advantage of the Hierarchy. The 
highest and richest Bishop in his episcopal palace might 
see the castle of the Baron not only in its strength, 
but in its height, its domains, its feudal splendor, its 
castellated richness, frowning contemptuously down 
upon him ; he might seem to be lurking, as it were, a 
humble retainer under its shadow and under its protec- . 
tion. But enter the church I the Baron stood afar off, 
or knelt in submissive, acknowledged, infelt inferiority ; 
and it was seldom that in the city the cathedral did not 
outsoar and outspread with its dependent buildings — . 




its baptistery, chapter-house, belfiy, cloisters — the 
rival castle with all its oatbuildings. That which in 
the cathedral city long held the Ecclesiastics in their 
separate peculiar majesty, went down in due proportion 
through the town to the village, to the meanest hamlet. 
In the feudal castle itself the chapel w^as almost always 
the most richly decorated. During war, in the siege, 
in the boisterous banquet, the chaplain might be self- 
levelled, or levelled by a lawless chief and lawless sol- 
diery, to a humble retainer ; in the chapel he resumed 
his proper dignity. It was his &ult, his want of in- 
fluence, if the chapel was not maintained in greater 
decency and splendor than the rude hall or ruder 
chamber ; and reverence to the chapel reacted on the 
reverence to him6el£ 

Add to all this the churches or chapels of the re- 
ligious houses, and there was hardly a religious house 
without its church or chapel, many of them equal or 
surpassing in grandeur, in embellishment, those of 
the town or of the city. In a religious foundation the 
Church could not, for very shame, be leas than the 
most stately and the most splendid edifice. Year af- 
ter year, century after century, if any part of the 
monastery was secure from dilapidation, if any part 
was maintained, rebuilt, redecorated, it would be the 
church. The vow of humility, the vow of poverty was 
first tacitly violated, first disdainfully thrown aside, by 
the severest Order, in honor of God. The sackclotb- 
clad, barefoot Friar would watch and worship on the 
cold stone or the hard board ; but within walls en- 
riched with the noblest paintings, tapestried with the 
most superb hangings, before an altar flashing witk 
the gold pyx, with the jewelled vessels, with the 


branching candlesticks. Assisi, not many yeare after 
the deatli of St. Francis, bad begun to be the most 
^lendid and highly adorned church in Italy. 

Thus ^en architecture was the minister at once and 
servant of the Church, and a vast proper- ^h© chnrt* 
tion of the wealth of tlie world was devoted **** p«>pie'»- 
to the works of ai'chitecture. Nor was it in a secular 
point of view a wasteful pomp and prodigality. If the 
church was the one building of tlie priest, so was it of 
the people. It was the single safe and quiet place 
where the lowest of the low (oxmd security, peace, rest, 
recreation, even diversion. If the chancel was the 
Priest's, the precincts, the porch, the nave were open 
to alL; the Church was all which the amphitheatre, 
the bath, the portico, the pubhc place, had been to the 
poor in the heathen cities. It was more than the housd 
of prayer and worship, where the peasant or the beg- 
gar knelt side by side with the burgher or the Baron ; 
it was tlie asylum, not of the criminal only, but of the 
oppressed, the sad, the toilwom, the infirm, the aged. 
It was not only dedicated to God ; it was consecrated 
to the consolation, the peace, even the enjoyment of 
man. Thus was it that architecture was raising all its 
wondrous structures in the West, if for the advance- 
ment of the Hierarchy, so too at the perpetual unsleep- 
ing instigation, at the cost, and it should seem under 
the special direction, of the Hierarchy : for no doubt 
within the precincts of the cathedral, within the clois- 
ter, much of the science of architecture was preserved, 
perpetuated, enlarged ; if tlie architects were not them- 
selves Ecclesiastics, they were under the protection, 
patronage, direction, instruction of Ecclesiastics. But 
it was also of the most indubitable benefit to mankind. 


Independent of the elevating, solemnizing, expanding 
effects of this most material and therefore most miiver- 
sally impressive of the Fine Arts, what was it to all 
mankind, especially to the prostrate and down-trodden 
part of mankind, that though these buildings were 
God's, they were, in a certain sense, his own ; he who 
had no property, not even in his own person, the serf, 
the villain, had a kind of right of proprietorship in his 
parish church, the meanest artisan in his cathedral. It 
is impossible to follow out to their utmost extent, or to 
appreciate too highly the ennobling, liberalizing, hu- 
manizing. Christianizing effects of church architecture 
during the Middle Ages. 

III. The third period of Christian architecture 
(reckoning as the first tjie Roman Basilica, as the 
second the proper Byzantine, with its distinctive Greek 
cross and cupolas) lasted with the Norman till the in- 
troduction of the Pointed or so-called Gothic in the 
twelfth century. This style has been called Lombard, 
as having first flourished in the cities of Northern Ita- 
ly, which under the later Kings attained unwonted 
peace and prosperity, and in which the cities rose to 
industiy, commerce, wealth, and freedom. Assuredly 
Third gtyie. ^^ ^^ "^ invention of the rude Lombards, 
BywSSi.or ^^^ brought ovcr the Alps only their con- 
Bomanwque. q^^riug anus and their hated Arianism. It 
has been called also Byzantine, improperly, for though 
it admitted indiscriminately Byzantine and Roman 
forms and arrangements, its characteristics seem either 
its own or the traditions of Roman principles, the ap- 
propriation and conversion to its use of Roman exam- 
ples. Its chief characteristic is delight in the multipli- 
cation of the arch, not only for the support, but for the 


ornamentation of the building. Within and without 
there is the same prodigality of this form. But these 
rows or tiers of arches, without supporting or seeming 
to support the roof, or simply decorative, appear to 
be no more than the degenerate Roman, as seen in 
the Palace of Dioclesian at Spalatro, and useiuUy as 
well as ornamentally employed in the Coliseum and in 
other amphitheatres. Gradually the west front of the 
Church, or the front opposite to the altar, grew into 
dignity and importance. The central portal, some- 
times the three portals, or even five portals, lost their 
square-headed form, became receding arches, arches 
within arches, decorated with graceful or fantastic 
mouldings. Above, tier over tier, were formed rows 
of arches (unless where a rich wheel or rose window 
was introduced) up to the broad bold gable, which was 
sometimes fringed as it were just below with small 
arches following out its line. Sometimes these arches 
ran along the side walls ; almost always either standing 
out more or less, or in open arcades, they ran round 
the semicircular eastern apse. Besides these, slender 
compound piers or small buttresses are carried up the 
whole height to the eaves. They arrive at length at 
the severer model of this form, San Zeno at Verona, 
or the richer, the San Michele at Lucca. Within the 
church the pillars, as the models of those in the an- 
cient buildings disappeared (the Roman Corinthian long 
survived), or rather as the ruins of ancient buildings 
ceased to be the quarries for churches, gradually lost 
their capitals. From those sprung the round arches in 
a bolder or more timid sweep, according to the distance 
or solidity of the pillars. Above the nave a second 
row of arches formed the clear-story windows. The 

VOL. vni. 2S 


roof, in general of timber, was first flat, then curved, 
at length vaulted. Over the centre of the cross rose 
the cupola, round, octagon, or of more ianciful forms. 
In the seventh century the introduction of bells, to 
summon to the service, drew on the invention of the 
architect. The dome or cupola was not a convenient 
form for a belfry. Beside the building it had not been 
unusual to erect a baptistery, circular or polygonal, 
such as are still seen in the richest form, and almost 
rivalling the churches, in Florence and in Parma. 
Throughout Lombardy, in most parts of Italy, rose 
the detached campanile, sometimes round, in general 
square, terminating at times with a broad flat roof, 
more rarely towering into a spire. In Italy this third 
epoch of architecture culminated in the Cathedral of 
Pisa. It was the oblation of the richest and most 
powerful city in Italy, at the height of her prosperity, 
her industry, her commerce, her fame ; it was made in 
the pride of her wealth, in a passion of gratitude for a 
victory and for rich plunder taken from the Mohain- 
inedans in the harbor of Palermo. Pisa found an ar- 
chitect worthy of her profnse magnificence ; the name 
of Boscheto lives in this his .unrivalled edifice. It is 
not only that the cathedral makes one of those four 
buildings — the Dome, the Baptistery, the Leaning 
Tower, the Campo Santo — which in their sad gran- 
deur in the deserted city surpass all other groups 
of buildings in Europe : the cathedral standing alone 
would command the highest admiration. On the ex- 
terior the west front displays that profusion of tiers of 
arches above arches, arranged with finer proportion, 
richness, and upward decreasing order, than elsewhere. 
But its suUiraity is within. Its plan, the Latin cross 


in the most perfect proportion, gives its impressive uni- 
ty to its central nave, with its double aisles, its aisled 
transepts, its receding apse. Its loftiness is far more 
commanding than any building of its class in Italy had 
as yet aspired to reach. The Corinthian pillars along 
the nave are of admirable height and proportion ; ^ those 
of the aisles lower, but of the same style. The arches 
spring boldly from the capitals of the pillars ; the tri- 
fbrium above, running down the long nave, is singu- 
larly picturesque. While the long, bold, horizontal 
architrave gives the sedate regularity of the Basilica ; 
the crossings of the transepts, the sweep of the curved 
apse, even without the effective mosaic of Cimabue, 
close the view with lines of the most felicitous and 
noble form. 

Nothing can contrast more strongly, in the same ar- 
chitecture, than the Transalpine Romanesque with Pisa.^ 
It is seen in all the old cities on the Rhine (the earliest 
form in St. Castor at Coblentz), later at Spires, Worms, 
Mentz, Bonn, the older churches at Cologne ; east of 
the Rhine in the older cities or monasteries, as in Corvey. 
It is more rude but more bold ; these churches might 
seem the works of the great feudal Prelates ; with a 
severe grandeur, not without richness of decoration, but 
disdaining grace or luxuriance. They are of vast size, 
as may beseem Prelate Princes, but of the coarse red or 
gray stone of the country, no fine-wrought fi'eestone, no 
glittering marble. The pillars are usually without cap- 
itals, or with capitals fantastic and roughly hewn ; they 
would impress by strength and solidity rather than by 

1 The pointed arch from the nave to the tnmsepts is of later date; incon- 
graouB but not without effect. 
* See for the Saxon Romanesque Schnaase. ^ 


harmony or regularity.^ Li the south of France this 
style is traced not only in cathedral cities, but in many 
very curious parochial churches. With few exceptions, 
it is there more picturesque and fanciful t!:an grand or 
solemn. In the north of France and in England this 
architecture received such a powerful impulse from the, 
Normans as almost to form a new epoch in the art. 

IV. That wonderful people, the Normans, though 
The Nor- without Creative power, seemed as it were to 
"'*°*- throw their whole strength and vigor into 

architecture, as into everything else. They had their 
kingdoms on the Mediterranean, and on either side of 
the British Channel. In the South they had become 
Southerns ; even in architecture they anticipated from 
the Mohammedans some approximation to the Gothic, 
the pointed arch. In the North, on the other hand, as 
by adopting and domiciling men of Roman or Italian 
cultivation, they had braced the intellect of the degen- 
erate Church to young energy, and had trained learned 
Churchmen and theologians, Lanfrancs and Anselms ; 
so taking the form, the structure, the architectural 
science of universal Latin Christendom, they gave it a 
grandeur, solidity, massiveness, even height, which might 
seem intended to confront a ruder element, more wild 
and tempestuous weather. The Norman cathednJs 
might almost seem built for warlike or defensive pur- 
poses ; as though their Heathen ancestors, having in 
their fierce incursions destroyed church and monastery, 
as well as castle and town, they would be prepared for 
any inroad of yet un-Christianized Northmen. That 
great characteristic of the Norman chwrches, the huge 
square central tower, was battlemented like a castle. 

1 Mr. Petit has pnblished engravings of many of these bnHdingk 


The whole impression is that of vast power in the archi- 
tect, unshaken duration in the edifice ; it is the build- 
ing of a Hierarchy which has un&iling confidence in its 
own strength, in its perpetuity. On the exterior, in the 
general design there is plainness, almost austerity ; the 
walls, visibly of enormous thickness, are pierced with 
round arched windows of no great size, but of great 
depth; the portals are profound recesses, arch within 
arch resting on short stubborn pillars ; the capitals ai*e 
rude, but boldly projecting; the rich ornaments cut 
with a vigorous and decisive hand : the zigzag or other 
moulilings with severity in their most prodigal richness. 
In the interior all again is simple to the disdain, in its 
greater parts, of ornament. The low, thick, usually 
round pillars, with capitals sometimes indulging in wild 
shapes, support, with their somewhat low arches, the 
ponderous wall, in its turn pressed down as it were by 
the ponderous roof. Such are the works of our Nor- 
man Kings, the two abbeys at Caen, Jumieges in its 
ruins, St. George de Boscherville ; such in our island, 
Durham, parts of Peterborough and Ely, and Glouces- 
ter, the two square towers of Exeter. If later and 
more splendid cathedrals inspire a higher devotion, 
none breathe more awe and solemnity than the old 

V. On a sudden, in a singularly short period, the latter 
half of the twelfth century (though discerning q^^^ ^^j. 
eyes ^ may trace, and acute minds have traced ^*""- 
with remarkable success and felicity, this transition), 

I See Mr. Gaily Enight*8 Nonnan Tour, and Normans in Sicily. Mr. 
Knight dedicated part of a noble fortune to these studies, illustrating his 
own excellent judgment by the well-ramunerated labors of accomplished 

« Dr. Whewell, Mr. Willis, Mr. Petit, 


Christian architecture beyond the Alps, in Germany, 
in France, in England, becomes creative. Nothing 
but the distribution and arrangement of the parts of the 
church remains the same ; and even in that respect the 
church, instead of standing alone or nearly alone, with 
the other edifices in humble subordination, is crowded 
around by a multitude of splendid vassals, partaking in 
all her decorative richness, the Lady chapel and other 
chapels, the chapter-house, the monastery, the episcopal 
palace, the cloisters, sometimes the belfiry. 

In the church not only are there new forms, not 
only is there a new principle of harmony, not only a 
constant substitution of vertical for horizontal lines, 
new and most exquisite proportions, an absolutely orig- 
inal character, but new principles of construction seem 
to have revealed themselves. Architecture is not only 
a new art, awakening different emotions of wonder, 
awe aiid admiration, but a new science. It has dis- 
covered the secret of achieving things which might ap- 
pear impossible, but which once achieved, seem per- 
fectly simple, secure, justificatoiy of their boldness, 
firom the perfect balance and equable pressure of every 
part, pressure disguised as it were, as distributed on a 
multitude of supports, and locked down by superincum- 
bent weights. Such is the unity, however multi&rious, 
of the whole, that the lightest, though loftiest and most 
vast Gothic cathedral, has a look of strength and dura- 
tion as manifest, as unquestioned, as the most ponder- 
ous and massive Romanesque or Norman. 

The rapid, simultaneous, and universal growth of 
Rapid rise this^so-called Gothic, its predominance, like 
rfoB. its predecessor the Romanesque, through the 

whole realm of Latin Christendom, is not the least ex- 

CHAP.vm. GOTHia 489 

traordinary &ct in the revolution. It has had marked 
stages of development (now defined with careful dis- 
crimination by the able and prolific writers on the art) 
during several centuries and in all countries, in Ger- 
many, France, England, the Netherlands, Spain, even 
Italy; but its first principles might almost seem to 
have broken at once on the wondering world. Every- / 
where the whole building has an upward, it might seem j 
heaven-aspiring tendency ; everywhere the arches be- ! 
come more and more pointed, till at length they arrive 
at the perfect lancet ; everywhere the thick and massy i 
walls expand into large, mullioned windows; every- \ 
where th6 diminished solidity of the walls is supported | 
from without by flying buttresses, now concealed, now 
become lighter and more graceful, and revealing them- 
selves, not as mere supports, but as integral parts of the 
building, and resting on outward buttresses ; every- i 
where pinnacles arise, singly or in clusters, > not for I 
ornament alone, but for efiect and perceptible use ; 
everywhere the roof becomes a ridge more or less pre- 
cipitate ; everywhere the west front becomes more rich 
and elaborate, with its receding portals covered with 
niches, which are crowded with statues ; everywhere 
the central tower assumes a more graceful form, or 
tapers into a spire; often two subordinate towers, or 
two principal towers, flank the west front ; everywhere; 
in the exuberant prodigality of ornament, knosps, shrine- 
work, corbels, gargoyles, there is a significance and a 
purport. Within the church the pillars along the nave 
break into gracefiil clusters around the central shaft; 
the vaulted roof is formed of the most simple yet in- 
tricate ribs ; everywhere there are the noblest avenues 
of straight lines of pillars, the most picturesque cross- 


mgs and interminglings of arches; everywhere har- 
mony of the same converging lines; everywhere the 
aim appears to be height, unity of impression, with in* 
finite variety of parts ; a kind of heavenward aspirin 
tion, with the most prodigal display of human labor 
and wealth, as an oblation to the temple of God. 

The rise of Gothic Architecture, loosely speaking, 
was contemporaneous with the Crusades.^ It was 
natural to suppose that the eyes of the pilgrims were 
TheCru- cawght by the slender, graceful, and richly 
"***•• decorated forms of the Saracenic mosques, with 

their minarets and turrets. Pointed windows were dis- 
covered in mosques, and held to be the models of the 
Gothic cathedrals. Even earlier, when the Normans 
were piling up their massy round arches in the North, 
they had some pointed arches in Sicily, apparently 
adopted from the Mohammedans of that island.^ But 
the pointed arch is only one characteristic of Gothic 
Architecture, it is a vast step from the imitation of a 
pointed arch or window (if there were such imitation, 
which is extremely doubtful), to the creation of a 
Gothic cathedral.® The connection of the Crusades 
was of another kind, and far more powerful ; it was 
the devotion aroused in all orders by that universal 

1 The theory of Warburton deriring the Gothic Cathedrals from an iiii> 
itation of the overarching forests of the ancient Germans (he is disposed to 
go back to the Druids) is curious as illustrating the strange and total neg> 
lect of Mediaeval Church History in this country. Here is a divine of al- 
most unrivalled erudition (Jurtin excepted) in his day, who seems to sup> 
pose that the Germans immediately that they emerged from their foreata, 
set to work to build Gothic cathedrals. He must either have supposed 
Gothic architecture of the fourth or fifth century, or quietly annihilated the 
intervening centuries to the twelfth. 

2 Gaily Knight, " Normans in Sicily." 

• Compare Whewell, ^ Architectunl Notes," p. 35. 



moYement, which set into activity all the faculties of f 
man ; and the riches poured into the lap of the Clergy, I 
which enabled them to achieve such wonders in so 
short a period. Religion awoke creative genius, genius 
worked fireely with boundless command of wealth. 

This apparently simultaneous outburst, and the uni- 
versal promulgation of the principles, rules. Theory at 
and practice of the Gothic Architecture, has FreenuwonB. 
been accounted for by the existence of a vast secret 
guild of Freemasons, or of architects.^ Of this guild, 
either connected with or latent in the monasteries and 
among the Clergy, some of whom were men of pro- 
found architectural science, and held in their pay and 
in their subservience all who were not ecclesiastics, 
it is said, the centre, the quickening, and governing 
power was in Rome. Certainly of all developments 
of the Papal influence and wisdom none could be more 
extraordinary than this summoning into being, this con- 
ception, this completion of these marvellous buildings 
in every part of Latin Christendom. But it is fatal 
to this theory that Rome is the city in which Gothic 
Architecture, which some have strangely called the 
one absolute and exclusive Christian Architecture, has 
never found its place ; even in Italy it has at no time 
been more than a half-naturalized stranger. It must 
be supposed that while the Papacy was thus planting 
the world with Gothic cathedrals, this was but a sort 
of lofty concession to Transalpine barbarism, while it- 
self adhered to the ancient, venerable, more true and 
majestic style of ancient Rome. This guild too was so 
secret as to elude all discovery. History, documentary 
evidence maintain rigid, inexplicable silence. The ac- 

i Hope on Architectare. 


counts, which in some places have been found, name 
persons employed. The names of one or two archi- 
tects, as Erwin of Strasburg, have survived, but of 
this guild not one word.^ The theory is not less un- 
necessary than without support. Undoubtedly there 
was the great universal guild, the ClCTgy and the mo- 
nastic bodies, who perhaps produced, certainly retained, 
state of employed, guided, directed the builders. Dur- 
Europe. jj^g ^j^jg p^nod Latin Christendom was in a 

state of perpetual movement, intercommunication be- 
tween all parts was firequent, easy, uninterrupted. 
There were not only now pilgrimages to Rome, but a 
regular tide setting to and from the East,^ a concourse 
to the schools and universities, to Paris, Cologne, 
Montpellier, Bologna, Salerno : rather later spread the 
Mendicants. The monasteries were the great canir 
vansaries; every class of society was stirred to its 
depths; in some cases even the villains broke^ the 
bonds which attached them to the soil ; to all the al>- 
bey or the church opened its hospitable gates. Men 
skilled and practised in the science of architecture 
would not rest unemployed, or but poorly employedt 
at home. Splendid prizes would draw forth competi- 
tion, emulation. Sacerdotal prodigality, magnificence, 
zeal, rivah*y would abroad be famous, attractive at 
home ; they would be above local or national prepos- 
sessions. The prelate or the abbot, who had deter- 

1 All the documentary evidence adduced by Mr. Hope amounts to a Pa- 
jMiI privilege to certnin builders or masons, or a guild of builders, at Como, 
published by Muratori (Como was long celebrated for its skill and devotion 
to the art), and a charter to certain painters by our Henry V''!. Schnaaae 
(Geschic-hte der Hildende Kunst, iv. c. 6) examines and rejects the tboorr. 
He citefl some few instances more of guilds, but local and municipal. The 
first guild of masons, which comprehended all Germany, was of the middk 
of the 15th centuiy. 

Chap.VUI. state of EUROPE. 448 

mined in his holy ambition that his cathedral or his 
abbey should surpass others, and who liad unlimited 
wealth at his disposal, would welcome the celebrated, 
encourage the promising, builder from whatever quarter 
of Christendom he came. Thus, within certain limits, 
great architects would be the architects of the world, I 
or what was then the Western world, Latin Christen- / 
dom : and so there would be perpetual progress, com-/ I 
munication, sympathy in actual design and execuV / 
tion, as well as in the principles and in the science of / 
construction. Accordingly, foreign architects are frel- / 
quently heard of. Germans crossed the Alps to teac i / 
Italy the secret of the new architecture.^ Each natio 1/ 
indeed seems to have worked out its own Gothic wit v 
certain general peculiarities, Germany, France, tlJa 
Netherlands, England, and later Spain. All seem to 
aim at certain effects, all recognized certain broad prin- 
ciples, but the application of these principles varies in- 
finitely. Sometimes a single building, sometimes the 
buildings within a certain district, have their peculiar- 
ities. Under a guild, if there had been full freedom 
for invention, originality, boldness of design, there had 
been more rigid uniformity, more close adherence to 
rule in the scientifical and technical parts. 

The name of Gothic has ascended from its primal 
meaning, that of utter contempt, to the highest honor ; 
it is become conventional for the architecture of the 

1 " All countries^ in adopting a neighboring style, seem however to have 
worked it with some pecaliarities of their own, so that a person conversant 
with examples can tell, npon inspecting a building, not only to what period 
it belongs, but to what nation. Much. depends on material, much on the 
style of sculpture," &c. — Willis on Architecture, p. 11. Mr. Rickman*8 
book is most instructive on the three styles predominant successively in 
England. — Compare Whewell. 


Middle Ages, and commands a kind of traditionary 
reverence. Perhaps Teutonic, or at least Transalpine, 
might be a more fit appellation. It was bom, and 
reached its maturity and perfection north of the Alps. 
Gothic, properly so called, is a stranger and an alien in 
Italy. Rome absolutely repudiated it. It was brought 
across the Alps by German architects ; it has ever 
borne in Italy the somewhat contemptuous name Gt^r- 
man-Gothic.^ Among its earliest Italian efforts is one 
remarkable for its history, as built by a French archi- 
tect with English gold, and endowed with benefices in 
England. The Cardinal Gualo, the legate who placed 
the young Henry III. on the throne of England, as he 
came back laden with the grateful or extorted tribute 
of the island, 12,000 marks of silver, encountered an 
architect of fame at Paris : he carried the Northern 
itauan with him to his native Vercelli, where the 
A.D. ma. Church of St. Andrea astonished Italy with 
its pointed arches, as well as the Italian clergy with 
the cliarges fixed for their maintenance on Preferments 
in remote England.^ Assisi, for its age the wonder of 
the world, was built by a German architect. What is 
called the Lombard or Italian-Gothic, though inhar- 
monious as attempting to reconcile vertical and hori- 
zontal lines, has no doubt its own admirable excellen- 
ces, in some respects may vie with the Transalpine. 
Its costly marbles, inlaid into the building, where they 
do not become alternate layers of black and white (to 
my judgment an utter defiance of every sound principle 
of architectural effect), its gorgeousness at Florence, 
Sienna, its fantastic grace at Orvieto, cannot but 

1 Gotioo Tedesco. Compare Hope, c tetit. 
* Compare on Cazdinal Gnalo, vol. ▼. p. 313. 


awaken those emotions which are the world's recog- 
nition of noble architecture.^ Milan to me, with all 
its matchless splendor, and without considering the ar- 
chitectural heresy of its modem west front, is wanting 
in rehgiousness. It aspires to magnificence, and noth- 
ing beyond magnificence. It is a cathedral which 
might have been erected in the pride of their wealth 
by the godless Visconti. Nothing can be more won- 
derful, nothing more gi'aceful, each seen singly, than 
the numbers numberless, in Milton's words, of the tur- 
TOts, pinnacles, statues, above, below, before, behind, 
on every side. But the effect is confusion, a dazzling 
the eyes and mind, distraction, bewilderment. The 
statues are a host of visible images basking in the sun- 
shine, not glorified saints calmly ascending to heaven. 
In the interior the vast height is concealed and dimin- 
ished by the shrine-work which a great way up arrests 
the eye and prevents it from following the columns up 
to the roof, and makes a second stage between the pa v ce- 
ment and the vault ; a decoration without meaning or 

There can be no doubt that the birthplace of true 
Grothic Architecture was north of the Alps ; it should 
seem on the Rhine, or in those provinces of France 

1 Professor Willis lays down **" that there is in fact no genuine Gothic 
building in Italj/' — On Italian Architecture, p. 4. He is inclined to 
make exceptions for some churches built in or near Naples by the Ange- 
vine dynasty. ** The curious result is a style in which the horizontal and 
vertical lines equally predominate; and which, while it wants alike the 
lateral extension and repose of the Grecian and the lofty upward tendency 
and pyramidal majesty of the Gothic, is yet replete with many an interest- 
ing and valuable architectuml lesson. It exhibits pointed arches, pin- 
nacles, buttresses; tracery and clustered columns, rib-vaultings, and lofty 
towers ; all those characteristics, in short, the bare enunciation of which 
is considered by many writers to be a sufficient definition of Gothic." — 


which then were German, Burgundy, Lorraine, Al- 
sace, bordering on the Rhine. It was a splendid gift 
of Teutonism before Germany rose in insurrection and 
set itself apart froin Latin Christendom. North of the 
Alps it attained its full pei*fection ; there alone the 
Cathedral became in its significant symbolism the im- 
personation of mediseval Christianity. 

The Northern climate may have had some connection 
ciimafce. with its Hsc and development. In Italy and 
the South the Sun is a tyrant ; breadth of shadow 
must mitigate his force ; the wide eaves, the bold pro- 
jecting cornice must afford protection from his burning 
and direct rays ; there would be a reluctance altogether 
to abandon those horizontal lines, which cast a con- 
tinuous and unbroken shadow ; or to ascend as it were 
with the vertical up into the unslaked depths of the 
noonday blaze. The violent rains would be cast off 
more freely by a more flat and level roof at a plane of 
slight inclination. In the North the precipitate ridge 
would cast off the heavy snow, which* might have 
lodged and injured the edifice. So, too, within the 
church the Italian had to cool and diminish, the North- 
ern would admit and welcome the flooding light. So 
much indeed did the Gothic Architecture enlarge and 
multiply the apertures for light, that in order to restore 
the solemnity it was obliged to subdue and sheathe as 
it were the glare, at times overpowering, by painted 
glass. And thus the magic of the richest coloring was 
added to the infinitely diversified forms of the archi- 

The Gothic cathedral was the consummation, the 
completion of mediaeval, of hierarchical Christianity. 
Of that mediaeval ism, of that hierarchism (though 


Italy was the domain, and Rome the capital of tlie 
Pope), the seat was beyond the Alps. The media3val 
hierarchical sei*vices did not rise to their full majesty 
and impressiveness till celebrated under a Gothic ca- 
thedral. The church might seem to expand, and lay 
itself out in long and narrow avenues, with the most 
gracpfuUy converging perspective, in order that the wor- 
shipper might contemplate with deeper awe the more re- 
mote central ceremonial. The enormous height more 
than compensated for the contracted breadth. Nothing 
could be more finely arranged for the processional ser- 
vices ; and the processional services became more fre- 
quent, more imposing. The music, instead of being 
beaten down by low broad arches, or lost within the 
heavier aisles, soared freely to the lofty roof, pervaded 
the whole building, was infinitely multiplied as it died 
and rose again to the fretted roof. Even the incense 
cnrling more freely up to the immeasurable height, 
might give the notion of clouds of adoration finding 
their way to heaven. 

The Gothic cathedral remains an imperishable and 
majestic monument of hierarchical wealth, Symbousm of 
power, devotion ; it can hardly be absolutely tectuw. 
called self-sacrifice, for if built for the honor of God and 
of the Redeemer, it was honor, it was almost worship, 
shared in by the high ecclesiastic. That however has 
almost passed away; God, as it were, now vindicates 
to himself his own. The cathedral has been described 
as a vast book in stone, a book which taught by sym- 
bolic language, partly plain and obvious to the simpler 
man, partly shrouded in not less attractive mystery. 
It was at once strikingly significant and inexhaustible ; 
bewildering, feeding at once and stimulating profound 


meditadoD. Even its height, its vastness might ap- 
|>ear to suggest the Inconceivable, the Incomprehen- 
sible in the Godhead, to symbolize the Infinity, the 
incalculable grandeur and majesty of the divine works ; 
the mind felt homble under its shadow as before an 
awful presence. Its form and distribution was a con- 
fession of faith ; it typified the creed. Everywhere 
was the mystic number ; the Trinity was proclaimed 
by the nave and the aisles (multiplied sometimes as 
at Bourges and elsewhere to the other sacred number, 
seven), the three richly ornamented recesses of the 
portal, the three towers. The Rose over the west 
was the Unity ; the whole building was a Cross. The 
altar with its decorations announced the Real Per- 
petual Presence. The solemn Crypt below repre- 
sented the under world, the soul of man in darkness 
and the shadow of death, the body awaiting the res- 
urrection. This was the more obvious universal lan- 
guage. By those who sought more abstruse and 
recondite mysteries, they might be found in all tlie 
multifarious details, provoking the zealous curiosity, 
or dimly suggestive of holy meaning. Sculpture was 
called in to aid. All the great objective truths of 
religion had their fitting place. Even the Father, 
either in familiar symbol or in actual form, began to 
appear, and to assert his property in the sacred build- 
ing. Already in the Romanesque edifices the Son, 
either as the babe in the lap of his Virgin Mother, 
on the cross, or ascending into heaven, had taken his 
place over the central entrance, as it were to receive 
and welcoVne the woi^shipper. Before long he appeared 
not there alone, though there in more imposing form ; 
he was seen throughout all Ids wondrous history, with 


all his acts and miracles, down to the Resurrection, 
the Ascension, the return to Judgment. Everywhere 
was that hallowed form, in infancy, in power, on the 
cross, on the right hand of the Father, coming down 
amid the hosts of angels. The most stupendous, 
the most multifarious scenes were represented in re- 
liefs more or less bold, prominent, and vigorous, or 
rude and harsh. The carving now aspired to more 
than human beauty, or it delighted in the most hide- 
ous ugliness ; majestic gentle Angels, grinning hate- 
ful sometimes half-comic Devils. But it was not only 
the New and the Old Testament, it was the Golden 
Legend also which might be read in the unexhausted 
language of the cathedral. Our Lady had her own 
chapels for her own special votaries, and toward the 
East, behind the altar, the place of honor. Not only 
were there the twelve Apostles, the four Evangelists, 
the Martyrs, the four great Doctors of the Latin 
Church, each in his recognized form, and with his 
peculiar symbol, — the whole edifice swarmed with 
Saints within and without, on the walls, on the painted 
windows, over the side altars. For now the mystery 
was so awful that it might be administered more near 
to the common eye, upon the altar in every succursal 
chapel which lined the building : it was secure in its 
own sanctity. There were the Saints local, national, 
or those especially to whom the building was dedi- 
cated ; and the celestial hierarchy of the Areopagite, 
with its ascending orders, and conventional forms, the 
winged seraph, the cherubic face. The whole in its 
vastness and intricacy was to the outward sense and 
to the imagination what Scholasticism was to the in- 
tellect, an enormous effort, a waste and prodigality 
VOL. Yni. 29 


of power, which confounded and bewildered rather 
than enlightened ; at the utmost awoke vague and in- 
distinct emotion. 

But even therein was the secret of the imperishable 
power of the Gothic cathedrals. Their hieroglyphic 
language, in its more abstruse terms, became obsolete 
and unintelligible ; it was a purely hierarchical dialect ; 
its meaning, confined to the hierarchy, gradually lost 
its signification even to them. But the cathedrals 
themselves retired as it were into more simple and 
more commanding majesty, into the solemn grandeur 
of their general effect. They rested only on the won- 
derful boldness and unity of their design, the richness 
of their detail. Content now to appeal to the indelible, 
inextinguishable kindred and aflSnity of the human heart 
to grandeur, grace, and beauty, the countless statues 
from objects of adoration became architectural orna- 
ments. So the mediaeval churches survive in their 
influence on the mind and the soul of man. Their 
venerable antiquity comes in some sort in aid of their 
innate religiousness. It is that about them which was 
temporary and accessory, their hierarchical character, 
which has chiefly dropped from them and become obso^ 
lete. They are now more absolutely and exclusively 
churches for the worship of God. As the mediseval 
pageantry has passed away, or shrunk into less impos- 
ing forms, the one object of worship, Christ, or God in 
Christ, has taken more full and absolute possession of 
the edifice. Where the service is more simple, as in 
our York, Durham, or Westminster, or even where the 
old faith prevails, in Cologne, in Antwerp, in Strasbui^ 
in Rheims, in Bourges, in Rouen, it has become more 
popular, less ecclesiastical: everywhere the priest is 


now, according to the common sentiment, more the 
Minister, less the half-divinized Mediator* And thus 
all that is the higher attribute and essence of Christian 
architecture retains its nobler, and, in the fullest sense, 
its religious power. The Gothic cathedral can hardly 
be contemplated without awe, or entered without devo- 




During almost all this pericMl Christian Sculpture 
ohrifltiaa ^*^ accessary, or rather subsidiary to archi- 
Beoiptore. tccture. The use of Statues was to ornament 
and enrich the building. In her Western conquests, 
under Justinian, Constantinople sent back no sculptors; 
only architects with her domes, and her Greek cross, 
and her splendid workers in mosaic. The prodigality 
with which Constantine, as Rome of old, despoiled the 
world to adorn his new city with ancient works of 
sculpture, put to shame, it should seem, rather than 
awoke the emulation of Christian Art. We have seen 
Constantine usurp the form, the attributes, even the 
statue of Apollo.^ We have heard even Theodosios 
do homage to art, and spare statues of heathen deities 
for their exquisite workmanship. Christian historians. 
Christian poets, lavish all their eloquence, and all their 
glowing verse on the treasures of ancient art. They 
describe with the utmost admiration the gods, the myth- 
ological personages, those especially that crowded the 
baths of Zeuxippus ; ^ which perished with the old 

^ HistoTy of Christianitj, vol. ii. p. 408; iii. 484. The whole paaMge. 

' Cedrenus, ▼. i. p. 648, Ed. Bonn. The Ecphrasis of Christodoms, is a 
Poem, for its age, of much spirit and heaaty. See espedalljr the deaorip- 
lions of Hecaha and of Homer. — Jacohe, Anthologia. 


Church of St. Sophia in the &tal conflagration in the 
fifth year of Justinian. In the Lausus stood the unri- 
valled Cnidian Venus of Praxiteles ; the Samian Juno 
of Lysippus;^ the ivory Jove of Phidias. The whole 
city was thronged with statues of the Emperors and 
their Queens, of Constantine, Theodosius, Valentinian, 
Arcadius, and Honorius, Justinian, Leo, Theodora, 
Pulcheria, Eudocia.^ It is even said that there were 
marble statues of Arius, Macedonius, Sabellius, and 
Eunomius, which were exposed to filthy indignities by 
the orthodox Theodosius.^ It appears not how far. 
Sculpture had dared to embody in brass or in marble 
the hallowed and awfiil objects of Christian worship. 
It should seem indeed that the Iconoclastic Emperors 
found statues, and those statues objects of adoration, to 
war upon. Though in the word Iconoclast, the image- 
breaker, the word for image is ambiguous ; still the 
breaking seems to imply something more destructive 
than the eflPacing pictures, or picking out mosaics : it is 
the dashing to pieces something hard and solid. This 
controversy in the second Nicene Council comprehends 
images of brass or stone ; one of the perpetual prece- 
dents is the statue of the Redeemer said to have been 
raised at Paneas in Syria.* The carved symbolic im- 
ages of the Jewish ark are constantly alleged.^ Those 
are accursed who compare the images of the Lord and 

1 So at least says Cedrenns, p. 564. 

3 All these will be found in the description of Constantinople bj Petnu 
Gyllios. The work was translated by John Ball, London, 1729. 

s Gjllios, b. ii. c. xxiii. 

< Act Concil. Nicen. ii. a. d. 737, Mpiavri r^ Xpurru. It was said to 
have been raised by the woman cured of an issue of blood, p. 14; ianfoav 
ik Kid eUova — of a certain Saint in an oratory, p. 23. 

• The Sculptilia in the Old Testament, p. 46. 


of the Saints to the statues of Satanic Idols.^ If we 
worship stones as Gods, how do we worship the Mar- 
tyrs and Apostles who broke down and destroyed id<^ 
dP stone?* The homage paid to the statues of the 
Elmperors was constantly nrged to repel the accusation 
of idolatry. Tet probably statnes which represented 
objects of Christian worship were extremely rare ; and 
when Image-worship was restored, what may be called 
its song of victory, is silent as to Sculptures :* the Lord, 

' 1 Those are anaShemiitixed — ttv eiKOva -roi) Kvpiov uH ruv ^iuv airoB 
6ftOiuc Toec AoavoiCTuv Zaravuajv ddulXuv bvoftueccmac ' otnruc «ai 
J[ytac eUovmc rdf he xp^'t'OTuv koL fiffAc kqI hipoQ i'hn hnn/deiuc ^JC^ 
oj^ hf rate dyintf tw Beoo kukkqaiaic, iv Upoic ameoi koI £01^901 roijcatg 
re Koi aaviaip, oLukc re xai 6do£(, p. 37S. In this minnte enmnentioii tha 
fixst most be statnes. The letter of Taiasius is less clear: it mentions <mi1^ 
painting, raosaies, waxen taWets, and amndef. 

' £/ rode JUdouc uc ^codf do^d^iu (if I give really divine worship to theaa 
stones, as I am accused) kus riftu xal npooKwit rove fwpTvpac tkot ^iroeroXmif 
otnrrpiilMtvTag kol diro^oovroc rii Xidtva ^udta ; — The address of Leontios, 

* See the Poem in the Anthologia {xpumamKa 'EntYpdftfiara), Jaoote 

iXofipev uktIc rpc aXi/deiac iMtv 

Mat rdf Kopac 9fi/3Aan« twv itevdif/opuv * 

^h^tv eifaefieia, ireirruKe nXavif • 

Kol martf av^d, km vXarifvcTai xop^C' 

1(ViC yup <w^ Xpurrdc dxavufftivof 

Kot rdf OKorecvdc alpeauc hfarphm, 
Ttc daodov 6* incep^tv, u(- dda irv^, 
onjXoypa^Taij lud ^iXa^, ^ irapdivoCf 
6va^ ik Kol npoedpoSy uc irXavorpoini 
a^ roif avvepyoic loropovvTai vh/aiev * 
kukX^ a mnndc o2a fpovpti rw dofiav, 
voic (Angeli) ^Mt^i^ra^, /tiprvptc, dv^niXo^ 
Mev tuJiovftev XpurnnpikXivav viop, 
rh^ nfiv Xajcovra c^tfeuf xP^*^f^^H<''^9 
if r&v ^pawov ixcvra H^motov Kwpia9, 
X^Mtrrav <Se fonv^t X/MOTonTpvjunr rvirovc 
Kol Tov ao^cvpyov BCq^X r^v dxovo. 


the Virgin, the Angels, Saints, Martyrs, Priesthood, 
take their place over the portal entrance ; but shining 
in colors to blind the eyes of the heretics. To the 
keener perception of the Greeks there may have arisen 
a feeling that in its more rigid and solid form the Image 
was more near to the Idol. At the same time, the art 
of Sculpture and casting in bronze was probably more 
degenerate and out of use ; at all events, it was too 
slow and laborious to supply the demand of triumphant 
2seal in the restoration of the persecuted Images. There 
was therefore a tacit compromise ; nothing appeared 
but painting, mosaics, engraving on cups and chalices, 
embroider}' on vestments. The renunciation of Sculp- 
ture grew into a rigid passionate aversion. chriBtum 
The Greek at length learned to contemplate ?JSjJri^ 
that kind of more definite and full represen- " **** ■"*• 
tation of the Deity or the Saints with the aversion of 
a Jew or a Mohammedan.' Yet some admiration for 
ancient Sculpture of heathen objects lingered behind 
in the Grecian mind. In his vehement and bitter 
lamentation over the destruction of all the beautiful 
works of bronze by the Crusaders in the Latin Con- 
quest of Constantinople, Nicetas is not content with 

This was Michael the Drunkard, son of Theodora (Jacobs's Note.) Com- 
pare vol. ii. p. 141. Was the Painting of Michael the Archangel, celebrate 
od in two other Epigrams, erected on this occasion? — (Pp. 12, 13.) 

i fjtera roXft^etc Kripbg u.Tten'kdaaTO * 

ot&e ik TtxyR 
XpofMoi icopi&fuvaai r^v ^pev6( Ueoi^. 

1 Nicephoms Critopulos, a late writer, says, tovtuv oIk elKOvai ^ kuK^ata 

.kmUi ob yhfirrac obde Tua^tindj; aXA« ypairrit^ (lovov^ quoted in Suicer, who 

speaks justly of " Imagines sculptas et excisas, ipsiusque Dei representa- 

tiones apud Grsecos etiamnum ignotas." The exquisite nmaW carvings in 

ivory were permitted seemingly in all ages of Byzantine art. 


branding the avarice which cast all these wonderftil 
statues into the melting-pot to turn them into money ; 
he denounces the barbarians as dead to eveiy sense of 
beauty,^ who remorselessly destroyed the colossal Juno, 
the equestrian Bellerophon, the Hercules ; as regardless 
of the proud reminiscences of old Rome, they melted 
th(i swine and the wolf which suckled Romulus and 
Remus, and the ass with its driver set up by Augustas 
after the battle of Actium ; they feared not to seize the 
magic eagle of Apollonius of Tyana. Even the ex- 
quisite Helen, who set the world in arms, notwithstand* 
ing her unrivalled beauty and her fame, touched not, 
and did not soften those iron-hearted, those unlettered 
savages, who could not read, who had never heard of 

The West might seem to assert its more bold and 
Sculpture frcc imago-worship by its unrestrained and 
West. prodigal display of religious sculpture ; still it 

was mostly sculpture decorative, or forming an integral 
part of Architecture. It was not the ordinary occupar 
tion of Sculpture to furnish the beautiftil single statue 
of marble or of bronze. Rome had no succession of 
Emperors, whose attribute and privilege it was to a late 
period in Constantinople to have their image set up for 
the homage of the people, and so to keep alive the art 
of carving marble or casting bronze. But gradually in 
the Romanesque, as in the later Gothic Architecture, 

^ Nicetas Choniata de Signis^ ol tov koXov avipaaroi oOm fiapfiapoi 
Some called the equestrian Bellerophon Joshua the Son of Nun. This is 

* Of Helen he ftajs — dp* kfietXt^e rove dvofui^icnvc; ip* kftaX&a^e rove 

etdijpo^povac ; aXkuc re mv napd, dypaftfJUiTot/c ^op^opoic xal re- 

Xeov avak^^ffToi/s 6vayv6atc Kol ypCtaic tuv hrl mi pmjfwdi/damjy bcdpu^ 
hruv ; — Edit. Bonn., p. 863. 


the west firont of the Churches might seem, as it were, 
the chosen place for sacred Images. Not merely did 
the Saviour and the Virgin appear as the Gruardian 
Deities over the portal, gradually the Host of Heaven, 
Angels, Apostles, Martyrs, Evangelists, Saints spread 
oyer the whole fa9ade. They stood on pedestals or in 
niches ; reliefi more or less high found their panels in 
the walls ; the heads of the portal arches were carved 
in rich designs ; the semicircle more or less round or 
pointed, ahove the level line of the door, was crowded 
with sacred scenes, or figures. But in all these, as in 
other statues if such there were, within the Churches, 
Christian modesty required that human or divinized 
figures must be fully clad. Sculpture, whose essence 
is form, found the naked human figure almost under 
proscription. There remained nothing for the sculp- 
tor's art but the attitude, the countenance, and the 
more or less graceful fall of the drapery ; all this too, 
in strict subordination to the architectural efiect ; with 
this he must be content, and not aspire to centre on 
himself and his work the admiring and long dwelling 
eye.^ The Sculptor, in general, instead of the votary 
and master of a high and independent art, became the 
workman of the architect ; a step or two higher than 
the carver of the capital, the moulding, the knosp, or 
the finial.^ In some respects the progress of Gothic, 
though it multiplied images to infinity, was unfavora- 

1 Even of the Crucifix Schnaase has jastlj said, ** Gleichzeitig andertc 
sich anch die Tracht des Gekreuzigten ; die lange Tunica, welche friiher 
den Korper ganz verhiillte, wird schon in 12 Jahr. kurzer, im 13 und noch 
allgemeiner in 14 vertritt ein Schurz um die Hiifte ihre Stelle/* — iv. p. 

* It is to be obeerved tiiat the Statues were only intended to be seen in 


ble; as the niches became loftier and naxrower, the 
Saints rose to disproportionate stature, shrank to 
meagre gracilitj, they became ghosts in long shroads. 
Sometimes set on high upon pinnacles, or crowded 
in hosts as at Milan, thejr lost all distinctness, and 
were absolutely nothing more than architectural om«r- 

All, no doubt, even as regards sculptural exceUeuce, 
is not equally rude, barbarous, or barren. So many 
artists could not be employed, even under conveatioaal 
restrictions, on subjects so suggestive of high and sol- 
emn emotion, men themselves under deep devotional 
feelings, without communicating to the hard stone some 
of their own conceptions of majesty, awAilness, seren- 
ity, grace, beauty. The sagacious judgment among the 
crowds of figures in front of our Cathedrals may discern 
some of the nobler attributes of Sculpture, dignity, ex- 
pression, skilful and flowing disposition of drapeiy, even 
while that judgment is not prompted and kindled by 
reverential religiousness, as is often the case, to imagine 
that in the statue which is in the man's own mind. 
In the reliefs, if there be more often confusion, gro- 
tesqueness, there is not seldom vigor and distinctness, 
skilful grouping, an artistic representation of an impres- 
sive scene. The animals are almost invariably hard, 
conventional emblems not drawn from nature ; but the 
human figure, if without anatomical precision, mostly 
unnecessary when so amply swathed in drapery, in its 
outline and proportions is at times nobly developed. 
Yet, on the whole, the indulgence usually claimed and 
readily conceded for the state of art at the period, is in 
itself the unanswerable testimony to its imperfection 
and barbarism. Christian Sculpture must produce, as 


it did afterwards produce, something greater, with John 
of Bologna and Michael Angelo, or it must be content 
to leave to heathen Greece the uncontested supremacy 
in this wonderful art. Sculpture, in truth, must learn 
from ancient art those elementary lessons which Chris- 
tianity could not teach, which it dared not, or would not 
venture to teach ; it must go back to Greece for that 
revelation of the inexhaustible beauties of the human 
form which had long been shrouded from the eyes of 
men. The anthropomorphism of the Greeks grew out 
of, and at the same time fully developed the physical 
perfection of the human body. That j^erfection was 
the model, the ideal of the Sculptor. The gods in stat- 
ure, force, majesty, proportion, beauty, were but super- 
human men. To the Christian there was still some 
disdain of the sensual perishable body ; with monasti- 
cism, that disdain grew into contempt; it must be 
abased, macerated, subdued. The utmost beauty which 
it could be allowed was patience, meekness, gentlen&ss, 
lowliness. To the fully developed athlete succeeded 
the emaciated saint. The man of sorrows, the form 
"of the servant," still lingered in the Divine Redeemer; 
the Saint must be glorified in meekness; the Martyr 
must still bear the sign and expression of his humilia- 
tion. The whole age might seem determined to dis- 
guise and conceal, even if not to debase, the human 
form, the Sculptor's proper domain and study, in its 
free vigorous movement or stately tranquillity. The 
majestic Prelate was enveloped in his gorgeous and 
cumbrous habiliments, which dazzled with their splen- 
dor; the strong, tall, noble Knight was sheathed in 
steel ; even the Monk or Friar was swathed in • his 
coarse ungainly dress, and cowl. Even for its drar 


peries reviving Sculpture must go back to the an- 

There was oue branch, however, of the art — Monu- 
Monumentai cental Sculpturc — which assumed a peculiar 
Sculpture, character and importance under Christianity, 
and aspired to originality and creativeness. Even 
Monumental Sculpture, in the Middle Ages, was in 
some degree architectural. The tomb upon which, the 
canopy under which, lay the King, the Bishop, or the 
Knight, or the Lady, was as careiully and as elaborately 
wrought as the slumbering image. In the repose, in 
the expression of serene sleep, in the lingering majesty, 
gentleness, or holiness of countenance of these effigies 
there is often singular beauty.^ Repose is that in 
which Sculpture delights ; the repose, or the collapsing 
into rest, of a superhuman being, after vigorous exer- 
tion ; nothing, therefore, could be more exquisitely 
suited to the art than the peace of the Christian sleep- 
ing after a weary life, sleeping in conscious immortality, 
sleeping to awake to a calm and joyful resurrection. 
Even the drapery, for Sculpture must here, above all, 
submit to conceal the form in drapery,- is at rest. Bat 
Monumental Sculpture did not confine itself to the sin- 
gle j*ecumbent figure. Tlie first great Christian Scalp* 
tor, Nicolo Pisano, in the former part of the 14th 
century, showed his earliest skill and excellence in the 
relie& round the tomb of St. Dominic at Bologna.^ It 

1 Among the noble9t tombs in Italy are that of Benedict XI. at Pemgia, 
by John, son of Nicolo Pisano; of Gregory X., by Margaritone, at Arezso; 
of John XXIII., at Florence, by Dunatello. Our own Cathedrals bars 
noble specimens of somewhat ruder work — the Edward III., Queen Phi- 
lippa, and Richard II. in Westminster Abbey. 

3 See on Nicolo Pisano, Cicognara Storia de Scnltura, ▼. Ill, with Am 
illnstrative Prints. In Count Cioognara's engravings the transition ftoB 


is remarkable that the first great Chiistian Sculptor was 
a distinguished architect. Nicolo Pisano had manifestly 
studied at Rome and elsewhere the remains of ancient 
art ; they guide and animate, but only guide and ani- 
mate his bold and vigorous chisel. Christian in form 
and sentiment, some of his figures have all the grace 
and ease of Grecian Art. Nicolo Pisano stood, indeed, 
alone almost as much in advance of his successors, as of 
those who had gone before.^ Nor did Nicolo Pisano 
confine himself to Monumental Sculpture. The spa- 
cious pulpits began to offer panels which might be 
well filled up with awful admonitory reliefs. In those 
of Pisa and Sienna the master, in others his disciples 
and scholars, displayed their vigor and power. There 
was one scene which permitted them to reveal the naked 
form — the Last Judgment. Men, women, rose miclad 
from their tombs. And it is singular to remark how 
Nicolo Pisano seized all that was truly noble and sculp- 
tural. The human form appears in infinite variety of 
bold yet natural attitude, without the grotesque distor- 
tions, without the wild extravagances, the writhing, the 
shrinking from the twisting serpents, the torturing 
fiends, the monsters preying upon the vitals. Nicolo 
wrought before Dante, and maintained the sobriety of 
his art. • Later Sculpture and Painting must aspire 
to represent all that Poetry had represented, and but 

the earliest masters to Nicolo Pisano, is to be transported to another age, tc 
overleap centuries. 

I Count Cicognara writes thus : all that I have seen, and all the Count's 
Qlastrations, confirm his judgment: — Tutto ci6 che lo aveva proceduto 
era multo al di sotto de lui, e per elevarsi ad un tratto fh forza d' un genio 
straordinario, p. 223. E le opere degli scolari di Niccolo ci sembreranno 
talvolta della mano de snoi predecessori, p. 234. Guilds of Sculpture now 
arose at Sienna and elsewhere. * 


imperfectly represented in words: it must illustrate 

But in the first half of the fifteenth centuiy, during 
the Popedom of Eugenius and Nicolas V., Sculpture 
broke loose firom its architectural servitude, and with 
DonatellO) and with Bnmelleschi (if Bmnelleschi had 
not turned aside and devoted himself exclusively to 
architectural art) even with Ghiberti, asserted its dig- 
nity and independence as a creative art.^ The Evange- 
list or the Saint began to stand alone trusting to his 
own majesty, not depending on his position as part of 
an harmonious architectural design. The St. Mark 
and the St. George o( Donatello are noble statues, fit 
to take their place in the public squares of Florence. 
In his fine David, after the death of Goliath, above all 
in his Judith and Holofemes, Donatello took a bolder 
flight. In that masterly work (writes Yasari) the 
simplicity of the dress and countenance of Judith 
manifests her lofty spirit and the aid of God ; as in 
Holofernes wine, sleep, and death are expressed in his 
limbs ; which, having lost their animating spirit, are 
cold and failing. Donatello succeeded so well in poi^ 
trait statuary, that to his favorite female statue he said 
-^ Speak I speak I His fame at Padua was unrivalled. 
Of him it was nobly said, either Donatello was a pro- 
phetic anticipation of Buonarotti, or Donatello lived 
again in Buonarotti. 

Ghiberti's great work was the gates of the Bap- 

l Donatello born 1S83, died 1466; Bninelleschi 1896; Ghiberti 1378, died 
1455. I ought perhaps to have added Jacobo della Quercia, who worked 
rather earlier at Bologna and Sienna. Read in Vasari the carious cootaai 
between Donatello and Brunelleiichi, in which Donatello owned that while 
himself made an unrivalled Contadioo, BraneUeachi made a Christ. See 
Yasari on the works of Donatello. r 


firtery at Florence, deserving, in Michael Angelo's 
phrase, to be called the Gates of Heaven ; and it was 
from their copiousness, felicity, and unrivalled sculp-, 
tural designs, that these gates demanded and obtained 
their fame. 




Painting, which, with architecture and music, at- 
GhTistiui tained its perfect and consummate excellence 
^^**^* under the influence of Latin Christianity, had 
jet to await the century which followed the pontificate 
of Nicolas V. before it culminated, through Francia 
and Perugino, in Michael Angelo, Leonardo, RaffiieQe, 
Correggio, and Titian. It received only its first in»- 
pulse from mediaeval Christianity; its perfection was 
simultaneous with the revival of classical letters and 
ancient art. Religion had in a great degree to contest 
the homage, even of its greatest masters, with a dan- 
gerous rival. Some few only of its noblest professors 
were at that time entirely faithful to Christian art. 
But all these, as well as the second Teutonic school, 
Albert Diu^r and his followers, are beyond oar 

Of the great Epochs of Painting, therefore, two 

^ It were unwise and presamptuoos (since oar sanrey here also most be 
brief and rapid) to enter into the artistic and antiquarian questions which 
have been agitated and discussed with so much knowledge and indnstrr bj- 
modem writers, especially (thouf^h I would not pass over Lanzi, still lev 
the new Annotated Edition of Vasari) by the Ban« Rumohr (ItaiienisclM 
Forschungen), my friend M. Rio (Art Chretien), by Kugler and hb all- 
accomplished Translators, and by Lord Lindsay (Christian Art). In wtj 
summary I shall endeavor to indicate the sooroes from irtiieh it can be 
amplified Justified, or filled up. 


only, prepw^&ry to the Perfect Age, belong to our 
present history: I. That which is called (I cannot 
but think too exclusively) the Byzantine period ; IL 
That initiatory Inranch of Italian art which I will yen«- 
ture to name, from the subjects it chose, the buildings 
which it chiefly adorned, and the profession of many 
of the best masters who practised it, the Cloistral 
epoch. The second period reached its height in Fra 
Angelico da Fiesole.^ 

It is impossible to doubt that Painting, along with 
the conservation of some of its technical processes, and 
with some traditionary forms, and the conventional rep- 
resentation of certain scenes in the Scriptural History 
or in Legends, preserved certain likenesses, as they 
were thought to be, of the Saviour and his Apostles 
and Martyrs, designated by fixed and determinate line- 
aments, as well as by their symbolical attributes. The 
paintings in the Catacombs at Rome show such forms 
and countenances in almost unbroken descent till near- 
ly two centuries after the conversion of Constantine.^ 
The history of Iconoclasm has recorded how such pic- 
tures were in the East religiously defended, religiously 

1 Bom 1387 — became a Dominican 1407. 

3 Mach has been done during the last few years in the Catacombs. The 
great French Publication, by M. Louis Ferret, is beautiful ; if it be as true 
as beautiful, by some inexplicable means, some of the paintings have be- 
come infinitely more distinct and brilliant, since I saw them some thirty 
years ago. It is unfortunate that the passion for early art, and polemic 
passion, are so busy in discovering what they are determined to find, that 
flober, historical, and artistic criticism is fairly bewildered. There are two 
important questions yet to be settled : when did the Catacombs cease to be 
places of burial? (what is the date of the later cemeteries of Rome?) 
when did the Catacomb Chapels cease to be places not of public worship, 
but of fervent private devotion ? To the end of that period, whenever it 
was, Uiey would continue to be embellished by art, and therefore the diffi- 
culty of affixing dates to works of art is increased. 

VOL. VIII. 80 



destroyed, religiously restored ; how the West, in de- 
fiance, as it were, and contempt of the impious perse- 
cutor, seemed to take a new impulse, and the Popes 
of the Iconoclastic age lavished large sums on deconiF* 
tions of their churches by paintings, if not by sculp- 
ture. No doubt, also, many monk-artists fled from the 
sacrilegious East to practise their holy art in the safe 
and quiet West. Even a century or more before this, 
it is manifest that Justinian's conquest of Italy, as it 
brought the Byzantine form of architecture, so it 
brought the Byzantine skill, the modes and usages 
of the subsidiary art. The Byzantine painting of 
that age lives in the mosaics (the more durable process 
of that, in all its other forms, too perishable art) on the 
walls of the Church of San Vitale, and in St. Apol- 
linaris, in Ravenna, and in other Italian cities under 
Greek influence. These mosaics maintain the indefea- 
sible character ^ of Greek Christianity. The vast, ma- 
jestic image of the Saviour broods indeed over the place 
of honor, above the high altar; but on the chancel- 
walls, within the Sanctuary, are on one side the Em- 
peror, Theodora on the other, not Saints or Martyrs, 
not Bishops or Popes. It cannot be argued, from the 
survival of these more lasting works, that mosaic pre- 
dominated over other modes of painting, either in Con- 
stantinople or in the Byzantinized parts of the West* 
But as it was more congenial to the times, being a 
work more technical and mechanical, so no doubt it 
tended to the hard, stiff, conventional forms which in 
general characterize Byzantine art, as well as to their 
perpetuity. The traditions of painting lived on. The 

^ On the MoHUcs of Leo lU., Anastaaiiu in vit. compare Sdmaaae, Bil> 
dende Kunst, iii. p. 605. 

Chap.X. christian PAINTING. 467 

descriptions of the paintings on the walls of the Ro- 
mans^ by the poets of the fourth or fifth centuries bear 
striking resemblance to those of the poets of Charle- 
ma<me and Louis the Pious, of the works which 
adorned Aix-la-Chapelle and the Palace of Ingelheim. 
How far, during all this period, it was old Roman art, 
or Roman art modified by Byzantine influences, may 
seem a question unimportant to general history, and 
probably incapable of a full solution. We must con- 
fine ourselves to that which is specially and exclusively 
Christian art. 

Of all Christian painting during this long period, 
from the extinction of Paganism to the rise of Italian 
art (its first dawn at the beginning of the twelfth cen- 
tury, brightening gradually to the time of Nicolas V.), 
the one characteristic is that its object was worship, 
not art. It was a mute preaching, which addressed 
not the refined and intelligent, but the vulgar of all 
ranks.^ Its utmost aim was to awaken religious emo- 

1 In the Castle Villa of Pontins Leontius on the Garonne, in the venea 
of Sidonias Apollonius, Carm. xxii., were painted on one part scenes from 
the Mithridatic war waged by Lucullus ; on the other the opening Chap- 
ters of the Old Testament. Recutitorum primordia Jndaeorum. Sidonias 
seems to have been surprised at the splendor and duration of the colors : 

Perpetaum pictura mlcat, nee tempore longo 
Depreoiata suas turpant pigmenta flguras. — 0. 202. 

Fortunatus mentions wood-carving as rivalling painting, 

Qnos pietura Bolet, llgna dedere jocoa. 

See Eimondus Nigellus, for the paintings at Ingelheim. 
' See the Greek Epigram on the painting of Michael the Archangel. 

ic voepi^ avayei fof^ariv hnvpm^iuv, 

Jacobs, p. 14. 
This whole series of Epigrams was inscribed, no doubt, either mider 
paintings, or under illuminations in MSS. 


tion, to suggest religious thought. It was therefore — 
more, no doubt, in the East than in the West — rigidly 
traditional, conventional, hierarchical. Each farm had 
its special type, from which it was dangerous, at length 
forbidden to depart Each scene, with its grou[>ing and 
arrangement, was consecrated by long reverence ; the 
artist worked in the trammels of usage ; he had faith- 
fully to transmit to others that which he had received, 
and no more. Invention was proscribed ; novelty 
might incur the suspicion almost of heresy — at all 
events it would be an unintelligible language. Sym- 
bolism without a key ; it would either jar on sacred 
associations, or perplex, or offend.^ 

From the earliest period there had been two tradi- 
tional conceptions of that which was the central figure 
of Christian, art, the Lord himself. One represented 
the Saviour as a beautiful youth, beardless — a purely 
ideal image, typical perhaps of the rejuvenescence of 
mankind in Christ.' Such was the prevailing, if not 
the exclusive conception of the Redeemer in the West. 
In the East, the Christ is of mature age, of tall stature, 
meeting eyebrows, beautiful eyes, fine-formed nose, 
curling hair, figure slightly bowed, of delicate com- 
plexion, dark beard (it is sometimes called wine-colored 

^ Kugler has Che qaotation from the Acts of the Council of Nice, which 
flhow that the Byzantine painters worked according to a law, diofioC' But 
M. Didron's work, Uanoal d*Iconographie Chr^tienne, at once proved the 
existence, and in fact published this law, according to which, in his vivid 
words — L*artiste Grec est asservi aux traditions comme Tanimal k son in- 
stinct, il fait une figure comme Thirondelle son niU ou Tabeille sa ruche, 
p. iv. The Greek Painter's Guide, which fills the greater part of U. Di- 
dron*B book, gives all the rules of technical procedure and design. 

* Didron, Hist, de Dieu, and a translation published by Bohn, p. 849. 
But compare the two heads Oom the Catacombs, engraved in the Transla- 
lifUl of Kugler. These, if hoik indetd represent the Redeemer^ and ors pf 
Ae period tuppotedy approximate more nearly to the Eastern type. 

chap.x. christian PAINTmO. 469 

beard), his face, like his mother's, of the color of wheat, 
long fingers, sonorous voice, and sweet eloquence (how 
was this painted ?),^ most gentle, qttiet, long-'safFering, 
patient, with all kindred graces, blending the manhood 
with the attributes of God. In the fabulous letter 
ascribed to Lentulus, descriptive of the person of the 
Redeemer, this conception is amplified into still higher 
beauty.' The truth seems to be that this youthful 
Western type was absolutely and confessedly ideal; 
it was symbolic of the calm, gentle, young, world- 
renewing religion. In one place the Christ seems 
standing on the mystic mountain from whence issue 
the four rivers of Paradise, the Gospels of everlast- 
ing life.^ The tradition of the actual likeness was 
Eastern (it was unknown to Augustine), and this tra- 
dition in all its forms, at the second Council of Nicea, 
and in the writings of John of Damascus, became 
historical fact. Though at that time there was not 
much respect for Scripture or probability, yet the 

1 Didron, p. 24S, from John of Damascus. M. Didron has fally investi- 
gated the subject, but with an utter and total want of historical criticism. 
He accepts this controversial tract of John of Damascus (he does not seem 
to r^d Greelc) as an authority for all the old Legends of Abgarus oi 
Edessa, and the likenesses of Christ painted or carved by order of ConstaiH 

3 Compare Hist of Christianity, iii. p. 507, for the translation of Len- 
tulus. I am astounded at finding in a book like Kugler's (the English 
translation especially having undergone such supervision) the assertion 
that this letter of Lentulus may " possibly be assigned to the third cen- 
tury/' p. 12. What evidence is there of its existence before the ninth or 
even the eleventh century? It is a strange argument, the only one that I 
can find, that the description resembles some of the earliest so-called Por- 
traits of the Saviour, even one in the Catacombs. It is dear that it was 
unknown to the early Fathers, especially to St. Augustine. If known, it 
must have been adduced at the Council of Nicea, and by John of Damas- 
cus. But even the fable had not been heard of at that time. I have n«t 
the least doubt that it was a fiction growing out of the eontroveiBy. 

< Didron, p. 251. • 


yonthfol, almost boyish type of the Western Charch, 
if it still snrviyed, was so directly at issue with the 
recorded age of Jesus, that even in the West the de- 
scription in John of Damascus, embellLshed into the 
bolder fiction of Lentulns, the ofispring, and not the 
parent of the controversy, found general acceptance in 
the West as in the East.^ 

But the triumph of Iconoclasm had been a monastic 
triumph — a triumph for which the monks had so^ 
fered, and admired each other's martyr sufferings. 
Gradually misery and pain became the noblest, dearest 
images ; the joyous and elevating, if still lowly, emo- 
tions of the older faith, gave place altogether to gloom, 
to dreary depression. Among one class of painters, 
MonkBof the monks of St. Basil, there was a reaction 
BimekSchodi. to absolute blackucss and ugliness. The 
Saviour became a dismal, macerated, self-tortured 
monk. Light vanished from his brow; gentleness 
from his features; calm, serene majesty from his at- 

Another change, about the tenth century, came 
Change in ovcr the image of the Lord. It was no 
oentory. lougcr the mild Redeemer, but the temble 
Judge, which painting strove to represent. As the 
prayers, the hymns, gradually declined from the calm, 
if not jubilant tone of the earliest Church, the song 
of deliverance from hopeless unawakening death, the 
triumph in the assurance of eternal life, — so the 

1 Hence too the Veronica, the vera etKWf, a »in{^ilar blending of Greek 
and Latin Action and language. William Grimm, however, in bis " Die 
Sage von Ursprung der Christun Bilder/* treats this as a fancy of Mabil- 
Ion and Papebroch. He derives it firom the traditional name, fiepovuaf^ of 
the woman whose issue of blood was stanched, who tradiiioitaOff alio 
the St Veronica. — Beriin. Transact., 1843. 

Chap. X. MONKISH ART. 471 

youthful symbol of the new religion, the form which 
the Godhead, by its indwelling, beautified and glorified, 
the still meek, if commanding look of the Redeemer, 
altogether disappeared, or ceased to be the most ordi- 
nary and dominant character : he became the King of 
tremendous majesty, before whom stood shuddering, 
guilty, and resuscitated mankind.^ The Cross, too, by 
degrees, became the Crucifix.'^ The image of tiw crucifix. 
the Lord on the Cross was at firet meek, though suffer- 
ing; pain was represented, but pain overcome by pa- 
tience ; it was still a clothed form, with long drapery. 
By degrees it was stripped to ghastly nakedness ; agony 
became the prevailing, absorbing tone. The intensity 
of the suffering strove at least to subdue the sublime 
resignation of the sufferer ; the object of the artist was 
to wring the spectator's heart with fear and anguish, 
rather than to chasten with quiet sorrow or elevate 
with faith and hope; to aggravate the sin of man, 
rather than display the mercy of God. Painting vied 
with the rude sculpture which arose in many quarters, 
(sculpture more often in wood than in stone,) and by 
the red streaming blood, and the more vivid expres- 
sion of pain in the convulsed limbs, deepened the ef- 
fect ; till, at last, that most hideous and repulsive ob- 
ject, the painted Crucifix, was offered to the groaning 
worship of mankind.^ 

1 See the observations of Schnaase above, p. 599, note. 

s Schnaase says that the first Byzantine representation of the Crucifix- 
ion is in a Codex of the time of Basil the Macedonian (867-S86), iii. p. 

< The cnrions and just observations of M. Didron should be home in 
mind in the History of Christian Painting. '* Nous dirons h cette occasion, 
qu'il n'y aurait rien de plus int^ressant qu'^ signaler dans I'ordre chrono- 
logique les sujets de la Bible, du Martyrologe, et de la Li^gende, qiiR les dif- 
f(£rentes ^poques ont surtout aifectionn^. Dans les catacoinbes il n*y a pas 


But this was only one usage, though the dominant 
one — one school of Byzantine art. Painting, both at 
Constantinople and in Italy, was more true to its own 
dignity, and to Christianity. It still strove to main- 
tain nobler conceptions of the God-Man, and to ea^ 
body the Divinity glorifying the flesh in which it 
dwelt. In this respect, no doubt, the more durable 
form of the art would be highly conservative; pre- 
vented deeper degeneration. If other painting might 
dare to abrogate the tradition or the law, Mosaic would 
be more unable, or more unwilling, to venture upon 
dangerous originality. It would be a perpetual protest 
against the encroachments of ugliness and deformity : 
its attribute, its excellence being brilliancy, strongly 
contrasted diversity and harmony of rich coloring, it 
would not consent to darken itself to a dismal monoto- 
ny. Yet Mosaic can hardly become high art ; it is too 
artificial, too mechanical. It may have, if wrought 
from good models, an imposing e£Fect ; but the finely- 
evanescent outline, the true magic of coloring, the 
depth, the light and shade, the hal^tints^ the blending 
and melting into each other of hues in their finest gra- 
dations, are beyond its powers. The interlaying of 
small pieces cannot altogether avoid a broken, stippled, 
spotty effect : it cannot be alive. As it is strong and 
hard, we can tread it under foot on a pavement, and it 
is still bright as ever : but in the church, the hall, or 

une Fc^ne de martyre, mais ane fonle de aujeta ralatift k la r^nmcUiM. 
Les Martyrs et lea jugementa demiera, avec lea repr^aentatioaa dea anpplmn 
de TeQfer, abondent pendant le moyen age. A partir de la miaiaaance a 
nos joan c'eat la douceur, et, diaona le mot, la aentimentalit^, qui domi- 
nent; alora on adopte la benediction des petita enfanta, et lea d^Totlaaa 
qui ont le coeur pour Tobjet II fant chercher la raison de tooa cea &ita.** — 
Didron, Manuel d*Iconographie, p. 1S2, note. The reason ia dear enoa|^ 

Crap. X. MOSAIC 478 

the chamber. It is an enamelled wall — but it is a wall ;^ 
splendid decoration, but aspiring to none of the loftier 
excellences of art. But throughoat this period fiiithfiil 
conservation was in truth the most valuable service. 
Mosaic fell in with the tendency to conventionalism^ 
and aided in strengthening conventionalism into irre- 
sistible law.^ 

Thus Byzantine art, and Roman art in the West, so 
&r as independent of Byzantine art, went on with its 
perpetual supply of images, relieved by a blazing golden 
ground, and with the most glowing colors, but in gen- 
eral stiff, rigid, shapeless, expressionless. Worship still 
more passionate multiplied its objects ; and those objects 
it was content to receive according to the established 
pattern. The more rich and gaudy, the more welcome 
the offering to the Saint or to the Deity, the more de- 
vout the veneration of the worshipper. This character 
— splendid coloring, the projection of the beautiful but 
too regular face, or the hard, but not entirely unpli- 
ant form, by the rich background — prevails in all the 
subordinate works of art in East and West — enamels, 
miniatures, illuminations in manuscripts. In these, not 
so much images for popular worship, as the slow work 
of artists dwelling with unbounded delight on their own 

1 Kogler (p. 20) is almost inclined to suspect that historic painting on 
waOs in Mosaic arose under Christian influences in the fourth century. It 
was before on pavements. 

* The account of the earlier Mosaics, and the description of those at 
Rome and at Ravenna, in Kugler's Handbook, is full and complete. Ko- 
gler, it is to be observed, ascribed those in San Vitale, and other works of 
Jostinian and his age in the West, to Roman, not Byzantine Art. This, 
periiaps, can hardly be determined. The later, at St. Apollinaris in Ra- 
venna, at St Prassede, and other Churches in Rome, are Byzantine in char- 
acter: on those of Venice Kugler is fhller. The Art was lost in Italy at tb« 
close of the ninth century, to revive again more free and Italian in the 
sleveath and twelfth. 


creadoDs, seem gradually to dawn glimpses of more re- 
fined beaaty, fiices, forms, more instinct with life : even 
the boundless luxuriance of ornament, flowers, foliage^ 
animals, &ntastic forms, would nurse the sense of beau- 
ty, and familiarize the hand with more flowing lines, 
and the mind with a stronger feeling for the graceful 
for the sake of its grace. It was altogether impossible 
that, during so many ages, Byzantine art, or the same 
kind of art in the West, where it was bound by less 
rigid tradition, and where the guild of painters did not 
pass down in such regular succession, should not stru^ 
gle for freedom.^ The religious emotions which the 
painter strove to excite in others would kindle in him- 
self, and yearn after something more than the cold 
immemorial language. By degrees the hard, flat lin- 
eaments of the countenance would begin to quicken 
themselves ; its long ungraceful outline would be 
rounded into fulness and less rigid expression ; the 
tall, straight^ meagre form would swell out into some- 

^ I mnst decline the controversy how far Westem Art was Bjzmntme. It 
may be possible for the fine sagacity of modem judgment to discriminate 
between the inflaences of Bvzantine and old Roman Art, as regards tlie 
forms and designs of Painting. Yet considering that the Byzantine Ar- 
tists of Justinian, and the Exarchs of Ravenna, to a far greater extent 
those who, flying from the Iconoclastic persecution, bronght with them the 
secrets and rules of their art, were received and domiciliated in the Western 
Monasteries, and that in those Monasteries were chiefly preserved the tra- 
ditions of the older Italian Art; that nt no time was the commercial or po- 
litical connection of Constantinople and the West quite broken off, and 
under the Othos the two Courts were cemented by marriage ; that all the 
examples of the period are to be sought in the rigid Mosaic, in miniaturea, 
ivories, illuminations — there must have been so much intermingling of 
the two streams, that such discrimination must at least be conjectural. — 
Compare Rio, on what he calls Romano-Christian, independent of Bysaa- 
tine Art, pp. 32 et •eq. Rumohr, Italienische Forschungen, and Kngler. 
Lord Lindsay is a strong Byzantine ; and see in KugW, p. 77 ; but Kngler 
will hardly allow Byzantine Art credit for the original conception or exe- 
cution of the better designs. • 

Chap.X. • DAWN OF ART. 476 

thing like moyement, the stiff, fettered extremities 
separate into the attitude of life ; the drapery would 
become less like the folds which swathe a mummy; the 
mummy would begin to stir with life. It was impossi- 
ble but that the Saviour should relax his harsh, stem 
lineaments ; that the child should not become more 
childlike ; the Virgin-Mother waken into maternal 
tenderness.^ This effort after emancipation would first 
take place in those smaller works, the miniatures, the 
illuminations of manuscripts.' On these the artist 
could not but work, as has been said, more at his ease ; 
on the whole, in them he would address less numerous 
perhaps, but more intelligent spectators ; he would be 
less in dread of disturbing popular superstition : and so 
Taste, the parent and the child of art, would strug- 
gle into being. Thus imperceptibly, thus in various 

^ Durandus, in his Rationale, i. c. 3, would confine the representation of the 
Saviour in Churches to three attitudes, either on his throne of glory, on 
the cross of shame, or in the lap of his Mother. He adds another, as 
teacher of the world, with the Book in his hand. — See Schnaase, iv. 387, 
for the various postures (ii. p. 136) of the Child in his Mother's arms. 
Schnaase, Geschichte der Bildende Kunst, says that nbout the middle of 
the fifth century the paintings of the Virgin Mary hecame more common 
(one has heen discovered, which is asserted to be of an earlier period, but 
we have only the authority of enthusiastic admiration and polemic zeal for 
its age) in the Catacombs. The great Mosaic in St. ApoUinare Nuovo is of 
the first quarter of the sixth century. Her image, as has been said, floated 
over the fleet of the Emperor Heraclius I. 

* The exquisite grace of the ivory carvings from Constantinople, which 
■how so high and pure a conception for art, as contras^ted with the harsh 
glaring paintings, is perfectly compatible with these views. The ivories 
were the works of more refined artists for a more refined class. The 
paintings were the idols of the vulgar — a hard, cruel, sensual vulgar; 
the ivories, as it were talismans, of the hardly less superstitious, but more 
opulent, and polished; of those who kept up, some the love of letters, some 
more cultivated tastes Even the illuminations were the quiet works of 
the gentler and better and more civili7.ed Monks : their love and their study 
of the Holy Books was the testimony and the means of their superior re- 


quarterB, these better qualities cease to be the secret 
indulgences, the life-long lalx»s of th^ emblazoner of 
manuscripts, tbe illuminator of missals. In the higher 
branches of the art, the names of artists graduaHy 
begin to transpire, to obtain respect and fiune; the 
fture sign that art is beginning, that mere technical 
traditionary working at images for popular worship is 
drawing to its close. Already the names of Guido 
of Sienna, Giunto of Pisa, and of Cimabue, resound 
through Christendom. Poetiy hails the birth and the 
youth of her sister art. 

Such, according to the best authorities, appears to 
have been the state of painting from the iconoclastic 
controversy throughout the darker ages. Faintly and 
hesitatingly at the commencement of the twelfth cen- 
tury,^ more boldly and vigorously towards its close, and 
during the thirteenth and half the fourteenth, Italian 
painting rose by degrees, threw off with Giotto the last 
trammels of Byzantinism which had still clung around 
Cimabue ; and at least strove after that exquisite har- 
mony of nature and of art, which had still great 
progress to make before it reached its consummation. 
Turn from the vast, no doubt majestic Redeemer of 
Cimabue, which broods, with its attendant figures of 
the Virgin and St. John, over the high altar at Pisa, 
Giotto. to the ft*ee creations of Giotto at Florence 
dtedisse.' or Padua. Giotto was the great deliverer. 

1 ** Mir selbst aber ist es wahrend vieljahrig«r Nachfonchung durehaos 
nicht gelungen, irgend ein Beispiel dea Wiederaufstrebens and Fortschrei- 
tent der ItalieniKhen Kanstiibung auszufinden, desaen Alter dea Anbeginn 
det zwolflen Jahrhunderts iiberateige.'* — Bumohr, Italienisdie Forschim- 
gen, i. p. 250. 

For the works of the twelfth century, Kngler, pp. 9 ef iej. KeTertib»- 
len full eighty yean* elapsed before this development made any fiutiier 
progrefiSf p. 98. Sculpture in relief was earlier than Painting. 

Cbap.X. GIOTTO. 477 

Invention is no sooner free than it expatiates in un- 
bounded variety. Nothing more moves our wonder 
than the indefatigable activity, the unexhausted fer- 
tility of Giotto : he is adorning Italy from the Alps 
to the Bay of Naples; even crossing the Alps to 
Avignon. His works either exist or liave existed at 
Avignon, Milan, Verona, Padua, Ferrara, Urbino, Ra- 
venna, Rimini, Lucca, Florence, Assisi, Rome, Gaeta, 
Naples.^ Bishops, religious orders, republics, prin(*es 
and potentates, kings, popes, demand his services, and 
do him honor. He raises at once the most beautiful 
tower in architecture — that of Florence — and paints 
the Chapel of the Arena at Padua, and the Church at 
Assisi. Giotto was no monk, but, in its better sense, 
a man of the world. Profoundly religious in expres- 
sion, in character, in aim ; yet religious not merely as 
embodying all the imagery of the mediaeval faith, but 
as prophetic, at least, if not presentient of a wider 
Catholicism.^ Besides the Scriptural subjects, in which 
he did not entirely depart from the Byzantine or earlier 
arrangement, and all the more famous Legends, he 
opened a new world of real and of allegorical beings. 
The poetry of St. Francis had impersonated every- 
thing ; not merely, therefore, did the life of St. Francis 
offer new and picturesque subjects, but the impersona- 

1 Rio nays, perhaps too strongly, that all his works at Avignon, Milan, 
Verona, Ferrara, Modena, Ravenna, Lucca, Gaeta, have perished, p. 65. 

3 There is g^at truth and beauty in the character of Giotto as drawn by 
Lord Lindsay (ii. p. 26S). The three first paragraphs appear to me moet 
striking and just. Lord Lindsay divides his life into four periods. I. His 
youth in Florence and Rome. II. About A. D. 1306 in Lombardy, the 
Arena Chapel at Padua. III. Assisi. IV. Longer residence in Florence, 
North of Italy, Avignon, Naples, p. 165. See also Mr. Ruskin^s Memoir. 
For Giotto^fl remarkable Poem against voluntary poverty, see Rumohr, 
i. c. 9. 


tions, Chastity, Obedience, Poverty, as in the hymns of 
St. Francis they had taken being, assumed form from 
Giotto. Reh'gious led to civil allegory. Giotto painted 
the commonwealth of Florence. Allegory in itself is 
far too unobjective for art : it needs perpetual inter- 
pretation, which art cannot give ; but it was a sign of 
the new world opening, or rather boldly thrown open, 
to painting by Giotto. The whole Scripture, the whole 
of Legend (not the old permitted forms and scenes 
alone), the life of the Virgin, of the Saints, of the 
founders of Orders, even the invisible worlds which 
Dante had revealed in poetry, now expanded in art, 
Dante, perhaps, must await Orcagna, not indeed act- 
ually to embody, but to illustrate his transmundane 
worlds. Italy herself hailed, with all her more power- 
ful voices — her poets, novelists, historians — the new 
epoch of art in Giotto. Dante declares that he has 
dethroned Cimabue. " The vulgar," writes Petrarch, 
'^ cannot understand the surpassing beauty of Giotto^s 
Virgin, before which the masters stand in astonish- 
ment." ^^ Giotto," says Boccaccio, ^' imitates nature 
to perfect illusion ; " Villani describes him as tran- 
scending all former artists in the truth of nature.^ 

During the latter half of the tliirteenth, and throu^H 
out the fourteenth century, the whole of Italy, the 
churches, the monasteries, the cloisters, many of the 
civil buildings, were covered with paintings aspiring af- 
ter, and approximating to the highest art. Sienna, then 
in the height of her glory and prosperity, took the lead ; 

1 CredeCte Cimabue nella pittam 
Tener lo campo, ed or' ha Qiotto 11 grido. 

Mitto tabttlam meam beats Virginia, operis Joeti pictoris egregii in cnjas 
palcritudmem ignorantes nee intelligunt, magiAtri autem artis stapoit. 
Quoted by Vasari. Decameron, Giorn. vi. Nov. 5. Villani, 11, 12. 

Chap.X. mendicant ORDERS. '479 

Pisa beheld her Campo Santo peopled with the won- 
derful creations 6{ Orcagna. Painting aspired to her 
Inferno, Purgatorio, Paradiso : Painting will strive to 
have her Dante. 

This outburst was simultaneous with, it might seem 
to originate in, the wide dissemination, the ubiquitous 
activity, and the strong religious passion felt. Mendicant 
propagated, kept alive in its utmost intensity ^'^«"- 
by the Mendicant Orders. Strange it might appear 
that the Arts, the highest luxuries, if we may so speak, 
of religion, should be fostered, cultivated, cherished, 
distributed throughout Italy, and even beyond the 
Alps, by those who professed to reduce Christianity to 
more than its primitive simplicity, its nakedness of all 
adornment, its poverty ; whose mission it was to con- 
sort with the most rude and vulgar; beggars who 
aspired to rank below the coarsest mendicancy ; accord- 
ing to whose rule there could be no property, hardly a 
fixed residence. Strange I that these should become 
the most munificent patrons of art, the most consum- 
mate artists ; that their cloistered palaces should be the 
most sumptuous in architecture, and the most richly 
decorated by sculpture and painting ; at once the work- 
shops and the abodes of those who executed most ad- 
mirably, and might seem to adore with the most intense 
devotion, these splendors and extravagances of religious 
wealth. Assisi — the birthplace of St. Francis, the 
poor, self-denying wanderer over the face of the earth, 
who hardly owned the cord which girt him, who pos- 
sessed not a breviary of his own, who worshipped in the 
barren mountain, at best in the rock-hewn cell, whose 
companions were the lepers, the outcasts of human so- 
ciety — Assisi becomes the capital, the young, gorgeous 

480 LATIN CUBISTIANrnr. book juv. 

capital of Christian Art. Perhaps in no single city of 
that period was such lavish expenditure made in all 
which was pnrely decorative. The church, finished by 
a German architect but five years after the death of St. 
Francis, put to shame in its architecture, as somewhat 
later in the paintings of Cimabue, Simon Memmi, 
Giunto, Giotto, probably the noblest edifices in Rome, 
those in the Lombard Republics, in Pisa, Sienna, Flor- 
ence, and as yet those of the capitals and cathedral 
cities of Transalpine Christendom. The Dominicans 
were not far behind in their steady cultivation, and 
their profuse encouragement of art^ 

Yet this fact is easy of explanation, if it has not 
already found its explanation in our history. There is 
always a vast mass of dormant religiousness in the 
world ; it wants only to be seized, stimulated, directed^ 
appropriated. These Orders swept into their ranks and 
within their walls all who yearned for more intense re- 
ligion. Devout men threw themselves into the move* 
ment, which promised most boldly and succeeded most 
fully in satisfying the cravings of the heart There 
would be many whose vocation was not that of the ac- 
tive preacher, or the restless missionary, or the argute 
schoolman. There were the calm, the gentle, the con- 
templative. Men who had the irresistible calling to be 
artists became Franciscans or Dominicans, not because 
mendicancy was favorable to art, but because it awoke, 
and cherished, and strengthened those emotions which 
were to express themselves in art. Religion drove 
them into the cloister; the cloister and the church 
offered them its walls ; they drew from all quarters the 

1 Simon Memmi of Sienna painted the legend of St. Dominic in the Chap- 
el of the Spaniards in Santa Maria Novella at Florence. — Yasari and Rio^ 
p. 56. 


traditions, the technicalities of art. Being rich enough 
(the communities, not the individuals) to reward the 
best teachers or the more celebrated artists, they soon 
became masters of the skill, the manipulation, the rules 
of design, the practice of coloring. How could the 
wealth, so lavishly poured at their feet, be better em- 
ployed than in the reward of the stranger-artist, who 
not only adorned their walls with the most perfect 
models, but whose study in the church or in the clois- 
ter was a school of instruction to the Monks them- 
selves who aspired to be their pupils or their rivals? 

The Monkish painters were masters of that inval- 
uable treasure, time, to work their study up to perfec- 
tion ; there was nothing that urged to careless haste. 
Without labor they had their scanty but sufficient 
sustenance; they had no further wants. Art alter- 
nated with salutary rest, or with the stimulant of art, 
the religious service. Neither of these permitted the 
other to languish into dull apathy, or to rest in inex- 
pressive forms or hues. No cares, no anxieties, proba- 
bly not even the jealousies of art, intruded on these 
secluded Monks ; theirs was the more blameless rivalry 
of piety, not of success. With some, perhaps, there 
was a latent unconscious pride, not so much in them- 
selves as in the fame and influence which accrued to 
the Order, or to the convent, which their works 
crowded more and more with wondering worship- 
pers. But in most it was to disburden, as it were, 
their own hearts, to express in form and color their 
own irrepressible feelings. They would have worked 
as passionately and laboriously if the picture had been 
enshrined, unvisited, in their narrow cell. They wor- 
shipped their own works, not because they were their 

voT^ vni. 31 


own, but because they spoke the language of their 
souls. They worshipped while they worked, worked 
that they might worship ; and works so conceived and 
BO executed (directly the fetters of conventionalisia 
were burst and cast aside, and the technical skill ac- 
quired) could not fail to inspire the adoration of all 
kindred and congenial minds. Their pictures, in 
truth, were their religious offerings, made in single- 
minded zeal, with untiring toil, with patience never 
wearied or satisfied. If these offerings had their meed 
of fame, if they raised the glory or enlarged the influ- 
ence and so the wealth of the Order, the simple artists 
were probably the last who would detect within them- 
selves that less generous and less disinterested motive. 
If the Dominicans were not inferior to the Francis- 
cans in the generous encouragement of the ai*t of paint* 
ing, in its cultivation among their own brethren they 
attained higher fame. If Assisi took the lead, and 
almost all the best masters kindled its walls to life, 
the Dominican convent in Florence might boast the 
FriAngeUco. works of their own brother Fra Angelico. 
To judge from extant paintings, Angelico was the 
unsurpassed, if not unrivalled, model of what I pre- 
sume to call the cloistral school of painting. The per- 
fect example of his inspiration as of his art was Fra 
Giovanni Angelico da Fiesole. Fra Angelico became 
a monk that he might worship without disturbance, 
and paint without reward. He left all human pas- 
sions behind him ; his one passion was serene devo» 
tion, not without tenderness, but the tenderness of a 
saint rather than of a man. Before he began to paint, 
he knelt in prayer ; as he painted the sufferings of the 
Redeemer, he would break off in tears. No doubt. 

Crap.X. FEk AN6ELIC0. 488 

when he attained that expression of calm, unearthly 
holiness which distinguishes his Angels or Saints, he 
stood partaking in their mystic ecstasy. He had 
nothing of the moroseness, the self-torture of the 
monk ; he does not seem, like later monastic paint- 
ers in Italy and Spain, to have delighted in the agony 
of the martyrdom ; it is the glorified, not the suffering, 
Saint which is his ideal. Of the world, it was human 
nature alone from which he had wrenched away his 
sympathies. He delights in brilliant colors ; the bright- 
est green or the gayest hues in his trees and flowers ; 
the richest reds and blues in his draperies, with a 
profusion of gold. Frk Angelico is the Mystic of 
painting, the contemplative Mystic, living in another 
world, having transmuted all that he remembers of 
this world into a purer, holier being. But that which 
was his excellence was likewise his defect. It was 
spiritualism, exquisite and exalting spiritualism, but 
it w^as too spiritual. Painting, which represents hu- 
manity, even in its highest, holiest form, must still be 
human. With the passions, the sympathies and affec- 
tions of Giovanni's mind had almost died away. His 
child is not a child, he is a cherub. The Virgin and 
the Mother are not blended in perfect harmony and 
proportion ; the colder Virgin prevails ; adoration has 
extinguished motherly love. Above all, the Redeem- 
er fails in all Angelico's pictures. Instead of the 
orthodox perfect God and perfect Man, by a singular 
heresy the humanity is so efiaced that, as the pure 
Divinity is unimaginable, and, unincarnate, cannot 
be represented, both the form and the countenance 
are stiffened to a cold, unmeaning abstraction. It ia 
neitlier the human nature, with the infused majesty 


and mercy of the Godhead; nor the Godhead sulv 
dued into the gentleness and patience of humanity. 
The God-man is neither (Jod nor Man. Even in 
the celestial or beatified beings, angels or sainta, ex* 
qaisite, unrivalled as is their grace and beauty, the 
grace is not that of beings accustomed to the free uae 
of their limbs; the beauty is not that of our atmos- 
phere. Not merely do they want the breath of life, 
the motion of life, the warmth of life, they want the 
trflth of life, and without truth there is no consummate 
art. They have never really lived, never assumed 
the functions nor dwelt within the precincts of life. 
Painting having acquired in the cloister all this tm^ 
worldliness, this profound devotion, this refined spii^ 
ituality, must emerge again into the world to blend 
and balance both, first in Francia and Pemgino, np 
to the perfect Leonardo and Raffiielle. Even the 
cloister in Fra Bartolomeo must take a wider flight ; 
it must paint man, it must humaniie itself that it may 
represent man and demand the genuine admiration 
of man. It is without the walls of the cloister dist 
painting finds its unrivalled votaries, achieves its moat 
Imperishable triumphs. 

Transalpine Painting is no less the fiiithiul con- 
Tnnnipine. sorvator of the ancient traditions. In the 
riemtoh art. German missals and books of devotion theie 
is, throughout the earlier period, the fiiithiul mainte- 
nance of the older forms, rich grounds, splendid colors. 
The walls of the older churches reveal paintings in 
which there is at least aspiration after higher things, 
some variety of design, some incipient grace and noble- 
Qess of form. The great hierarchical cities on the 
Rhine seem to take the lead. William of Cologne 


and Master Stephen seem as if they would raise up 
rivals in Teutonic to Italian art Above all, at the 
close of this period^ about contemporary with An-* 
gelico da Fiesole, the Flemish Van Eycks, if not 
by the invention, by the perfection of oil-painting, 
gave an impulse of which it is difficult to calculate 
the importance. Those painters of the rich conmier* 
cial cities of the Low Countries might seem as deeply 
devout in their conceptions as the cloistral school of 
Italy, yet more human as living among men, nobler 
in their grouping, nobler in their dresses and dra^ 
peries ; and already in their backgrounds anticipating 
that truth and reality of landscape which was hereafter 
to distinguish their country. In this the later Flem* 
ish painters rise as much above the Van Eycks as 
Leonardo and Rafiaelle above their predecessors. But 
at first Teutonic might seem as if it would vie for -the 
palm of Christian painting.^ 

The works of Nicolas V . in letters and in arts 
have ended our survey of these two great depart* 
ments of Christian influence, and summed up the 
account of Latin Christendom. The papacy of Nico- 
las Y. closed the age of mediaeval letters ; it termi- 
nated, at least in Italy, if Brunelleschi had not already 
closed it, the reign of medisBval architecture.^ In 

1 Hubert Van Eyck, bom about 1366, died 1428. John Van Eyck, bom 
about 1400, died 1445. — See for Geman Painting the Translation of Kug- 
ler, by Sir Edmund Head. On the Van Eycks, Waagen's Dissertation. 

3 Two sentences of Vasari show the revolution arrived at and taught by 
that great Architect, who boasted to have raised the majestic cupola of 
Florence. ^^ Solo V intento suo era 1* architettura che gia era spenta, dioo 
gli ordini antichi hvioniy e non la Ttdtica e barbara la quale molto si usava 
nel suo tem|>o. * * * Eaveva in se due concetti grandissimi; 1* uno erail 
toraare al luce labuona architettura, credendo egli ritrovandola non lasciare 
manoo memoria di se, che fatto si aveva Cimabne e Giotto ; 1' altro di trovar 
modo, se e si potesse, a voltare la cupola di S. Maria del Fiore di Fireaze," 
p. 207, edit Milan. Compare p. 265. 


painting, by his munificent patronage of that which 
was then the highest art, but which was only the 
harbinger of nobler things to come, the pontificate of 
Nicolas marked the transition period firom the ancient 
to the modem world. 

But Nicolas Y. was only a restorer, and a restorer 
not in the hierarchical character, of the medieval 
architecture. That architecture had achieved its 
great works, Strasburg, all that was to rise, till the 
present day, of Cologne, Antwerp, Rheims, Bruges, 
Amiens, Chartres, St. Ouen at Rouen, Notre Dame 
at Paris, our own Westminster, York, Salisbury, 
Lincoln. This great art survived in its creative 
power, only as it were, at the extremities of Latin 
Christendom. It had even passed its gorgeous epoch, 
called in France the Flamboyant ; it was degenerat- 
ing* into luxury and wantonness; it had begun to 
adorn for the sake of adornment. But Rome was 
still faithful to Rome; her architecture would not 
condescend to Teutonic influence. That which is 
by some called Christian architecture, as has been 
said, was to the end almost a stranger, in the city 
still acknowledged as the capital of Christendom.^ 
Rome at least, if not Italy, was still holding aloof 
firom that which was the strength of Rome and of 
Latin Christendom — Medisevalism ; Nicolas V., as 
it were, accomplished the divorce. In him Rome 
repudiated the whole of what are called the Dark 
Ages. Rome began the revival which was to be in 
the end the ruin of her supremacy. 

Nicolas v., as Pope, as sovereign of Rome, as 

^ It was in Rome that BraneUeschi " ritrovb le cornici antiche, e V ordina 
Toflcano, Corinthio, Dorico, e lonioo alle primarie fonne reatitui.** — 

Cbap.X. NICOLAS V. 487 

patron of letters and arts, stood, consciously per^ 
haps, but with a dim perception of the change, at 
the head of a new era. It was an epoch in Chris- 
tian civilization. To him the Pope might seem as 
destined for long ages to rule the subject and trib- 
utary world; the great monarchies, the Empire, 
France, Spain, England, were yet to rise, each obe- 
dient or hostile to the Pope as might suit their policy. 
He could not foresee that the Pope, from the high 
autocrat over all, would become only one of the powers 
of Christendom. To be a sovereign Italian prince 
might appear necessary to his dignity, his security. 
It was but in accordance with the course of things 
in Italy. Everywhere, except in stern oligarcliical 
Venice, in Milan, in Verona, in Ferrara, in Florence, 
princes had risen, or were arising, on the ruins of the 
Republics, Viscontis, Sforzas, Estes, della Seal as, 
Medicis. Thomas of Sarzana (he took this name, 
he had no other, from his native town) so obscure 
that his &mily was unknown, had no ancestry to 
glorify, no descendants whom he might be tempted 
to enrich or to ennoble. He had no prophetic fears 
that, -as sovereign princes, his successors would yield 
to the inevitable temptation of founding princely 
families at the expense of the interests, of the estates 
and dominions of the Church. Not only was the 
successor of St. Peter to be merged in the more 
ambitious politics of the world, but trammelled in 
the more mean and intricate politics of Italy. Almost 
from this time the names of the successive Popes may 
be traced in the annals of the cities and petty prin- 
cipalities of Italy, in the rolls of the estates of the 
Church, of which they have become lords, in their 


magnificent palaces in Rome. Among those palaces 
there is but one, the Colonna, which boasts an ancient 
name ; but few which bear not the name of a papal 
house. Too often among the Popes of the next cen- 
tury the character (and dark indeed was that charac- 
ter) of tlie Italian sovereign prince prevailed over that 
of the Pope. If his house was not perpetuated, it was 
solely from the indignant hostility and execration of 

As to Nicolas V. Italy, or rather Latin Christian- 
ity, mainly owes her age of learning, as well as its 
fatal consequences to Rome and to Latin Christianity, 
so those consequences, in his honest ardor, he would 
be the last to prognosticate or to foresee. It was the 
splendid vision of Nicolas V. that Christianity was to 
array herself in the spoils of the ancient world, and so 
maintain with more universal veneration her suprem- 
BsTinaof ^^y ^^^^ *^® human mind. This, however, 
Lstton. ^jjg revival of learning, was but one of the 
four great principles in slow, silent, irresistible opera- 
tion in Western Christendom, mutually cooperative, 
blending with and strengthening each other, ominous 
of and preparing the great revolution of the next cen- 
tury. But to all these, signs at once and harbingers 
of the coming change, Nicolas could not but be blind ; 
for of these signs some were those which a Pope, himself 
so pious and so prosperous, might refuse to see; or, if not 
dazzled by his prosperity, too entirely absorbed in dan- 
gei*s of far other kind, the fall of Constantinople, the 
advance of the Turks on Western Christendom, might 
be unable to see. This one danger, as it (so he might 

1 Pius II. Alienated Badicoftni, not to his family, bat to his natire d^, 

Gbap.x. reyiyal of lettebs. 489 

hope) would work refonnation ift the startled Church, 
would bring the alienated world into close and obedient 
confederacj with her head. The Pope, like Urban of 
old, would take his place at the head of the defensive 

I. — Of these principles, of these particular signs, 
the first was the progre%9 of the human inteUeet^ inevita- 
ble in the order of things, and resulting in a twofold 
oppugnancy to the established dominion of the Church. 
The first ofispring of the expanding intellect was the 
long-felt, still growing impatience, intolerance of the 
oppressions and the abuses of the Papacy, of the Papal 
Court, and of the Papal religion. This impatience did 
not of necessity involve the rejection of the doctrines 
of Latin Christianity. But it would no longer endure 
the enormous powers still asserted by the Popes over 
temporal sovereigns, the immunities claimed by the 
clergy as to their persons and from the common bur- 
dens of the State, the exorbitant taxation, the venality 
of Rome, above all, the Indulgences, with which the 
Papal power in its decline seemed determined wan- 
tonly to insult the moral and religious sense of man- 
kind. Long before Luther this abuse had rankled in 
the heart of Christendom. It was in vain for the 
Church to assert that, rightly understood. Indulgences 
only released from temporal penances ; that they were 
a commutation, a merciful, lawful commutation for 
such penances. The language of the promulgators 
and vendors of the Indulgences, even of the Indul- 
gences themselves, was, to the vulgar ear, the broad, 
plain, direct guarantee from the pains of purgatory, 
from hell itself, for tens, hundreds, thousands of years ; 
a sweeping pardon for all sins committed, a sweeping 


license for sins to be committed : and if this fidse con- 
struction, it might be, was perilous to the irreligioiis, 
this even seeming flagrant dissociation of morality from 
religion was no less revolting to the religious.^ Nor 
was there as yet any general improvement in the lives 
of the Clergy or of the Monks, which by its awiid 
sanctity might rebuke the vulgar and natural interpre- 
tation of these Indulgences.^ The antagonism of the 
more enlightened intellect to the doctrines of the medi- 
seval Church was slower, more timid, more reluctant. 
It was as yet but doubt, suspicion, indifference ; the 
irreligious were content to be quietly irreligious ; the 
religious had not as yet found in the plain Biblical doc-> 
trines that on which they could calmly and contentedly 
rest their fitith. Religion had not risen to a purer spir- 
ituality to compensate for the loss of the materialistic 
worship of the dominant Church. The conscience 
shrank from the responsibility of taking cognizance of 
itself; the soul dared not work out its own salvation. 
The clergy slept on the brink of the precipice. So 
long as they were not openly opposed they thought all 
was safe. So long as unbelief in the whole of their 
system lurked quietly in men's hearts, they cared not 
to inquire what was brooding in those inner depths. 
II. — The second omen at once and sign of change 
ReTinaof ^^ ^^ cultivation of classical learning. Let- 
Lettera. ^^ almost at once ceased to be cloistral, hie- 

1 Chaucer's Pardoner is a striking illustratioQ of the popular notion and 
popular feeling in England 

> The irrefragable testimony to the universal misinterpretation, the natu- 
ral, inevitable misinterpretation of the language of the Indulgences, the 
misinterpretation riveted on the minds of men by their profligate vendors, 
is the solemn, reiterated repudiation of those notions by Conncik and by 
PopeA. The definitions of the Council of Trent and of Pius V. had not 
been wanted, if the Church doctrine had been the belief of mankind* 


rarchical, before long almost to be Christiaii. In 
Italy, indeed, the Pope had set himself at the head of 
this vast movement ; yet Florence vied with Rome. 
Cosmo de' Medici was the rival of Nicolas V. Bat, 
notwithstanding the Pope's position, the clergy rapidly 
ceased to be the sole and almost exclusive depositaries 
of lettera. The scholars might condescend to hold 
canonries or abbeys as means of maintenance, as hon- 
ors, or rewards (thns, long before, had Petrarch been 
endowed), but it was with the tacit understanding, or 
at least the almost unlimited enjoyment, of pei*fect free- 
dom from ecclesiastical control, so long as they did not 
avowedly enter on theological grounds, which they 
avoided rather from indifference and from growing 
contempt, than from resj^ect. On every side were ex- 
panding new avenues of inquiry, new trains of thought : 
new models of composition were offering themselves ; 
all tended silently to impair the reverence for the rul- 
ing authorities. Men could not labor to write like 
Cicero and Caesar without imbibing something of their 
spirit. The old ecclesiastical Latin began to be repu- 
diated as rude and barbarous. Scholasticism had 
crushed itself with its own weight. When monks or 
friars were the only men of letters, and monastic 
schools the only field in which intellect encountered in- 
tellect, the huge tomes of Aquinas, and the more sum- 
mary axioms of Peter Lombard, might absorb almost 
the whole active mind of Christendom. But Plato 
now drove out the Theologic Platonism, Aristotle the 
Aristotelism of the schools. The Platonism, indeed, 
of Marsilius Ficinus, taking its interpretation rather 
from Proclus and Plotinus and the Alexandrians, 
would hardly have offended Julian himself by any ob- 


tnisive display of Christianitj. On his death-bed Cos- 
mo de' Medici is attended hy Ficinus, who aa8ui«8 
him of another life on the anthoritj of Socrates, and 
teaches him resignation in the words of Plato, Xeno- 
crates, and other Athenian sages. The cultivation of 
Greek was still more fatal to Latin domination. Even 
the familiar study of the Greek Fathers (as &r as an 
imposing ritual and the monastic spirit consistent with 
those of the Latin Church) was altogether alien to the 
scholasticism dominant in Latin Theology. They 
knew nothing of the Latin supremacy, nothing of the 
rigid form, which many of its doctrines, as of Tran- 
substantiation, had assumed. Greek revealed a whole 
religious world, extraneous to and in many respects 
oppugnant to Latin Christianity. But the most fatal 
result was the revelation of the Greek Testament, 
necessarily followed by that of the Hebrew Scriptures, 
and the dawn of a wider Biblical Criticism. The 
proposal of a new translation of the Scriptures at once 
disenthroned the Vulgate from its absolute exclusive 
authority. It could not but admit the Greek, and then 
the Hebrew, as its rival, as its superior in antiquity. 
Biblical Criticism once begun, the old voluminous au- 
thoritative interpreters, De L3rra, Turrecremata, Cor- 
nelius a Lapide, were thrown into obscurity. Erasmus 
was sure to come ; with Erasmus a more simple, clear, 
popular interpretation of the divine word.^ The my^ 
tic and allegoric comment on the Scriptures, on which 
rested wholly some of the boldest assertions of I^tin 
Christianity, fell away at once before his closer, more 

^ The Panphrwe and Notes of Erasmus, in my judgment, was the moat 
important Book even of his day. We must remember that it was almost 
lei^ly adopted by the Church of England. 

Chap.x. modern languages. 493 

literal, more grammatical study of the Text. At all 
events, the Vulgate receded, and with the Vulgate 
Latin Christianity began to withdraw into a separate 
sphere ; it ceased to be the sole, universal religion of 
Western Christendom. 

III. — The growth of the modem languages not 
merely into vernacular means of communica- Modem 
tion, but into the vehicles of letters, of poetry, '^'^"•e*- 
of oratory, of history, of preaching, at length of national 
documents, still later of law and of science, threw back 
Latin more and more into a learned dialect. It was 
relegated into the study of the scholar, into books in- 
tended for the intercommunication only of the learned, 
and for a certain time for the negotiations and treaties 
of remote kingdoms, who were forced to meet on some 
common ground. It is curious that in Italy the revival 
of classical learning for a time crushed the native liter- 
ature, or at least retarded its progress. From Dante, 
Petrarch, Boccaccio, to Ariosto and Machiavelli, ex- 
cepting some historians, Malespina, Dino Compagni, 
Vniani, there is almost total silence : silence, at least, 
unbroken by any powerful voice. Nor did the liberal 
patronage of Nicolas V. call forth one work of lasting 
celebrity in the native tongue. The connection of the 
development of tfce Transalpine, more especially the 
Teutonic languages, has been already examined more 
, at length. Here it may suffice to resume, that the ver- 
nacular translation of the Bible was an inevitable result 
of the perfection of those tongues. In Germany and 
in England that translation tended most materially, by 
fixing a standard in general of vigorous, noble, poetic, 
yet idiomatic language, to hasten, to perpetuate the 
change. It was natural that as soon as a nation had 


any books of its own, it should seek to have the Book 
of Books. The Church, indeed, trembling for the so* 
premacy of her own Vulgate, and having witnessed 
the fatal perils of such Translations in the successes of 
all the earlier Dissidents, was perplexed and wavered 
in her policy. Now she thundered out her awful pro- 
hibition ; now endeavored herself to supply the want 
which would not remain unsatisfied, by a safer and a 
sanctioned vei*sion. But the mind of man could not 
wait on her hesitating movements. The free, bold, un- 
trammelled version had possession of the national mind 
and national language ; it had become the undeniable 
patrimony of the people, the standaixi of the language* 
IV. — Just at this period the two great final Re> 
PrinUnguid foi*mers, the inventor of printing and the 
P*i»r- manufacturer of paper, had not only com- 

menced, but perfected at once their harmonioas invea* 
tions. Books, from slow, toilsome, costly productionft, 
became cheap, were multiplied with rapidity which 
seemed like magic, and were accessible to thousands to 
whom manuscripts were utterly unapproachable. The 
power, the desire, increased with the facility of reading. 
Theology, from an abstruse recondite science, the ex- 
clusive possession of an Order, became popular ; it was, 
erelong, the general study, the general passion. The 
Preacher was not sought the less on account of this 
vast extension of his influence. His eloquent words 
were no longer limited by the walls of a Church, or 
the power of a human voice ; they were echoed, per* 
petnated, promulgated over a kingdom, over a contH 
nent The fiery Preacher became a pamphleteer ; he 
addressed a whole realm ; he addressed mankind. It 
was no longer necessary that man should act 

Chap. X. PBINTING. 495 

upon man ; that the flock should derive their whole 
knowledge from their Pastor, the individual Christian 
from his ghostly adviser. The man might find satis&c- 
tion for his doubts, guidance for his thoughts, excite 
ment for his piety in his own chamber from the silent 
pages of the theological treatise. To many the Book 
became the Preacher, the Instructor, even the Confe&- 
sor. The conscience began to claim the privilege, the 
right, of granting absolution to itself. All this, of 
course, at first timidly, intermittingly, with many com- 
punctious returns to the deserted fold. The Hierarchy 
endeavored to seize and bind down to their own service 
these unruly powers. Their presses at Venice, at Flor- 
ence, at Rome, displayed the new art in its highest 
magnificence ; but it was not the splendid volume, the 
bold and majestic type, the industrious editorial care, 
which worked downwards into tlie depths of society ; 
it was the coarse, rude, brown sheet ; the ill-cut Ger- 
man type ; the brief, sententious, plain tract, which 
escaped all vigilance, which sunk untraced, unanswered, 
unconfuted, into the eager mind of awakening man. 
The sternest vigilance might be exercised^ by the Argus- 
eyes of the still ubiquitous Clergy. The most solemn 
condemnations, the most awful prohibitions might be 
issued ; yet from the birthday of printing, their sole 
exclusive authority over the mind of man was gone. 
That they rallied and resumed so much power ; that 
they had the wisdom and the skill to seize upon the 
education of mankind, and to seal up again the out- 
bursting springs of knowledge, and fi^e examination, 
is a mighty marvel. Though from the rivals, the oppo- 
nents, the foes, the subjugators of the great Temporal 
Despots, they became, by their yet powerful hold on 


the j^onsciencet and by their common interests in keep- 
ing mankind in slavery, their allies, their ministers, 
their rulers ; yet, from that hour, the Popes must en- 
coimter more dangerous, pertinacious, unconquerable 
antagonists than the Hohenstaufens and Bavarians, the 
Henrys and Fredericks of old. The sacerdotal caste 
must recede from authority to influence. Here they 
would mingle into the general mass of society, assim- 
ilate themselves to the bulk of mankind, become cit- 
izens, subjects, fathers of families, and fulfilling the 
common duties and relations of life, work more prcH 
foundly beneficial, moral, and reli^ous effects. There 
they would still stand in a great degree apart, as a sep- 
arate, unmingling order, yet submit to public opinion, 
if exercising control, themselves under strong control. 
This great part of the sacerdotal order at a much later 
period was to be stripped with ruder and more remorse- 
less hands of their power, their rank, their wealth ; 
they were to be thrust down from their high places, to 
become stipendiaries of the state. Their great strength, 
Monasticism, in some kingdoms was to be abolished by 
law, which they could not resist ; or it was only toler- 
ated as usefiil to the education, and to the charitaUe 
necessities* of mankind ; almost everywhere it sunk into 
desuetude, or lingered as the last earthly resort of the 
world-weary and despondent, the refuge of a rare fanat- 
icism, which now excites wonder rather than wide- 
spread emulation. From Nicolas V ., seated, as it were, 
on its last suinmit, the Papal power, the Hierarchical 
system, commences its visible decline. Latin Christi- 
anity had to cede a large portion of its realms, which 
became the more flourishing, prosperous, intellectual 
portion of the world, to Teutonic Christianity. It had 


hereafter to ondergo more fierce and fiery trials. But 
whatever may be its future doom, one thing may be 
asserted without fear, it can never again be the univer- 
sal Christianity of the West. 

I pretend not to foretell the fiiture of Christianily ; 
but whosoever believes in its perpetuity (and to disbe- 
lieve it were treason against its Divine Author, apostasy 
from his faith) must suppose that, by some providential 
law, it must adapt itself, as it has adapted itself with 
such wonderful versatility, but with a faithiul con- 
servation of its inner vital spirit, to all vicissitudes 
and phases of man's social, moral, intellectual being. 
There is no need to discuss a recent theory (of M. 
Comte) that man is to become all intellect ; and that 
religion, residing rather in the imagination, the afieo- 
tions, and the conscience, is to wither away, and cede 
the whole dominion over mankind to what is called 
** positive philosophy." I have no more faith in the 
mathematical millennium of M. Comte (at all events 
we have centuries enough to wait for it) than in the 
religious millennium of some Judaizing Christians. 

Latin Christianity or Papal Christianity (which is 
Latin Christianity in its full development), whatever 
it may be called with least offence, has not only ceased 
to be, it can never again be, the exclusive, the para- 
mount, assuredly not the universal religion of enlight- 
ened men. The more advanced the civilization, no 
doubt, in a certain sense, the more need of Christian- 
ity. All restrictive views, therefore, of Christianity, 
especially if such Christianity be at issue with the 
moral sense, and with the progressive reason of man, 
are urged with perilous and fearful responsibility. 
Better Christianity vague in creed, defective in polity, 

VOL. ym. 82 


than no Christianity. If Latin Christianity were to 
be the one perpetual, immutable, unalterable code, how 
much of the world would still be openly, how much 
secretly without religion ? Even in what we may call 
the Latin world, to how large a part is Latin Christian- 
ity what the religion of old Rome was in the days of 
Caesar and Cicero, an object of traditionary and pru- 
dential respect, of vast political importance, an edifice 
of which men fear to see the ruin, yet have no inward 
sense of its foundation in truth ? On more religious 
minds it will doubtless maintain its bold as a religion 
of authority — a religion of outward form — an objeo 
tive religion, and so possessing inexhaustible powers of 
awakening religious emotion. As a religion of author^ 
ity, as an objective religion^ as an emotional religion, 
it may draw within its pale proselytes of congenial 
minds from a more vague, more subjective, more ra- 
tional faith. As a religion of authority it spares the 
soul from the pain of thought^ from the harassing 
doubt, the desponding scruple. Its positive and pez^ 
emptory assurances not only overawe the weak, bot 
offer an indescribable consolation — a rest, a repose, 
which seems at least to be peace. Independence of 
thought, which to some is their holiest birthright, their 
most glorious privilege, their sternest duty, is to others 
the profoundest misery, the heaviest burden, the re- 
sponsibility from which they would shrink with the 
deepest awe, which they would plunge into any abyss 
•to avoid. What relief to devolve upon another the 
oppressive question of our eternal destiny I 

As an objective religion, a materialistic religion, a 
religion which addresses itself to the senses of man, 
Latin Christianity has no less great and enduring 


power. To how many is there no reality without 
bodily form, without at least the outline, the symbol 
suggestive of bodily form 1 With the vulgar, at least 
it does not rebuke the rudest, coarsest superstition ; for 
the more educated, the symbol refines itself almost to 

With a large part of mankind, a far larger no doubt 
of womankind, whose sensibilities are in general more 
quick and intense than the reasoning faculties, Christian 
emotion will still either be the whole of religion, or the 
measure, and the test of religion. Doubtless some 
primary elements of religion seem intuitive, and are 
anterior to, or rise without the consciousness of any 
reasoning process, whose office it is to confirm and 
strengthen them — the existence of God and of the 
Infinite, Divine Providence, the religious sense of right 
and wrong, retribution ; more or less vaguely the im- 
mortalitv of the soul. Other doctrines will ever be 
assumed to be as eternal and immutable. With re- 
gard to these, the religious sentiment, which lives upon 
religious emotion, will be as reluctant to appeal to the 
slow, cold verdict of the judgment. Their evidence 
is their power of awakening, keeping alive, and render- 
ing more intense the feeling, the passion of reverence, 
of adoration, of awe and love. To question them is 
impiety ; to examine them perilous imprudence ; to re- 
ject them misery, the most dreary privation. Emo- 
tional religion — and how large a part of the religion 
of mankind is emotional I — refuses any appeal from 

Latin Christianity, too, will continue to have a firmer 
hold on the nations of Latin descent ; of those whose 
languages have a dominant affinity with the Latin. It 



is not even clear whether it maj not have some secret 
charm for those instmcted in Latin ; at all events, with 
them the religious language of Latin Christiani^ being 
more intelligible, hardly more than an antiquated and 
sacred dialect of their own» will not so peremptorily 
demand its transferrence into the popular and vemaco- 
lar tongue. 

But that which is the strength of Latin Christianity 
in some regions, in some periods, with some races, with 
some individual minds, is in other lands, times, nationB, 
and minds its fatal, irremediable principle of decay and 
dissolution ; and must become more so with the ad- 
vancement of mankind in knowledge, especially in hi^ 
torical knowledge. That authority which is here a 
sacred, revered despotism, is there an usurpation, an 
intolerable tyranny. The Teutonic mind never eat- 
tirely threw off its innate independence. The long 
feuds of the Empire and the Papacy were but a nkb 
and premature attempt at emancipation from a yoke to 
which Rome had submitted her conqueror. Had the 
Emperors not striven for the mastery of the Latin world, 
had they stood aloof from Italy, even then the iasoe 
might have been different. A Teutonic Emperor had 
been a more formidable antagonist. But it is not the 
authority of the Pope alone, but that of the sacerdotal 
order, against which there is a deep, irresistible insur* 
rection in the Teutonic mind. Men have b^un to 
doubt, men are under the incapacity of believing, men 
have ceased to believe, the absolutely indispensable ne- 
cessity of the intervention of any one of their fellow- 
creatures between themselves and the mercy of GxmL 
They cannot admit that the secret of their eternal def»» 
tination is undeniably confided to another; that thej 

chap.x. power and effect of toleration. 501 

must walk not by the light of their own conscience, 
but by foreign guidance; that the Clergy are more 
than messengers with a mission to keep up, with con- 
stant reiteration, the truths of the Grospel, to be pr6> 
pared by special study for the interpretation of the 
sacred writings, to minister in the simpler ordinances 
of religion ; that they have absolute power to release 
from sins : without omniscience to act in the place of 
the Omniscient. This, which, however disguised or 
softened off, is the doctrine of Latin, of medisBval, of 
Papal Christianity, has become offensive, presumptu- 
ous ; to the less serious, ludicrous. Of course, as the 
relative position of the Clergy, once the sole masters 
of almost all intellectual knowledge, law, history, fhi^ 
losophy, has totally changed, their lofty pretensions jar 
more strongly against the common-sense of man. Even 
the interpretation of the sacred writings is no secret 
and esoteric doctrine, no mystery of which they are the 
sole and exclusive hierophants. 

Toleration, in truth — toleration, which is utterly ir« 
reconcilable with the theory of Latin Christianity — 
has been forced into the mind and heart of Christen- 
dom, even among many whose so-called immutable 
creed is in its irrevocable words as intolerant as ever. 
What was proclaimed boldly, nakedly, without reserve, 
without limitation, and as implicitly believed by little 
less than all mankind, is now, in a large part of the 
civilized world, hardly asserted except in the heat of 
controversy, or from a gallant resolution not to shrink 
from logical consequences. Wherever publioly avowed 
or maintained, it is thought but an odious adherence to 
ignonuit bigotry. It is believed by a still-diminishing 
few that Priest, Cardinal, Pope has the power of ir- 


levocably predeclaring the doom of his fellow-men. 
Though the Latin Church-language may maintain it. 
unmitigated severity, it is eluded by some admitted 
reservation, some implied condition utterly at variance 
with the peremptory tone of the old anathema. Ex* 
communication is obsolete; the interdict on a nation 
has not been heard for centuries ; even the proscription 
of books is an idle protest. 

The subjective, more purely internal, less demon* 
strative character of Teutonic religion is equally im* 
patient of the more distinct and definite, and rigid ob- 
jectiveness of Latin Christianity. That which seems 
to lead the Southern up to heaven, the regular inter* 
mediate ascending hosts of Saints, Martyrs, Apostles, 
the Virgin, to the contemplative Teuton obscures and 
intercepts his awful, intuitive sense of the "Godhead, 
unspiritualizes his Deity, whom he can no longer wor* 
ship as pure Spirit. To him it is the very vagueness, 
vastness, incomprehensibility of his conception of the 
Godhead which proclaims its reality. If here God 
must be seen on the altar in a materialized form, at 
once visible and invisible ; if God must be working a 
perpetual miracle ; if the passive spirit must await the 
descent of the Godhead in some sensible sign or sym- 
bol ; — there, on the other hand (especially as the laws 
of nature become better known and more familiar, and 
what of old seemed arbitrary variable agencies are b^ 
come manifest laws), the Deily as it were recedes into 
more unapproachable majesty. It may indeed subtiluR 
itself into a metaphysical First Cause, may expand into 
a dim Pantheism, but with the religious his religion 
still rests in a wise and sublime and revered system of 
Providential government which implies the Divine 

Chap.X. teutonic CHRISTIANITY. 608 

Latin, the more objective faith, tends to materialism, 
to servility, to blind obedience or blind guidance, to 
the tacit abrogation, if not the repudiation, of the moral 
influence by the undue elevation of the dogmatic and 
ritual part. It is prone to become, as it has become, 
Paganism with Christian images, symbols, and terms ; 
it has, in its consummate state, altogether set itself 
above and apart from Christian, from universal mo- 
rality, and made what are called works of faith the 
whole of religion : the religion of the murderer, who, 
if while he sheathes his dagger in the heart of his vic- 
tim, he does homage to an image of the Virgin, is still 
religious ; ^ the religion of the tyrant, who, if he retires 
in Lent to sackcloth and ashes, may live the rest of 
the year in promiscuous concubinage, and slaughter 
his subjects by thousands. So Teutonic Christian- 
ity, more self<lepending, more self-guided, more self- 
wrought out, is not without its peculiar dangers. It 
may become self-sufficient, unwarrantably arrogant, 
impatient not merely of control, but of all subordina- 
tion, incapable of just self-estimation. It will have a 
tendency to isolate the man, either within himself or 
as a member of a narrow sect, with all the evils of 
sectarianism, blind 2seal, obstinate self-reliance, or rather 
self-adoration, hatred, contempt of others, moroseness, 
exclusiveness, fanaticism, undue appreciation of small 
things. It will have its own antinomianism, a disso- 
ciation of that mond and religious perfection of man 
which is Christianity ; it will appeal to conscious di- 
rect influences of Divine Grace with as much confi- 
dence, and as little discrimination or judgment, as the 

1 Bead what Mr. Coleridge lued to call the sublime of Ronan Catholic 
Antinomianism. CaldeTx>n, Devocion de la Cmz. 


Latin to that through the intennediate hierarchy and 
ritual of the Church. 

Its intellectual faith will be more robust ; nor will 
its emotional be less profound and intense. But the 
strength of its intellectual faith (and herein is at once 
its glory and its danger) will know no limits to its 
daring speculation. How far Teutonic Christianity 
may in some parts already hare gone almost cm* abso- 
lutely beyond the pale of Christianity, how fiir it may 
have lost itself in its unrebuked wanderings, posterity 
only will know. What distinctness of oonception, 
what precision of language, may be indispensable to 
true faith ; what part of the ancient dogmatic system 
may be allowed silently to fall into disuse, as at least 
superfluous, and as beyond the proper range of hu- 
man thought and human language; how fiir the Sa- 
cred records may, without real peril to their truths 
be subjected to closer investigation ; to what wider 
interpretation, especially of the Semitic porti(»i, those 
records may submit, and wisely submit, in order te 
harmonize them with the irrefutable conclusions of 
science; how far the Eastern veil of allegory which 
hangs over their truth may be lifted or tcNcn away to 
show their unshadowed essence; how far the poetic 
vehicle through which truth is conveyed may be gently 
severed from the truth ; — all this must be left to the 
future historian of our religion. As it is my own 
confident belief that the words of Christ, and his words 
alone (the primal, indefeasible truths of Christianity), 
shall not pass away ; so I cannot presume to say that 
men may not attain to a clearer, at the same time 
more full and comprehensive and balanced sense of 
those words, than has as yet been generally received 


in the Christian world. As all else is transient and 
mutable, these only eternal and universal, assuredly, 
whatever light may be thrown on the mental consti- 
tution of man, even on the constitution of nature, and 
the laws which govern the world, will be concentred 
so as to give a more penetrating vision of those un- 
dying truths. Teutonic Christianity (and this seems 
to be its mission and privilege), however nearly in 
its more perfect form it may already have approxi- 
mated, may approximate still more closely to the ab- 
solute and perfect faith of Christ ; it may discover 
and establish the sublime unison of religion and rea- 
son ; keep in tone the triple-chorded harmony of faith, 
holiness, and charity ; assert its own full freedom, know 
the bounds of that freedom, respect the freedom of 
others. Christianity may yet have to exercise a far 
wider, even if more silent and untraceable influence, 
through its primary, all-penetrating, all-pervading prin- 
ciples, on the civilization of mankind. 


Jibeys plnndered by gnat prelates, iii. 

. 886. Property of, Tiii. 152. 

JUtdieatioHj Papal. See Ooelestine Y. 

Abitardy It. 180. His birth and youth, 
196. At Parin. 197. His theology, 199. 
VUght with Heloisa, 202. Marriage and 
mutilation. 208. Resumes lectures, 
204. His treatise on the Trinity con- 
demned by Council of Soissons, 206. 
His contest with monks of St. Oenys, 
206. Founds '' The Paraclete," 207. 
Abbot of St. GUd <s in Brittany, 209. 
Hill letters, 210. Challenge to St. Ber- 
nard, 211. Appeals to Rome, 214. Is 
condemned at Rome, 218. Protected 
at Clugny, 219. His' death and bur- 
ial at the Paraclete, 220. Opinions, 
221. *< Sic et Non," 224. 

Absolwe porerty, question of. Til. 66. 
Asserted by Franciscan Cliapter of Pe- 
ruglaj 68. 

AbeeUUton. fbrm ol, among Templars, vi. 

Mmbeker. successor of Mohammed, ii. 

AeaeitUy bisbop of Constantinople, over- 
throws Basillscus, i. 822. His power 
and ambition, 8So. Disputes Roman 
supremacy, 826. His strife with Pope 
Felix, 881. 

Arerroy Thomas of, r. 851. 

A£/€Merony Bishop of Laon. iii. 206. 

Adalbert^ son of Berengar, Hi. 174. Takes 
refuge with Saraoens, 179. His league 
with Pope John XII., 180. 

AdalBfTt II. (the Rich), Marquis of Tus- 
cany, iii. 156. Marries Bertha — de- 
Ibated by Lambert, 166. GOs power, 

Adalbert of Bremen, iii. 888. His influ- 
enee over Henry IV., 934. Combina- 
tion against, 888. Fall of, 889, 840. 

Adelaide y Empress, accuses Henry lY., 
iiL 619, 520. 


Adtkttdey widow of Lothair, perseeutsd 
by Berengar — marries Otho the Great, 
iii. 176. 

Adelchixy son of Desiderius, il. 448. Ob- 
tains aid from Constantinople, 452. 

Adelgis, Duke of Bt^neTento, iii. 87. 

Adeodatusy Pope, il. 288. 

Adhemcwy Bishop of Puy, Papal Legate in 
Crusade, ir. 48. 

Adolph of Nassau, tI. 281. King of Ro- 
mans, 282. Conditions of his election, 
238. His alliance with England, 285. 
Stain in battle, 286. 

Adolph. Archbishop of Cologne, deposed, 
It. 619. Restored. 584. 

AdoptianSj sect of, ii. ^99. 

Adriatiople, battle of, t. 128. 

Mneas SjItIus Piccolomini (Pius IT.), 
Til. 666. His secret influence, Tiii. 64. 
I^rentage and youth, 66. His Journey 
to England and Scotland, 67. Immo- 
rality, 72. At Basle, 74. His History, 
76. Hostility to Eugenius IV., 76. 
RecoTers from the plague, 78. ^re- 
tory to Felix V., 80. Secretary to Em- 
peror, 81. His time-serring, 82. In 
holy orders, 84. Letters of, 86. Comes 
round to Eugenius, 87. His mission 
to Italy, 88. Apology to Pope, 80. 
Mnde Papal Secretary, 90. At Frank* 
fort — his journey to Rome, 91. Again 
at FmMkfbrt. 94. His danger and con- 
duct, 96. Gains OTer Diet to the Pope, 
96 Made Bishop of Trieste, 96. At 
Milan, 103. At Tabor in Bohemia, 
109. Bishop of Sienna. 109. Legate 
in Gwmany, 114. His aread of Turks, 
118 Popedom and character, 120. 
Letter to Mahomet II., 121. Zeal 
against Turks, 122. 

AJrica^ the parent of Latin Christianity, 
i. 57. Importance of to Latin Emptra, 

261. Suffers from Donatist schism, 

262. (.'rnelties of the Vandals in, 468. 
Conquest by Belisarius, 466. Retains 
Donatist heresy, ii. 66. Moliammsdan 
conquest of, ISL 




AfHean Chareh. ita relatioiu with Roman 
See, i. 268. Its difflcnltiee, 264. As- 
serts iDdependenoe of Rome. 267. Suf- 
ftirings of under Vandals, 260. Its 
reduced state (11th century), ili. 894. 

Jg«g>etuSy Pope, ambassador to Constan- 
tinople, i. 458. His reception, 459. 
Dispute with Justinian, 460. Triumph 
and death, 461. 

Agaiho, Pope, ii. 288. 

AgUulph, King of Lombards, il. 77. At- 
tacks Rome, 77. 

Agnes, Empress, guardian of Henzy lY., 
iii. 290. Weak position of, 828. Her 
monastic feelings, 487. 

Jgfus of Meran marries PUUp Augus- 
tus, ir. 541, 542. Her separation. 5^. 
Dies, 554. 

Aidan^ Bishop of Lindisfkme, ii. 192 

AiUff, Peter d'. Cardinal of Cambray, 
his miiwion to rival popes — at Rome, 
▼il. 283. At Avignon, 284. His ser- 
mon at Constance, 448. Extends right 
of suffrage, 459. 

Aiscelin, Oilles d', Archbishop of Nar- 
bonne, ▼!. 428. 

Aix-ia-ChapelU, U. 472. 

Aix4aCkapeUe, Diet of, U. 517. Legis- 
lates for the Church, 520 Its inde- 
pendence of Rome, 520. Seitlea the 
succession to the empire, 522, 528. 

Alainto de Lentini deifends Meosina, tI. 
160 164 

Jiarii defeated by Stilicho, 1. 144. Hli 
second ioTasion of Italy, 148. Be 
degas Rome, 148. Accepts ransom, 
150. Sets up Attalus, as Emperor. 
152. His final capture of Rome, 158. 
Spares Christian churches and sacred 
▼easels 156. 

Alberic, son of Maroiia, ill. 160. Rises 
against Hugh of Provence — Lord of 
Rome, 169. His rule and death, 174. 

JJberit da Romano tortured to death, vi. 

AAert of Austria, letter of Gregory IX. 
to, ▼. 867. 

Albert of Austria, Emperor, vi. 281. De- 
ftats Adolph of Nassau, 286. Ezcom- 
manlcatad, 287. Alliance of with 
Philip the Fair, 808. ReconciliaUon 
with Pope, 880. His oath, 881. Mur- 
dered, 412. 

AlUrt of Aoatila, King of the RoBaos, 
▼Ul. 77. 

Albtrt von Beham, ▼. 488. 489. 

Albert, Archbishop of Mentx, Iv. 108. 

ilbirt the Great. viU. 219, 254. His birth 
and teaching, 267. His learning — lee- 
(ures on Aristotle, 2S9. Theology of, 
990. Philosophy. 265. 

JAs, horeeies in, ▼. 147. 

AMgeiuian war, ▼. 185. Innocent m.'B 
conduct in, 279. 


Albigensians. See Waldanaea. 

Albinus, i. 487. 

Aiboin. ii. 74. His death, 74. 

AlbomoXf Cardinal, legate in Italy* ^tt- 
208. Appoints Riemd senator, Xft. 
Restores Papal power. 207. ReeaivM 
Urban V. In Italy — his dsath, 216. 

Akuin, ii. 508. 

Aid/rid, King of Northnmbxia, his dis- 
pvles ^ith Wilfrid, U. 219. Hfa i«- 
monie and death. 221. 

Aldhelm of Malmesbury, Ii. 280. 

Alexander II. (AuMlm of Badagio). fli. 
812. Resists marriage of clergy, 815. 
Elected Pope by Cardinals. 821. De- 
feated by GadaloHS, 8>7. His eleetioB 
confirmed at Augsburg. 882 ; and ai 
Mantua, 841 Dies, 868. Sane 
Norman inv:«8ioM of England. 892- 

Alexander III., Pope, disputed 
of, iv. 288. Kimuimaakatea Vrakwiek 
Barbaroasa, 393. Hla vojaae to Fxhml 
294. Hte relations with Becket, SBV, 
Holda council at Toun, 887. Ab- 
aolves Becket, 840. His iiabaiiaw 
ment and heaitation, 841, 8i«, an. 
Gains possession of Rome, 886. 9aa> 
pends Becketa sentaneas, K^ 80. 
Absolves Bishops of London and 8alfo> 
buiy, 880. Hia eoaneetion with 
et's career, 425. Reception of, at 
427. Makes peace with Anpww nft 
Venice, 483. Hto death, 438. 

Alexander IT., Pope, vi. 41. ITiiltM 
English against Manfred, 48. Hie eoo. 
test with Brancaleooe, 46. His antip- 
athy to Manfred, 61. Fkvon frian, 
68. His Bull to Univetaity of J^ifa, 
70. His death. 80. 

A lexand er V., his obaeara origin, vIL SO. 
Favors Franciscans. 881. Hia BnU In 
fevor of frian, 828. Moiann i 
826. His death. 828. 

Alexander the Mason, oouneiUsr off KJ^g 
John, V. 81. 

Alexandria^ qoanaii at, i. 816. 

Alexandria (in Piedmont). Its IbantetiaBL 
iv. 481, 482. 

Alexius Comnenns, hia Jaalonqr of Cm* 
aadera, iv. 40. 

Alexius Comnenns the Elder, depoaaa 
and blinds his brother Isaac, v. 88. 
His flicht. 108. 

Alexius Gomnanns the YonnfBr, 
from prison — fliaa to Rone, v. 
Appeals to Crusadefs at Vaolea, 98. 
His treaty with Cm«adan at Zara, 98. 

AUbnto of CastUe, vl. 100. 

Al/onsoy King of Leon, ▼. 68. 

AffonaOf King of Amnion, vi. ITL On 
treaty with Chailaa the Lane, 178. 
Hia death, 177. 

Alfonso^ of Arragon. vlU. 68. 

J^<l anointed by the Pope, m. 148» Id^ 



n» WMi, 144. Gompab Gnthrvm to 
1m UptiMd, 145. liDftma to read, 146. 
His love of Sajcon books, 147. Con- 
tinues poeiUA of CaBdiuoa — his txmatr 
latioos from Latin, 147. 

Jii, MoUauiuied's Msooad coaYert. U. 126, 
126. His honor and loyalty, 161. 

AUegorical paiutingii tU. 160w 

Allegory, viii. 879. 

AUUerative v«i^«, Tiii. 871. 

AlMtf, dflsolatioa of. U. 288. 

AUtnaHy fiuhop of Passau, iU. 419. Pa- 
pal legate at Tribnr, 447. 

AmuJeiti of daToy. Set Felix T. 

Amalaxuntka^ widow of Theodorio. iiia»- 
rieo TiModotos, i. 466. Put to (death, 

Auiatory poetry, monkish, tIU. 8S1. 

Amaury do Bene, tIU. 247. 

Ambrose, St., of Milan, i. 122, 128. His 
anthority quoted for marriaoe of clenrr, 
iil. 818. -, , 

AmmioHuSy 1. 109. 

AjBumsr. St., ^Villiam, resists Friars, yi. 
69. HU ^ Perils of the Last Times,'' 
74. His exile and popuUrity, 76. 

AnaeUtus II., Antlpope, It. 168. Holds 
St. AngBlo, 178. His death, 174. 

Atuureontics, religions, rlii. 320. 

Atuigni thraateiMd by Bomans, iL 48. 
Bonifboe Vm. at, 847. Betrays Pope, 
852. Keecues hha. 866. CanUnals at, 

ibwsfoMaM, Smneror, i. 832. Enforces 
toleration, 883. Deposes Bishop Bu- 

Shendus^ 884. His aUeged Mauiche- 
im, 887. Dispute with Hacedonlns, 
888. Critical position of, 840. Hin hu- 
mlUation, 848. Appeals to Pope Hor- 

8isd4S, 428. Refects oonditious, ^7, 
8. His death, 429. 
Am»sta»ius I., Pope, i. 124. 
AMOstaaius II., Pope, his leniency, i. 849. 

His death — his memoir detested, 350. 
AmataMu$ IV., Pope, It. 268. 
AHOSUuius, Bishop of Constantinople, 

his intrigues for ArtaTaadus, U. 824 

His punbhmeut, 826. 
Ancomij si^ge of, ir. 428. 
Andrew's, St , head, Tiii. 220. 
Andrew, King of Hungary, his eon^r- 

aion, iU. 272. His war with Henry III., 

Aitdrew, King of Hungary, v. 71. Grants 

Golden Bull. 72. His crusade, 287. 
Andrew of Hungary murdered, vii. 148. 
Andronieus, Greek Bmperor, restores in- 
dependence of Greek Cliurch. ▼!. 187. 
AngeiOy St., siege of, ril. 293. 
Angels, belief regarding, ii. 94 : viii. 189, 

278. Orders of, 192. 
AnglO'Norman hiemrchy, It. 301. 
A^ijfiO'Saacon Christianity, Till. 368. 
Aii^Saxon Curistian poetry, ii. 280. 


Angto-aaxam Church, dlTtsions In, 11. 
196. Monastidsm of, 206. 

Anglo-Saxon clergy, decay of, ir. 2i)B. 
Kesist Roman clergy, 800. 

Attgio'Saron lanf uage. Tin. 862. 

Anglo-Saxon mimionaries. Tiii. 864. 

Anglo- Saxon», their heathenism, ii. 176. 
Bxpel Christianity from Britain, 17 ». 
CiTilia^ by Chrintianity, 196. Their 
zeTerenoe for Home, 200. Churoh 
music among, 281, 232. Their law8, 
282, 288. Their bitthopric*. 288, 284. 
Cfaristianitv of, \r. 296. 

Annate*, tU. 270, 516. 619. 

Anne of Bohemia, Til. 404. 

Ansckar, his visions, iii. 186, 137. His 
miraion to Denmark. 189 ; to Sweden, 
189. Archbishop of Usmburg, 189. 

Anselm of Badagio. Stf Alexander II. 

Anselm, Bishop of Lucca, iii. 490. 

Anselm, St., at Bee. It. 198. His phi- 
loeophy, 194. Aroubbthop of Canter- 
bury — resists the crown, 808. Was 
premature, viii. 287. 

Anspert, Archbishop of .Milan, HI. 96y 

AnthemiuSf Bmperor of the West. i. 818. 

Anthimus, Bishop of Coustautinople, 
opposed by Agapetus and d^^ded, 
i. 460. 

Anthropomorphism of popular Christian- 
ity, Tiii. 188, 261. 

Antioeh, disturbances in, i. 818, 885. 

Antisacerdotalism^ T. 136. Spreads among 
burghers, 140. In South of France, 

Antisaeerdotalists, Biblical, t. 149. 

Anlonina degrades Pope SUverius, i. 468. 

Antonius, Bishop of Fuseola. i. 264. His 
appeal |o tn« Pope, 264. 

Antony of Padua, a Franciscan, t. 270. 
Hitf prf aching, 271. 

Aptarius presbyter at Sicca, i- 266. De- 
posed — appeals to Pope Zosimus, 266. 
Confesses his guilt, 264 

Apostles uf Parma, vii. 3^, 42. 

Appeal to Rome. arofH! out of prorincial 
jealousies, i. 270 Subjected to royal 
consent. It. 398. 

Apulia, war in, t. 870. Conspiracy in, 
against Frederick II., 484. 

Aquinas, Thomas, death of, Ti. ISO. One 
of flTe great Schoolmen, Tiii. 254. His 
early lifo, 265. His authority, death, 
and canonisation, 267. His ''Sum of 
Theology,' 267. Hid opinions, 268. 
His phih'Bophy, 269, 272. 

Arabia, independence and supposed 
wealth of, ii. 110. United under Mo- 
hammed, 183. 
Arabian Jews, tt. ]29« 180. 

iira&/« philosophy, TiU. 243, 252. School*, 

Arabic, translations from, tUL 2ld. 




Arabs^ their Immutable chAimcter, it 112, 
118. Their love of war and rapine, 118. 

Arbon^ moDMtery of, ii. 244. 

Arch, principle of, viii. 414. 

Arehitects, eccleriastic. Tiii. 481. Ponign, 

ArehiUeture, Gbristiaiu viii. 100. Faith- 
Ail to the church, 409. Chriatiao, lint 
epoch of, 411. Roman, 412. Oreek 
and Latin, 414. Bjiantine, 418. 
Church, influenced by ritual, 422. 
Ghriiitian, pn^preidiTe, 424. Lombud 
or liomaiiMque, 482. Norman, 488. 
Gothic, 487. Aibcted by climate, 446. 
Medifeval, 486. 

ArdoiHy Maniuia of iTrea, iii. 222. 

Ariald, iii 816. His itriib with Qnldo, 
846, 346. Ub flight and death, 847. 

Arian clerffv (Goths), their moderation, 
i. 4^4. were probably Teutonic, 647. 

ArianUm of Teutonic converts, i. 871, 
877. It* propagators unknown, 872. 
or Goths, 418. Put an end to in 
Spain, ii. tO. In Gaul, 70. 

Aristotelian philosophy, viii. 246. 

Aristotle^ Arabic adoption of, viii. 248. 
Dialectics of, 246. Condemned at 
Paris, 248. Versions of, from Arabic, 
249. Becomes known in original, 260. 

ArUs^ Council of, i. 102. Archbishopric 
of, 271. 

Aries, Cardinal of, vUi. 64. At Diet of 
Frankfort, 94. 

Amauti, William, Inquisitor at ToulDuae, 
murdered, vi. 86. 

Arnold of Brescia, iv. 180, 229. A disci- 
ple of Abilard, 280. His Republican- 
ism, 281, 282. Preaches in Brescia, 

288. Condemned by Laterau Council, 
flies to Zurich, 288. Protected by Gui- 
do di Castello, 237. Persecuted by St. 
Bernard, 288. Revered by Waldenaes, 

289. Ill Rome, 239. Decline of his In- 
fluence, 262. Banished, 266. Seiied 
and exec u ted, 271. Revival of his opin- 
ions, V. 187. 

Arnold, Abbot, Papal Legate in Langue- 
doc, V. 192. Persecutes Count Ray- 
mond, 197. Made Archbishop of Nar- 
bonue, 206. Charges against, 206. At 
Latemii Council, 212. 

JriMi^invades Italy — sacks Bergamo,iii. 
106, 107. His second invasion — enters 
Bome — crowned Kmperor, 109. His 
sudden illness and retreat, 109. 

Amulf^ Archbishop of Rheims, iii. 206. 
His treachery to Hugh Capet, 206. Is 
iMtrayed and imprisoned, 2k)6. His 
deposition, 200. 

Amul/, Bishop of Orleans, his speech 
agslnst corruption of papacy, iii. 210. 

Arni4iony aOaiis of^ v. 66. Made feuda- 
tory to Pope, 67. The noblaa and peo- 
ple remonatiate, 6B. 


Amgon, House of, repi 
MaJDfted, vi. 149. Frandeeaa prophe 
cies about, vii. 44. 

Arseniusy Papal Legate in Fiance, iii. 6L 
Reinstates Queen Theutbeiga, 63. Hie 
flight and death, 67. 

Art, devotional, ii. 296. Objects of. 848. 
Conventional, viii. 468. Dewlopaieiit 
of, 474. Cultivated by Mendicant or- 
ders, 479. German — Flenush, 484. 

Ariaveudus usurps throne of Constanti- 
nople, ii. 824. Is defeated and blioded. 

ArtJuir, King, legends of. viii. 867. 

Arthur, Prince, death of, v. 17. 

Arunddf Archbishop of Ouiterbonr. vii- 
408. Accuses Lord Cobham, 4Ii . 

Asehpalter. Peter, Arehbiahop at Meats, 
vi. 472, 611 : vii. 60. 

Asiatie Christianity, feebleness of, ii. HA. 

Assist, birthplace of St. Francis, v. 964. 
Splendor of church at, vUi. 470, 480. 

Astolph, Lombard king, selKS Baveans, 
ii. 41 r. Threatens Borne, 418. De- 
feated by Franks — obtains peace— 
besieges Rome, 422. Yields to Pepla, 
426. His denth, 427. 

Axfflum^ in Barbaric law, i. 681, 680. 

Atka'ane. son of Theodoric, raised to 
throne of Italy — his death, i. 460. 
Laws of on church matten, 615. 

AJthamasian creed, i. 100. 

Atkanasiu»y 1. Oi. His aeoeadency at 
Rome, 100. Supported bv Pope Iflie 
rius. 108. 

Athananus, Bishop-Duke of Naplea, flL 
88. Unites with the Bancvna, 90. 
Bzcommunicated by John Till., kdi 
intrigues, 98. 

Attains made Kmperor by Alaiie, L IB. 
Deposed by him, 168. 

Attila, his unbounded power, 1.800. 
invasion of Italy, 801. 
Rome, 801. IndiMed to retire by Lao 
I., 801. Probable causes of this, 801. 

Aeerrhoes, vUi. 246, 262. 

Augustine, .St., his **City of God," i. ICL 
Opposes Pttlagius, 166. The kadcr ef 
Latin theology, 170. Opinions on ia- 
fent baptism, 171. Peneeuise Pi^ 
glana, 186. 18i . 

Augustine, his miaaion to Britain, il. 66, 
178. His meeting with Etbelbert, 17B. 
Bishop of Canterbury, 180. His 41ft- 
pute with British clerg>-, 188. Hto as- 
tabiishment at Canterbury, 184. 

Augustinianism coincides with 
system, 1. 172. On 
original sin, 174. Similar to 
ism, 176. RziUto ceUbacy, 176. 

Augustus, title of lUeoai, vii. 160. 

Af^ctnna, viU. 246, %2. 

Avignon, Pope Clement T. at, vl. 
ConsUtoiy at, 490. Its poUtioal rfl 



tlon, tH. 16. Becomes qeat of pope- 
dom, 20. Court of, under Clement vl., 
186. Immorality at, 138. Sold to 
Pope, 148. Conristorr of, 196. Con- 
elare at, its statutes, TOO. Papal reri- 
denoe at oonoluded, 226. Siege of, 

AauaUz, battle of, Tii. 647. 

Autharisj Uia of Lombards, his wan 
with the franks, ii. 76. Orerruns 
Italy, 76. Uis death, 76. 

Autorraefy Pftp*l, iprowth of, iT. 460. 

Aviiuty Bii«hop of Tienne, adheres to Clo> 
▼is, i. 882. His ctmference with Gunde- 
bald. 888. 

AxtvedOy Bishop of Oima, ▼. 241. 


JBodyton, name applied to Rome, ril. 86, 

<< Babylomsh captiTity " ended, Tii. 226. 

Bacon, Lord, Tiii. 296. 

Baeotiy Roger, Tiil. 288. At Oxlbrd, 
289. His studies, 290. Persecuted by 
Nicolas IV., 291. Dedicates worlc to 
Clement IV., 292. His astrology, 294. 
His science and discoreries, 296. 

Beuibeey John, burned, Tii. 416. 

Baidunn^ Count of Flanders, Joins the 
crusade, ▼. 86. At Zara, 99. Bmper- 
or of Constantinople, 106. His address 
to Pope, 112. His captiTity, 120. 

Bitf.Johu, 711.887. 

Batthasar Cosm. i8lr« John XXIII. 

BanUterg, Diet at, iv. 616. Its answer to 
Pope Innocent III., 617. 

Bankers^ Italian, tI. 2S6. 

Bannerets, at Rome, Tii. 277. 

Saptisrny iiifiint, question of, ▼. 142. Com- 
pulsory, Tiii. 906. 

Baptisteries^ Tlii. 484. 

Barbaric codes, aflbcted by Christianity, 
i. 481. Were national, 614. Rights o^ 

gvnona under, 627. On slarery, 627. 
n sLaves' marriages, 628. On the 
slaying of slaves, 680. On runaway 
slaTes, 681. On adultery and divorce, 
683. Oo property — on church prop- 
erty, 686. Against heresy — against 
witchcraft, 642. 

Barbarossa^ Frederick. See Frederick 

Barbianoj Alberie, tU. 249. Besieges No- 
eera, 266. Bnters papal service, 279. 

Barolij asuembly of, ▼. 847. 

Barons^ English, commence redstanoe to 
King John, t. 48. Demand charter of 
Henry I., 47. Extort Biagna Charta, 
60. Pope Innocent's letter to, 62. 
£zcommunicated, 68. 

Barons^ Roman, submit to Riensi, vil. 166. 
Are seised and pardoned, 177, l78. 


Barsvmas the monk, at Synod of Ephe> 
SOS, i. 287. At Council of Ohaloedon, 
294. His fiictious conduct in exile, 818. 

Bartholomew of Carcassonne, t. 2B&. 

Basil the Macedonian, murders Michael 
III., and beeomes Emperor, iii. 84. 
Calls Council at Constantinople, and 
deposes Bishop Photius, 84. Restoiet 
him, and dies, 86, 87. 

Basiliau, viii. 06, 421. 

Basiliseus usurps Empire — fitvors Buty- 
chianism^rafdstanoe to, i. 821. W» 
tkll 822. 

BasUy Council of, summoned by Martin 
v., Tii. 686. Ambassadors from, 666. 
Right of voting at, 667. Inhibited by 
Eugenlus IV., 669. Acknowledged by 
Pope, 661. Asserts supremacy, 66& 
Eminent deputies at. 666. Dohemlani 
at, 667. Proposes reform of clersjr, 669. 
Dispute in, viii. 16. Summons Pope 
and Cardinals, 18. Declares suspen- 
sion of Pope, 18. Equips a fleet, 22. 
Indiflerenoe to, 86. Jealousy of Pope, 
62. Quarrels In, 68. Declares depoei> 
tlon of Pope, 66. Appoints a Conclave, 
68. Elects FeUx V., 68. Dissolved, 

Bathildis, Queen, ii. 896. 

Beatific vision, question of, vU. 116. 

Beatrice, married to Otho IV., iv. 684. 
Her death, 684. 

Beauforty Cardinal, at Constance, vii. 682. 
Leads crusade against Hussites, 688, 
648. His death, 684. 

Becy Abbey of, its origin, iv. 192. Its 
great churchmen, 300. 

Bechety his character, iv. 806. Legend 
of his parentage, 309. His birth and 
education, 811, 812. At Rome, 814. 
Appointed Chancellor, 816. His pow- 
er, 817. Ambassador to Paris, his 
splendor, 818. Elected Archbish^, 
£28. His oliange of manner, 8w. 
Resigns chancellorship, 826. Attends 
Council of Touze, 827. Quarrels with 
Henry II., 328, 8«), 881. Jealousy of, 
884. At Parliament of Westminster, 
884. Swears to Constitutions of Clar- 
endon, 887. Refuses to seal them, 
889. Absolved from oath by Pope, 

840. Attempts to fly from kingdom, 

841. Breaks his oath, 842. Cited be- 
ftnre Council of Northampton and fined, 
848. Condemned Ibr peijuiy. 849. His 
flight, 862. Adventurer, 8l68. Recep- 
tion of in France, 868. At Pontlgny, 
861. Citee the King, 866. Invested 
with legatlne power, 867. At Veaelay, 
868. Exoommnnicatefl Henry's adher- 
ents, 869. At Sens, 871. Controversy 
with EnffUsh clergy, 372. His letter to 
Pope, 878. His quarrel with Papal leg- 
ates, 879, 880. His indignation, 88L 



Utter to the Carditiali, 888. At Mont- 
inirmUf884. His attempted tnatj with 
Henry II., 891. Pliioei SngUnd ander 
interdict, 888. King's proelunatloa 
•gminst. 897. His letter to hia soflka- 
fuia, 896. Anger epdnst the Pope, 
899. Reconciliation with King, 402. 
Meete Henry at Tours, 405. Resiataoee 
to his restoration, 406. Lands at Sand- 
wich, 408. RefuiBB afanlntfon to Bish- 
ops, 409. Annoyed by his enemies, 410. 
Angry infeerrlew with the four knights, 
418. Murdered, 416. Miracles. 417. 
Balnt and mar^r — Kin^ Hsnry's pen- 
ance at tomb of, 420. was martyr fbr 
olarieal immnnlty, 421. Verdfet of 
posterity upon. 428. 

Btde^ U. 224. His leamfaig and thflotogy, 
225. His science, 226. 

Beliaariut^ oonaoen AlHea, i. 466» Sn- 
ter« Rome, 46i. 

BmetUct I., Pope, 1. 476. 

Benedict IT.. Pope. 11. 287. 

Benadiet III., Pope, ill. 20. 

BnutHct IV., Pope, lii. 154. 

BtnMdia v.. Pope, ill. 184 Deposed by 
Otho I., banished, and dies at Ham- 
burg, 186. 

Benedict YI.. Pope, mnideied by Bonl- 
floio. tti. 188. 

Beiudiet VTI.. Pope. lii. 188. 

Benedict Till., Pope, iii. 224. Crowns 
Henry II.. 225. His nctories orer Sar- 
■eens, 226. 

Benedict IX., Pope, a boy, hia Tioes, iil. 
229. Sells the Papacy, 280. Keelaimt 
it, 282. Deposed by Henry HI., 238. 
His return and flight, 288. 

Benedict X., Pope, elected by Roman par^ 

a, iil. 294. His flight, 297. Degrada- 
m and death, 297. 

Bmediet XI., his prudence, tI. 880. Ab- 
aolTes Philip the Fair. 861. Restores 
the Oolonnas, 862. His dsath, 867. 
Alleged to hare be^n poisoned. 867. 

Benedict XII., his election and flnt meaa- 
urert, tH. 121. Builds palace at Avig 
non, 128. Negotiates with Louia of 
BaTaria,128,124. Hte answer to Philip 
of Valois. 182. His refoma and char- 
acter. 188. 

Benedict XIII., tU. 274. Called on to 
renounce Papacy, 281. His counter- 
prqject, 281. His obstinate reftisal, 
iB4. Besieged in his palace, 285. His 
imprisonment and escape. 288. Hb 
embassy to Bonilkce IX., 290. U>tter 
to Gregory XII., 297. In Italy, 801. 
Bxcommunicates French King. 904. 
His flight, 806. In Spain, 807. HU 
Council at Perplgnan, 810. Declared 
deposed at Pisa, 817. His deputies at 
ConsUnce, 457. His flrmnass. 610. 


Benedict Biseop, wwnpanlcm of Wttlkid, 
iL 208. Builda monaateiy «t Wmt- 
mouth — imports painttaci and IfflB., 
210,' 211. 

Benedict. Cardinal, Legale to Gooelaatf- 
nople, T. 119, 120. Hto ■efllaMt of 
Latin Church, 121. 

Benedict, St.. of Nnnia, ii. 22. Hit a|p 
fcTOFabletonaonastieiam.28. HisMrth 
and parentage, 24. IfiiafCokNM ae- 
counts of his youth, 25. His IsnpCa- 
tions, 26. His Ihme — his mowaeteries 
at Subiaco, 27. Plotted agaioai by 
VkHVutias, 28. Removes to Monte 
Casino ~ his rule, 29.80. Sqloins la- 
bor. 80. His liiioiM, 88. mi imtmr 
Tiew with Totlla. 88. His death. 84. 

Benedictine conTents, thdr rapid spread 
in Italy, 11. 86. In Fiance, 86. In 
Btagland, 87. 

Benedictine* in Sngland, iU. 885. 

Benefice*, sale of, tU. 270. 

Benrvento, admits Leo IX.. ifl. 257. 
tleof, t1. 95. Seek of; 97. 

Benxo. iii. 828. His Influeaee at ......^ 

and iBfWsttves afidnat HUdehinnd, Mi. 

Ar«iigMr,lianinkorivi«a,iB.178. KIib« 
of Italy, 175, 178. Tkkea ptieoncr by 
Otho I., 188. 

Berengv, Dnke of FiiuU, W 108. S»- 
ftated by Ouldo, 104. His war with 
Louis of ProTenoe. 156. Crowned fti 
peror at Borne, 16l. Mnidefed. 164. 

Berengar of Toun. a pupQ of Ifrige— , 
iU. 281. Hia opiaions on the BmI 
Presence, 2S2. At oouncil of VercoUL 
265. Condemned by eounell of Pwfs 
— submits, 267. feDs recantation — 
revokes it, 80O. Banawa qaostloo tt 
Transobstantiation. 474. Acquitted 
by Oie^ry VII., 476. 

Beren^ana^ Queen of Leon, t. 68. 

Beren^er de Talon, vii. 68. 

Benu^bo Tisconti. his crimes, tA. fXt. 

Bernard. St., It. 156. His youth, 1A. 
At Cite%ux. 164. Founds Clairtaax. 
166. His miracles, 167. Bn 
eaoae of Innocent II., 168-175. 
oua of AbAlard, 208. Oppoaos him at 
Sens, 218. His letter to Inaoeent 11., 
217. Persecutes Arnold of Breecla. 288^ 
His power orer Bngenlns III., 244. !»> 
teifbres in archbishopric of Toik, 2A7. 
Preaches the Crusade. 260. 
Louis VII. and Bmperor Conrad to 
the Cross, 251.262. Protects Jew«. 
His Crusade &ils. 254. HisdMth,: 
Silences beresica In the south of F 
V. 146. His conquest tnnsltory. 147. 
165. His address to Templars, vi. IBB 
Hymns ascribed to, ettl. 810. 

Bemmrd, Count de Foix, ▼. 208. 

Bernard da Qolh. Sm Osmit T 




Bemhard. gnDdnon of CharlemBgne, U. 
SU. King In Italy, 618. His unsuo- 
ceflsfnl rebellion, 6^ ; and death, 525. 

Bernhardt Duke of SeptlmaDia. ii. 682. 
His flight, 534 ; and retarn, 537. 

JBSerfAa, a Fnnkiah prinoeefl, U. 178. 
Qoeen of Bthelbert, 178. 

Bertha, wife of Adalbert of TuBcanj, iil. 
156. Her ambitions intrigues, 156. 

Berthold, Recent of Naples. ▼. 616. His 
weakness, 617 ; and treacnery, 618. 

Bertholdt of Winterthur, his preeohlng, 
▼lii. 896. 

Beaanfotk, diet at, It. 276. 

Bessarion of Nicea, viii. 89, 42. Cardi- 
nal, 123. 

BezierSy siege of, t. 187- 

BezierSf Yisoount of, his delbnee of 
Camissonne, V. 188. Dies in prison, 

Bianea Lancia, mistress of Frederick IT., 
▼. 331. 

Bible, Hebrew, rill. 492. Interpretation 
of, 604. Versions of: — Ynlgate, i. 117. 
Gothic, 876. Moravian, iii. 124. Pro- 
Tencal, t. 154. Wycliffe's, tU. 884; 
Tiii. 884. 498. New, 126. German, 367. 

Biblical Antisaoerdotalists, t. 160. Criti- 
cism, Till. 492. 

Biordo, chief of Condottieri, tU. 276. 
AssaKsinated, 276. 

Birinus^ first Bishop of Dorchester, tt. 

Bishops, under Teutons, become warlike, 
i. 897. Their mixed charact4'r, 898. 
Grow into a separate order, 399. Un- 
der Jnstioian's code, 487. Ordered to 
inspect prisons — to sappress gaming, 
612. How elected. 621. Their muni- 
cipal authority, 625. Their power, 
648. Appointed by Bmpcror. ii. 495. 

BishapSy English, in civil war of Stephen 
and Matilda, It. 306. Their warlike 
character. 806. Their adrioe to Beck- 
et, 346, 346. Their controyersy with 
Beeket, 872. Address the Pope, 878. 
Their hesitation, 389. Their fear of 
Interdict, 897. Excommunicated, 411. 
Satires on. Till. 829. 

Bishopries of Anglo-Saxons, ii. 288, 234. 

Bishoprics, Bngltoh, law of election to. 
It. 887. 

Banche of Castile, Regent of France, 
▼i. 16. Her death, 81. 

Biastus raises the Easter question at 
Home — deposed by Pope Victor, i. 64. 

Bobbio, monasteiT of, ii. 246. 

Boeeaceio, riii. 312. His " Decamero- 
ne," 847. 

Boethius, a Roman, minister of The- 
odoric. 1. 487. hU trial and Impris- 
onmcnt, 439 (Jomposes the *' Coo- 
Rolatioii of Philosophy," 443. His 
cruel death, 444. 


Bogoris, King of Bulgaria, his oooTer- 
sion, iii. 116. Qaells insurrection, 
117. Applies to Pope Nicolss I., 119. 

Bohemia, conversion of, iii. 127. Pol- 
icy of Pope Innocent III. towards, ▼. 
70. Connection of with Bngiaod, tU. 
406, 438. Wyclifflsm in. 426. Isola- 
tion of, 486. Indignation in at death 
of ilusfl, 499. Hassite war in, 6^ 
Rises against Sigismund, 646. 

Bohemians, their memorial to Council of 
Constance, Til. 485. At Basle, 567. Dia- 
senidons among, 668. ReTerfses, 568. 

Bologna, John XXIII. Legate in, viii. 
330. Conclare at, 332. 

Bonaventura, St., General of Francis- 
cans, t1. 73. His alleged refusal cf 
papacy, 123. Dies, 130. One of Mm 
great Schoolmen, viii. 264. Mysticism 
of. 27^-276. His Hymn of the Cross, 

Boni/ace I., Pope, his disputed election, 
i. 198. His character, 199. 

Boniface 11., contest at his election, I. 
464. Attempts to nominate his suc- 
cessor, 467. 

Boni/ace III., assumes titte of " UniTer- 
sal Bishop," U. 264. 

Son(/a« IV., 11.266. ^ 

Boniface V., U. 266. 

Bow face VIII. (Benedetto Gaetani). re- 
bukes Charles the Lame, vi. 183. His 
ascendency at Naples, 191. His elec- 
tion, 205. Imprisons Coelestine V., 
208. His Tiews of Papal authority, 
210. His experiences as L^pnte, 212. 
His advances to Frederick of Arragon, 
216. Summons Charles of Valois to 
Italy, 220. His jealousy of the Co- 
lonnas, 222. Excommunicates the Co- 
loanas, 226. His measures in Italy, 
280. Excommunfcatea Albert of Aus- 
tria, 236. Forbids wars of Edward I., 
248. Issues bull '' Clericis Laioos." 
259. Second bull against Philip tht* 
Fair, 263-270. Philip's reply to, 271. 
Arbiter between France and England, 
277. Forbids Edward's Scotch wan, 
280. Institutes Jubilee, 284. At the 
height of his power, 287. His enemies, 
288. Estranges Franciscans, 290. Per- 
secutes Fratioelli, 292. Abandons Scots, 
299. His quarrel with Philip of France, 
298. Rumors of his pride, 304. Sends 
Legate to France, 306. Receives em- 
bassy from King Philip. 310. His bulls 
against Philip, 811, 813. 816. Address 
of French clergy to. 821. His reply, 
323. His speech before Consistory, 
826. Issues bull ■' Onun Sanctam," 
826. Acknowledges Albert of Austria 
Emperor, 330. Acknowledges Fred- 
erick of Sicily. 881. Offers terms to 
Philip, 832. Kxcommuuicates Philip, 






886. CbugM niftde «g«iiut him at 
Pari*, 810. At Anagni, 847. Hia im- 
plies to charp:^. SiS. Attacked, 851 ; 
and impriaoa«d, 854. Itoacued, re- 
tnms to Rome, 855. ReTolt agaln»t 
— bla death — general shock at tieat- 
mcMt of, 856. UU mcmorv p«>nwK:ated 
by Philip, 868. 484. HLb defenders, 
490. Opening of proceedings, 480. 
Witnesses against, 4d8. AUe|^ blas- 
phemy, 494. ConVerwtion with Rogsr 
Loria, 497. Charged with magie and 
idolatry. 499. Summary of evidence 
against, 500. Judgment of Clement 
v., 501. His Innocence declared by 
Council of Vienne, 507. 

Boniface IX., his election. Til. 267. Sup- 
ports LadisUus of Naples, 269. His 
simony, 270; and nepotism, 272. His 
able conduct, 275. Returns to Rome, 
276. His Buccesws. 279. ReceiTes 
embassy ftom Benedict XIII., 290. 
His death. 290. 

BoHifaee, St., bis birth and early life, U. 
24o. Goefl to Rome — countenanced 
by Pope Gregory II.. 249. Protected 
by Chftrles Msrtel, 249. Goes to Tho- 
ringia— to Vriesland, 260 ; to the Sax- 
ons and Hessians — fells the oak of 

* Geismar. 251, 252. Archbishop of 
Hents, 258. His proceedings In Ger- 
many, 254. Death and burial at 
Fnlda, 256. His charges against 
Fraiikish clergy, 415. 

Boniface^ ArchbiKhop of Canterbury, t1. 
45. Tyranny of, 46. 

Bonifaxto^ murders Benedict VI. — as- 
sumes Papacy — flies to Constantino- 
ple, iii. 188. Seises John XIV., puts 
him to death in prison, and assumes 
the Papacy — dies, 189. 

Books, imported into England, ii. 211. 
Growing influence of, viii. 496. 

Bordeaux, appointed combat at, rl. 166. 
Scene at. Iw. 

Bom, Duke of Lombardy, adopted by 
Pope John VIII. as hU son, ill., 94. 
Made King of ProTence. 96 

Bonra. taken by Mohammedans, ii. 166. 

Bouciaiut, Biustial. at Avignon, Tii. 286. 
Besieges Papal palace, 28o. 

Bourges, Srnod of, Till. 84. 

Bouvines, battle of. It. 486 ; t. 47. 

Braeeio Montone, Tii. 626. 

Btadwarduu. teacher of divinity, vU. 

Branealeone, Senator of Rome, t. 612. 
Summons Pope to Rome, 618. His 
imprisonment and release, vi. 48. 
Marches against Pope, his death, 

Breakspeare, Nicolas. See Hadrian IV. 

Bremen and Hamburg, archbishopric of, 
Iii. 140. 



Bremen burnt hf Hnngarians, fll. 150^ 
Bretda, revolntions in, Iv. 2SI, 

Arnold*B preaching in. 28? 

T. 416. Revolt of, vi. 617. 

Henry of Loxembaif, 618. 
Bribery, Papal, vilL M. 
Britain, monastfeism In, ii. 

dictine convents in, 87. First corn 

sioa of. 174. Heathenlaed by Saxooa, 

176. Partially converted by Aagn*- 

tine, 179. Its relapse. 184; and re- 
covery. 186. 
British church, remnant of in Wales, ii. 

182. Disputes of with Roman clergj, 

Brito, Reginald, iv. 412. 
Brixen, Synod of, deposes Orrgorv VII., 

iii. 482. Beets Ouibert Pope, 488. 
Brotherhoods, secret religious, viii. 390. 
Bruce, Robert, excommunlcaled by dem- 
ent v., vi. 881. 
Brueys, Peter de, v. 142. 
Bruges, meeting of English aad Papal 

deputies at, vii. 870. 
Brunehaut, her vices — rebuked bj BL 

Colnmban, 11:241. 
Brun^Ueschi, viii. 462. 
Bruno. See Leo IX. 
Bruno, kinsman of Otho HI., made Popa, 

iii. 198. FllM flrom Rome, 196. 

restoration and death, 197. 
Bulgaria, Panlicians in. v. 158. 
Bulgarians, defeated by Leo the Ai 

nlan, 11. 856. Maoneni of, iii. 

Their conversion disputed 

Bast and West, 122. Threaten Coo- 

stantinople, v. 120. Tbeir kinc J»- 

baonitins, 128. 
BuU, Papal, '^Clericis Laicos,' ▼!. 2S0. 

Bead in English Cathedrals. 2S2. Ita 

reception in France. 266- Its 

tlon. 878. 
BuU, second, of Bonifece Vni., vi. 
BuU forbidding invasion of Scotland, vl. 

BuU of BonlliMse VIII. apinsi PhiUp Ite 

Fair, vi. 811, 812. 
BuU, the Lesser, vi. 818. Its 

genuineness, 814. 
BuU, the Greater, vi. 816. 

Paris, 818. 
BuU, " Unam Sanctam,*' vi. 

revocation, 876, 877. 
BuU issued at Anagni. vi. 847. 
BuU of Clement v., ri. 408. 

France, 600, 601. 
BuU of Nicolas IV. on Abmlntc Poverty, 

vii. 66. Annulled by John XXII., 

BuU of John XXII. against 

vii. 60. 
BuU, the " Golden," vii. 208. 
BuU of Alexander V. In lavor of 



Boraad ia 
826. Its 




Burehard^ Bbhop of Halberatadt, Ul. 406. 

His ei«cape, 448. 
Burdinus (or Bfaurice), ArehbUhop of 

Braga^iT 127. 
Burgun'iian law, 1. 617. 
BuTgumdians^ cooTenion of. 1. 876. 
Bitrgundy^ power of, yii. 432. 
ButiUo^ nephew of Urban VI.. Tii. 258. 

His cruelty to cardinals, 25o. Taken 

priM>ner iu Nocem. 260. Liberated by 

Queen Margaret, 202. 
Byzantine architectuVe, Tiii. 418, 482. 

Painting, 466-473. 


QuAa. the, H. 126. 

CadcUous^ Antipope, iii. 822. . Occupies 
St. Angelo. 384. Flies from Rome, 
810. I^iected by Council of Mantua 
— dies, 811. 

Oatdmon. ii. 228. His religious songs, 
229. Ilis poetry continued by Alfrwl, 
m. 147. 

Gsuortni, Cardinal. Pnwident of Coun- 
eU of Basle, Tii. 663. His letter to 
Bugenius lY., 668. Meets Oivek Em- 
peror at Venice. Tiii. 26. 

Caliphx, the earliest ii. 160. 

Calixtux II. (Ouido of Vienne), Pope, It. 
180. Holds Council at Rheims — re- 
news Truce of God, 183. His nieetiog 
with Henry V., 186. Brealu off nego- 
tiations, 137. Bxcommuuicates Henry 
v., 13J. Meets Henry I. of England, 
138. His trium pliant return to Rome, 
189. Degrades Gregory VIII.. 140. 
Consents to Concordat of Worms, 144. 
Pacifies Rome — his death, 149. 

CkUixtus III., Autipope, It. 481. Abdi- 
cates, 487. 

CaUistua I., Pope, his early history, i. 
76. Influence OTer Zephyrinus, 76.' 
Obtains the Popedom, 77. Opposed 
by Hippolytus, 78, 79. 

Callistus III., Pope, Tui. 120. 

Cbmaiius, Patriarch of Constantinople, 
his flight, T. 106. Takes refuge at 

CampanUex^ Tiii. 484. 

Can delta Seala, Chief of Verona, Tii. 
71. His death, 110. 

Candidiantts, President of Council of 
Epheaus, i. 229. 

Ocuionizationj Tiii. 211. 

Canosa^ Gregory VII. and Henry TV. at, 

Canterbury y monks of, reluctant to elect 
Becket, It. 828. Election to Archbish- 
opric of, T. 20, 871 Archbishops of, 
Tii. 862. 

Canterbury Talee, Tiii. 887. 

Canute^ his pilgrimage to Rome, Iii. 227, 


Cbpe/, Hngh, Iii. 203. 

Carcassonne^ capture of. t. 188. 

CartiinaUy college of. its germ in th« 
third centurv, i. 74. Made Papal eieo* 
ton, iii. 299. Remonstrate with En- 
genius III., It. 249. Addniss of French 
barons to, Ti. 320. Their reply, 822. 
King Philip's embassy to, 864. 

Cardinals, ifrench, Ti. 876, Tii. 199. 
Their dismay at Pope-s return to 
Rome. 216. At Rome, 228. At Anag- 
ni, 240. 

Cardinalt^ Italian, tII. 10. Elect Urban 
VI., 283. Violence of Romans towards, 
284. Their dlscontenc, 286. At TiToli, 
239. Arratit of by Urban VI., 257. 
Tortured. 2&S. Death of, 269. At 
ATigiion, 2S3. Tlieir embassy to Paris, 
286. Summon council, 807. At Con- 
stance, content with Emperor, 612. 
Pled^ themselTes to ivform, 687. 
Satires on, Tiii. 826. 

Carloman enters monastery of Monte 
C^uiiuo, ii. 408. His imprisonment 
and de.itn, 421. 

Carlomany mou of Pepin, liis part in Bo 
man fictionii, ii. 436. Jealous of his 
brother Charles, 438. His death, 448. 

Carloman, son of Louis the Germanic — 
King of Italy, iii. 91. Dies, 94. 

Carloman^ son of Charles ttie Bald, Iii. 
73. An abbot — heads a band of rol>- 
bers, 74. His depoiition, 79. Is blind- 
ed, and dies, 80. 

Carloningian empire, extinction of, iii. 

Caroecio of Milan, iii. 809. Taken al 
Corte NuoTa, t. 413. 

Carolinian books, ii. 602. Sent to Pope 
Hadrian I., 603. 

Carpentras^ conclaTe at, Tii. 16- 

Cartha^r, church of, its intercourse with 
that of Kome, i. 81; and subsequent 
dispute, 88. Council at, under Cypri- 
an, 89. 

Cartkagf, Council of, resists decision of 
Pope SSosimus. i. 182. Appeals to Ho* 
norius. 188. 

Casaie, Ubertino dl, Tii. 67. 

Cassianusy i. 189. His attachment to 
Chrysorttom, 190. A semi- Pelagian — 
oppo^d by Augustinians, 191. 

Castile^ aff.tirs of. t. 62 Threatened 
with interdict. 68. 

Castruceio of Lucca, tII. 71, 88, 96. 
Created senator of Rome, 99. His 
death, 106. 

Cathari, tI. 64. 

Catherine of Courtenay, nominal heiroM 
to Greek empire, tI. 216. 

Catherine^ St.. of Sienna, her mission to 
ATignon, Til. 228; to Ploreooe, 226. 

OaUholie church united, i. 480- J^ous 
of Theodorlo 488. Measures of in ths 





Alkgad eom^iMiM of at 

CbmdwotUlay iL 189. HtaeonqiMiit oTSiit- 
mx, 217. Hi* eoavenioD, 218. Goes 
to Home Ibr abaolntioii — dieii, 218. 

Cbcco d*A«eoli, AJtrologer, bumcd, til. 

'* Celestial HiBnrehy," viii. 191. Belfaf 
In, 192. Qrmk ocighi of, 196. 

Cete$ti$u I., Pope, i. 200. Pronoanciei 
agsiD«t Nestoriaii, 221. Sendb onrojv 
lo Oolutuitiiioplie, 228. Bxeonunani- 
cated NMtoriiu. 224. His letten to 
the Council of KpbMns, 238. 

OiMCiM, a follower of Pelagiai*, i- 164. 
Appeals to Pope Zosimus, 180. !• de- 
claxwl orthodox, 181. Bobeequentlj 
eondenmed, 184. 

CeUbaey, honor of, U. 98. 

QUbaef of elez|nr, i. 120 ; t. 282. Be- 
•Istanoe to, 1. 121. PrpTeots degener- 
acy cX ehorcb, iii. 874. Conseqaeoees 
of Till. 188. Iti eflect on raorak, 168. 

Celidomius — his appeal to Rome. i. 273. 

Cendus iieiaes Pope Gregory Yll., iii. 425. 
Uis flight. 427. 

CkneimSf Consul of Rome. iii. 602. 

Orry, crusade of, t. 86. 

Cesena. Michael di, general of Fraaeto- 
cans, his alignment, rii. 60. At Atjic- 
non, 61. Joins Louis of BaTaria, 109. 

Osema^ massacre of, Tii. 224, 264* 

Chadijah^ wife nf Mohammed, ii. 122. 
His first cooTert, 125. 

CkaleedoHy S^ynod of, i. 342. 

Chaleedon^ Council of, rererses sentence 
of Synod of Ifiphesus, i..292. Con- 
demns DioMorus, 298. Its decrees 
eonflrmcd by Bmperor Blaieian, 295. 
Equalises Bishops of Rome and Con- 
stantinople, 296. 

CSIampeanx, William of, It. 196. 

Ckamtery, Papal, Tli. 515. 

Chapters^ *-The Three." i. 465. Dis- 
putes about, 467. Condemned by Vi- 

Cfutrity of clergy. Till. 166. 

CharUmagne marries Hermingard, ii. 
488. Divoroes her — marries Hilde- 
nrd, 442. Sole King, 448. Besieges 
PaTia, 446. At Rome — his Donation 
to Pope Hadrian I., 447. Destroys the 
Lombard Idngdom, 448. His second 
Tisit to ilmne, 461. Suppraeses rebel- 
lions, 462. Crowned by Pope — conse- 
queoces of this act, 468. His league 
with the Pope, 461. Extent of his em- 

Sire, 466. His power personal, 468. 
[Is chafaeter. 471. His wItss, 471. 
His Saxon wnrs, 472. Destroys the 
Irmin-Saule, 477. His succeAws, 480. 
rounds bishoprics, 481. His ecelaslas- 
tkal legislation, 488, 491. Supremacy 
over choreh, 484. Orants to the 


ehmch. 488. His iMtltvtes, 411. 
Rules fbr monasteries, 498. ForehuvA 
g o ye m meni. 494. For election nf blslH 
ope, 495 ; and of parocliial clergy, 4W. 
Holds Council of Franklbri, i\^. His 
measumtf strengthen Papacy, 507. life- 
emtnre of, 606. His death, 618. His 
defenees against Northmen n q gie c ted 
after his detth. iU. 180. Legends eC 
Tii. 867. CooTcrsious by,8t)5. 

CkarUs Martel. protects St. BonMkce. fi. 
249. Ub Tictorf at Tooro. Sjo. Hat- 
ed by the Frankish clerK%. 391. 401. 
His Tiolation of Church property, 4U>. 
His death, 402. 

Charles the Bald, his birth, ii. 682. 
Seises Idngdom of Lorraine, iii. 70. 
Combines with his brother l<ouis, 78. 
His sons, 78 Usurps empire — crown- 
ed by Pope John Vin., 82. H» de- 
feat br Louis of Saxonr, and death, 

Chnrlfs the Fat crowned Anperor, iU. 97. 
His death, 102. 

C**arUs of Lonaine, iii. 206. 

Claries of Ai^u, his treaty with Uitaa 
IV.. Ti. 85. Senator of Rome, 90. At 
Home, 98. His Tictory at Beneeento, 
96. His tyranny, 96. Letter of Clem- 
ent IT. to, 106. Defeats and pota to 
de:«th Conradin, 114. His barbarity, 
118. His designs on CounUntioople, 
141. Procuies election of Martin IT., 
148. His ambition, 145. Hb prepara- 
tions against Peter of Arragon. 154. 
Htocondui't during Sieilian insume- 
tion, 158. Lays sl^ to Messina, 160. 
KnMTuates Sicily. 164. At Botdeaux, 
168. His rererses and death, 170. 

darUs II. of Naples (the I^me), takea 
prisoner. Ti. 170. Surrenders claim to 
Sicily, 173. His Ubeiation, 174. Show 
of deferenee to Ovleetine Y., 187. 
Gets Pope into his power, 190. Hb 
treaty with James of Arragon, 215. 
His enmity to Templan, 469. 

Charles III. of Naploi. tU. 280. C^n- 
•luctH Urban VI. to Naples, 258. Gon- 
falonier of the Church, 264. Quarrels 
with Pope. 265. Besieges Nocwm. 260. 
Murdered. 261. 

C'tarUs of Valois, his fruitless attempt 
upon Arragon. Ti. 169. Surrendsrs 
hw rliiim, 217. Invades Sicily. 230. 
Hii* vicniries in Flaodern, 276. His al- 
liance damages Pope, 294. Seeki 
empire, 418. 

Charts the Fair, his diTOrre and mi 
riage, tU. 80. Hb attempt on ampiia, 

Charles IV. (of MoiaTia), pinelalaed 
King of Romans, tII. 145 Hb flight 
at Ciecy, 147. Proposals of Rbmi to, 
187. Hb answer, 189. Goes to Italy, 




202. lunes thfl Golden Ball, 203. 
Viiiits ATignon, 215. At Rome, 217. 
Ring of Bohemia, 437. 

Charles TI. of France, attempts to end 
•chiam. vii, 280. Acknowledges Bene- 
dict XIII., 290. Proclaims neutrality 
between Poptw, 806. 

Chastity^ laws for protection of, y. 890. 

Chaucer^ riii. 872. An English poet, 885. 
His travels, reading, 385, 886 ; and po- 
etry. 387. Creator of native poetry, 
887. His pictures of ecclesiastics, 388. 
Imprisonment of. 891. 

Ckiehdejf^ Archbisbop of Canterbury, in- 
stigates Henry T. to war, tU. 680. 
fetter of Martin V. to, 581. 

OkUperie deposed, ii. 410. 

ChiveUry^ It. 35. Its origin in the 
Crusades. 01. Of the Saracens, 60. 
Adopts worship of Virgin, vUi. 206. 

Chlum^ De, Bohemian noble, protects 
Hnas, Tli. 444. 447. Supports him at 
Constance, 488, 489. 

Christy sculptured representations of in 
churches, viii. 448. Traditional rep- 
resentations of, 468, 469. Bepresented 
as judge, 470. 

CStrisUiidom^ three systems of law in, i. 
483. State of at accession of Innooent 
ni., !▼■ 472. Seeming peace of under 
Innocent III., t. 188. Public opinion 
in, 432. Advance of in the North, ri. 
539. ' Contest in, Tii. 104. Indignant 
at Papal schiam, 304. 

Christian morale, controreny on, 1. 78. 
Jurisprudence, 479, 481. It is mixed 
with secular, 482. Europe, unity of, 
▼ill. 163. Literature, 283. Terms, Teu- 
tonic, 361. Latin terms, 899. 

Christian mythology. See Legends. 

Christianity, in its origin Greek, i. 19. 
Its progressive development, 80. Ten- 
tonic, 28. In Rome; its gprawth, 47. 
Obscurity of, 49. Its eaily influence 
on morals, 60. Its apparent failure to 
produce good, 353. Its innate goodness 
and power, 354. Becomes warlike, 865. 
Barbarized by Teutonic conquests, 897. 
Its effect on Roman law, 480 Its 
special jurisprudence, 481. Introdu- 
ces new crimes, 512, 641. Its depend- 
ence on Papacy, ii. 4ti. Asiatic, its 
decline, 109. In Arabia, Imperfect, 
187. Eastern, its want of energy, 154. 
Feeble resistance to Mohammedism, 
156. Humiliation of, 160. Effect of 
Mohammedan conquests on, 169. The 
only bond of union in Europe, 178. 
Its extension in the West. 1/4. In 
Britain, 175. Unites the Anglo-Saxons, 
238. In Sweden, iii,. 189. Allied to 
mHitaxy spirit, iv. 85. Popular art!- 
elcs of, viii. 186. Adapted to human- 


Christi^her, Pope, iii. 166. 

OironieUs, viU. 881. 

Chronology of flnfe Ibur centnries, i. 83- 
89. Fifth centniy, 125. Sixth oen- 
tury, 810, 811. Seventh and eighth 
centuries, ii. 104-106. From a. s. 800 
to 1050, 464, 465. Eleventh century, 
iii. 359. Twelfth century, iv. 62, 68. 
Of Innocent m. , 469. Thirteenth c«n- 
tury, V. 282, 288. Fourteenth oentazy, 
8^. Fourteenth and fifteenth centu- 
ries, vii. 227. 

Chrysaphiusy the Eunuch, minister of 
ThAodosius II., his intrigues, i. 284. 

Chrysostom, translated ttom Antioch to 
Constantinoa^, i. 140. Ixkeurs enmity 
of Areadins — appeals to Pope and 
Western Bishops, 141. Supported by 
Innooent I. and Emperor Honorius, 
141, 142. 

Churchy Royal supremacy over. i. 482. 
Growing power of after Charlemagne. 
Ii. 538. Jealous of empire in Papal 
elections, iii. 240. Its power and wealth 

' lead to simony, 879. Enriched by cru- 
sades, iv. 45. Its jmiovusy of law, ▼. 
895. The, definition of, vii. 90. Great 
field Ibr ambition, 866. 

Chureh-intilding, viii. 425, 426. Incen- 
tives for, 427. Good efEwts of, 481. 

Church property, secured by Constan- 
tlne, i. 606. By other Emperors, 609. 
Rapid growth and inviolability of, 600- 
61i. Alarming increase of, in Fnuiee, 
686. Liable to taxation, 687. Tbssd 
under Becket's ohanoelloFship, iv. 820. 
Various kinds of, viii. 141. Extent of, 

Church services, settled by Qregorj the 
Great, ii. 55. EOect of on languages, 
viii. 856. 

ChureheSy sanctity of, ii. 99. Burial in, 
ii. 99. In Latin Christendom, viii. 410. 
In Rome, 416. In Constantinople, 418. 
At Ravenna, 420. Of Venice and Lom- 
bardy,421. For the priests, 428. Splen- 
dor of, 480. The people's, 481. Medii»- 
▼al, influence of, 460. 

Gmabue, tIU. 476. 

Circus^ contesto of, revived by Justinian, 
I. 451. 

Cisalpine architecture, viii. 411. 

Cistercian order, iv. 161. Monks, legates 
in South of France, v. 167. 

Citeauxy monks of, iv. 162. 

Cities under Frederick II., v. 887. 

Clairvaux. Abbey of, founded by St. Ber- 
nard, iv. 166. Innocent II. visits, 170. 

Clara Ibunds Poor Sisterhood at Aasiai, 

Clarendon, Council of, Iv. 886. Constitu- 
tions of, 887. Condemned by Alexan- 
der UI., 859. 




CUnuHau, Ufl poems on Sdlicho — his li- 
teoM about OhiiBtlanitv, i. 144. 

Ciaudiu* of Turin, U. 660. 

CUmtfU II., Pope, iii. 287. Crowns 
Henry III. Emperor — attempts to re- 
form Ohurch, 287. Dies, 288. 

Oemfnt III. raconeiled to Romans, ir. 

Clement lY., legate to Cngland, tI. 87. 
Holds court at Boulogne, 89. Cbosen 
Pope, 91. Supports Charles of Anjon, 
92. Commands crusade against Kog- 
lish Barons, 100. His legate in Eng- 
land, 102. His treatment of James of 
Arragon, 107. Declaration against Con- 
zadin — adTlce to Charles of Anjou, 106. 
Accused of counselling death of Con- 
radln, 116. Dies, 117. Countenances 
Roger Bacon, Till. 292. 

Clement V. (Bernard de Ooth). ▼!. 878. 
His secret compact with Pnilip the 
lUr, 874. Elected Pope. 876. Coreo^ 
tion at Lyons, 876. His measures in 
Vrench interest, 876, 881. AbeolTce 
Edward I. firom oaths, 880. Excom- 
municates Robert Bruce, 881. His em- 
barrassment, 881. Consents to call 
Council of Vienne, 382. AbM)lTes Wil- 
Uam of Nogaret, 88d. Summons Grand- 
masters of MlUtaxy orders, 890. His 
indignation at the arrest of Templars, 
409. His Bull to Edward II., 410. His 
alarm at power of the Valois, 418. His 
dissimulation, 414. His racillation in 
the matter of the Templars, 417. 4S0. 
Appoints commission, 432. His in- 
TolTed position and weakness, 474. At 
ATignon — fidls to retard proceedings 
against Boniflioe YIII., 484. His dif- 
ficulties, 486. Correspondence with 
Philip. 487. Claims sole jurisdiction in 
matter of Bonifkoe YIIL. 488. Opens 
consistory at Arlgnon, 490. Examines 
witnesses, 498. Is permitted to pro- 
nounce Judgment, 600. His Bull, oOl ; 
and Judgment, 602. Holds Council of 
Ylenne. 604. Lays Yenice under inter- 
dict, 618. His league with Henry of 
Luxemburg, 614. His death — his 
wealth and nepotism, 680. Decline of 
Papacy in him, 681. UeTiew of his 
Popedom and policy, 681. Pereeention 
of heretics under, tU. 60. Dispute 
about his wealth, 61. 

CUfnent YI.. his first acts, tII. 186. His 
splendid court, 186. Nepotism of, 188. 
Excommunicates Louis of Bavaria, 
189, 144. du pports Charles of MoraTia, 
146. Hi'< declaimtion against Rienil, 
181. Speech in defoDce of MetMUcants 
— his death, 198. 

Clement VII. (Robert of Genera) com- 
mands mercenaries in Italy, vii. 222. 
Sacks Vfeeasa and Oesena, 224. At con- 

elaTB at Bome, 281. 

248. His acts— flies from 1tafim',1»S 
Crowns Louis of Aqjon King of Naples, 
262. At ATignon, 2BS. Deputation jo, 
fbom University of Paris, 278. 
death, 278. 

Cementina^ The, origin of, i. 61. •»— - 
ism of, 62. Hatred to St. Paol becnjcd 
therein, 62. 

Clergy encourage superstitioo, I. 400. 
Laws of Justinian for. 486. In th« 
west were Latin, 646. DelinqueocMre 
of, 661. Sanctity of, mirarnloosl} as- 
serted, il. 98. Low-born, enrouragv^l 
by Louis the Pioun, 688. Inferior,^ii> 
security of. iii. 62. Plundered h/ 
Northmen, 72. Heredltarv. danger o^ 
876. Their luxury , ir 228i Tbvir iw- 
lations with people, t. 281. Taxatioa 
of, 819 ; Ti. 268. Their hatred of Meu- 
dieants, tU. 822. Adminintratlve in- 
fluence of, Till. 186. Their spiritual 
power, 186. Their wealth, 144. Unity. 
167. Their common language, Itib. 
Ubiquity, 161. Unite Europe, 162. 
Effects of on social rank, 163. Of low 
birth, 166. Charity of —assert equal- 
ity *of mankind, 166, 167. Mofml» Qi; 
leS. Buildings of, «». 

Ocrgy, oeUbacy of, ▼. 282 ; viii. 168. 

Gergy^ marriage of, allowed In Vbm Greek 
churoh, i. 79; and in the earl> Roman, 
79. Maintained at Milan, m. 818. <\m- 
demned by Stephen IX., 31t». Prer- 
alence of, 814-861. Continued utiHb 
about. 841-861. Urged upon Couadl 
of Basle, rii. 662. 

Clergy^ married, in ItaJr, liL 878. Is 
Germany, 879. In nance, fflO. In 
England, 882 ; vi. 106. Hamh decree 
of Gregory YII. against, Iii. 419. Tbdr 
resistance in Fiance, ^12. 

Clergy, English, their benefits to civiliB. 
tion, ii. Zi8. Remonstimte against P^ 
pal exactions, ▼. 486. Subordinate to 
King^s courts, ri. 289. Approre meas- 
ures of Edward I., 244. Taxation << 

249. Refuse subsidy, 281. Are oot- 
lawed, 261. They tield, 288. Gmt- 
dians of national Utierties, 264. Sub. 
Jeet to elril laws, ril. 846. Allen, ped- 
tlon against, tU. 874. Promote Fraick 
wars, 680. Piers Ploughman on, TliL 
477. Of Chancer. 889. 

CVrrgy, French, obey Papal Interdlet, It. 

646. Contempt of in Prorenee, 164. 

In crusade against heretics, 180. 206. 

At Lateran Council, 212. Taxation o^ 

▼1. 288. Their submimion to Philip the 

Ikir, 274. 
Oergy, German, how elected under Char> 

lemagne, ii. 496. Their reTeouea. 486. 
dsffy, Roman, impress Teutons with m* 

spect, i. 806. Their self-devotion aa4 




pfttienM, 860. Th«ir inflQeoee in wftra 
of Vranks, 886. Look upoa Vnnlu as 
deUTenn, 887. OooUniM distinct, 888. 
Indulge tIom of Teutonic princes, 805. 
Subject to oommoQ law among Teutonii, 
619, 622. Admitted to national coun- 
cils, 624. Their position as mediators, 

Ctergy, in Sicily. laws of Frederick II. 
about, T. 886. 

dargy^ immunities of. See Immunities. 

CltriaU crimes, ir. 880. Jurisdiction 
separate, established by William the 
Conqueror, 888. 

Qermomt^ Council of. It. 28. Determines 
on Crusade, 81. 

Climate, as affecting architecture, viii. 

CUrisirai painters, riii. 481, 482. 

OotUda, Queen of Clovis, i. 879. Is the 
means of Cloris's conversion, 880. 

CloviSf a pagan Frankish chief, i. 878. 
Blarries Clotilda, 879. Ills conrersion, 
880. The only orthodox soTereign, 881. 
His religious wars against Buzgundians, 
882. i^nst Visigoths, 884. His fe- 
rocity and perfidy. 885. 

CSvgny, abbey of, its degeneracy, It. 

CbMam, Lord, tU. 417. His trial, 420. 
Escapes, 421. His arrest and execution, 

Code of Justinian. See Justinian. 

Codes previous to Juscinian, 1. 484. 

CaUsUne II. (Ouido diCastello), a friend 
of Ab^lard, iv. 219. Protects Arnold 
of Brescia, 287. Sleeted Pope, 241. 
His death, 242. 

OotUsiine III., crowns Emperor Henry 
YI., It. 448. Queen Eleanor's letters 
to, 461. Excommunicates Emperor, 
466. Removes excommunication after 
Henry's death, 468. 

CaUstine IV., his election and death, v. 

CaUsiine V. (Peter Morrone), his monas- 
tieism, vl. 188; and visions, 184. Re- 
ceives announcement of his election, 
186. His reluctance, 186. Inaugura- 
tion, 188. At Naples, 190. His hermit 
followers, 187, 197. Becomes a tool of 
Charles the I^me, 191. Abdicates, 194. 
Legality of the act doubted, 198. 
Beiaed and imprisoned— dies, 208. His 
canonintlon. 200. 

QtUsHmanSy vi. 210. Unite with FraU- 
celU, 291. 

Coin^ debasement of, vi. 879. 

CbUegfS, foundation of. viii. 179, 180. 

Cologne^ tumults in, iv. 411. Burning 
of heretics at, v. 161. 

Colonna^ Cardinal, v. 461. 

CoUmna^ James, vii. 102. 

CoUmnat Otto. See Martin V. 


Colonna, Sciam, in Italy, vi. 851. His 
attack on'Bonifkoe VIII., 862. Violent 

conduct, 864. Excepted from Papal 
pardon. 868. Captain of Roouui peo- 
ple, vii. 96. His flight, 107. Death, 

Cohntuiy Stephen, his submission to 
Riensi, vii. 164. 

Colonneuy vi. 178. Their^seendency, 178. 
Bonitace VIU Jealous of, 222. Their 
power, 228. Papal Bull against, 224. 
Their reply, 226. Excommunicat*^!, 
226. Their castles taken, 228. Their 
flight. 280. Excluded from Jubilee. 286. 
Received by King of France, 805. Their 
calumnies against Bonilaoe VII., 844. 
Restored by Benedict XI., 862. Under 
Roman republic, 176. Defeated by 
Rlenai, 179. 

Columban, St., ii. 287. His birth, 288. 
His travels, 288. Foundfl monastery at 
Luxeuil, and abbey of Fontalues — his 
dispute with Gaulish Bishops. 289. Re- 
bukes King Thierri and Queeu Brune- 
haut, 240,241. Is banished, 243. Re- 
turns to France, 244. His strife with 
pagans in Switierland — removes to 
Bregens, 246. Thence to Bobbio, 246. 

Comedies, religious, viii. 817. 

CommendamSf vii. 619-621. 

Commissioners, Papal, at Montmirail, Iv. 

Commissioners in the matter of the Tem- 
plars, vi. 419. Their sittings at Paris, 
42ii. Call on Templars to appoidt proo- 
tors, 486. Continue examinations, 447. 
Adjourn, 448. 

Commodus. reign of, i. 66. Toleration of 
Christianity— death, 67. 

Commons, English, petition against hie- 
rarchy, vii. 866. Petition Henry lY., 
viii. 149. 

Commons of France, vi. 416. 

Conception^ Immaculate, viii. 206. 

Conceptualism of Ab^lard, iv. 228. 

ConeorrJat of Worms, iv. 144. 

Concordats of Martin V. not accepted by 
nationrt, vii. 620. 

Concubinage legalised, i. 603. Of clergy, 

Otnfession, auricular, v. 281; viii. 187. 

Cunonj Pope. ii. 287. 

Conon. Cardinal of Praeneste, iv. 120. 

Conrad the Salic, KIdk of Italy, his coro- 
nation at Milan, ill. 806, 807. Crowned 
at Rome as Emperor, 227. 

Conrad III., Emperor, invited by Roman 
insurgents, iv. 240. Takes the oro^s, 252. 

Conrad y son of Henry IV.. his character, 
iii. 614. His league with Papal faction 
— accuf«es his father, 516. Is crowned 
Kingof Italv. 516. Marries a Norman 
prinrefis. 520, 521. Dbiuherited by 
Henry, iv. 08. Uis death, 78. 



Qmrad, King of Italy, «lIfauiM with 
Otho of B«Taria, t. 492. Defeated by 
Henry of Thnringla, 483. Bzcommn- 
nieated, 607- Obtains poawtwion of 
Napleii, 511. Jealoui of Manfred, 514. 
His death, 515. 

Conrad of Lntaenberg, ir. 481. His sab- 
missioQ to Innocent III. 482. 

Conrad, Archbishop of Hants, It. 606. 
His death, 509. 

Conrad, Bishop of Wortibaig, iv. 520. 
His ui order, 521. 

Conradin, infiuit son and suocmmmt of 
Oourad, ▼■ 516: Ti. 107. Supported 
by Romans, 111. His sucoesRes. 112. 
Knters Home, 118. Defeated and put 
to death. 115. 

*' ConsoiatioHs of Philosophy," i. 448. Its 
want of Christianity, 444. 

Constancty treaty of, iT. 489. Town of, 
Tii. 848. 

Constance, Council of. Til. ^26. Prepan^ 
tlons for, 427. Ol^ts of, 488. Sermon 
before, 448. Number of cleiigy at, 460. 
Good order, 458. ReceiTes deputies 
ftom aDtipopes, 457. Right of suf- 
ftage, 458. Propoml for a new Pope, 
464. Quarrel, 466. Tumult, 469. 
D«claree itself supreme, 471. Decrees 
of, 475. Cit«e the Pope, 478. De- 
elai^is his deposition, 479. Its views 
of church rvfurm, 480. Condemns 
WyeliflH, 484. Sends to interrogate 
Huss, 486. Appearance of Hues be- 
fore, 487. Pronounces against admin- 
latntion of cup to laity. 498. Sen- 
tences HuRS, 496. Its leniencT to Pope 
John XXm. , 506. Censures ' doctrine 
of Jean Petit. 508. Contest of with 
Benedict XIII., 510. DiTisions in, 512, 
613. EndeaTors for reform, 519. Con- 
elusion of, 522. Results. 528. Unan- 
imous against heresy, 524. 

Constan* I., i. 101. 

ConttanM II., his Jealous cruelty, li. 274. 
Withdraws the Kethesis, 276. Arrests 
Pope Martin I.. 279. Murders his 
brother Theodosius, 281. At Itome— 
plunders tlie churches — dies atSyra- 
cujM!, 282. 

Constantia, heiress of Sicily, m*rriea 
Henry V., iv. 441. Taken by Tanered, 
and released. 450. Her mildnens, 458. 
Swenrs allegiance to Pope, 484. Makes 
Innocent III. guardian of her son — 
dies, 484. 

Conatantine, couTer s ion of, i. 98. Grants 
priTilegf>B to Ronmn church, 96. Por- 
phvrv font of, Tii. 171. Churches of, 
Tiii. 416. 

CbiMlonitfif in., ii. 278. His death, 278. 

ComAantin* the Bearded, Emperor — 
summons council at Constantinople, 
U. 288. 


Constantime Copronymtis, bparar, fi. 
823. Tkkea Constantinople, aB& Fol- 
lows up the plans ot Leo — rails tUtd 
ooundi of Constantinople, 887. Hia 
seTerity — persecutes monks, 384, 885. 
His eruelty to Patriarch, 886. Uia 
character and death, 888. 

Con^anti$u Porph^rogeuitus, his aeeas- 
rion and minority, ii. 8fi. His eon- 
test with liis mother Irene. 86S. 
Sei»d and bUndod, 854. Bis death, 

Constantin*^ Pope( Us dispute with 
Bishop of RaTenna, ii. 290. At Con- 
stantinople. 291. 

Constantine usurps Popedom — dspoaad, 
ii. 432. Blinded and cmeUy treated, 

Chnstantinf, Bisiiop of Sybenm, 
Bishop of Constantinople, ii. 832 
graded by the Anperor. 886. Crael 
treatment of and death, 887. 

ConsUuUitu, founder of PauUrlana, t. 

ConttoMtmopU, foundation of, i. 98. 
Nestorian question iu, 218. 
of. dependent on the OoMirt, 296 
oliitions in mixed up with rtU^oOf 
820. Tumults in, 888. Claims aa- 
premaey of Church, ii. 70. Ueroln* 
tlons at, on death of HeneUoa, 273. 
Council of, condemns monothelitism, 
284. Tumults in, against kMmoelaam, 
810. Tliird couucil (rf, condemns imi- 
age-worship, 827-881. RsTOlntioaa in, 
T. 92. Taken by Crusaders. 108. Par- 
tition of, 104. Sacked. 107. Bfleets 
of conquest of, 125. Taken by Turks, 
Till. 118. Roman art in, 417. 
fen's buildings in, 420. 

Constamtiu*, i. 99. Hla 
Pope Liberins, 108-106. 

Conuntfilation of God, Till. 81D. 

CofUribMion* to Crusades, t. 77 
eation of, 85. 

Controvtrty about Easter, i. 61 
tiao morals, 78. Lapel, 88. 
88. Re-baptism of bereties, 88 
itarian, 96. Pelagian. 164. 
lagiau, 192. Nestorfan, 800. 217. Pii»- 
cillUnite, 277. Entychian. 382. Of 
the three chapters. ^. Monothellte. 
ii. 266. Of iconoclasm, 298 Of mar- 
riage of clerg>, iU. 818, {ut tlergy). 
Of inTestiture, 415 ; It. 98. Tsananb- 
stantiation, iii. 476. Predestination, 
iT. 182. In&nt baptism, t. 148. Ab- 
solute poverty, tU. 56. Franriaran, 
58. On papal power. 68. Of beatifla 
Tision, 116. Of ttw cup to liOtT. 464. 
Immaculate conception. Till. 808 

Conventional art, tUI. 478. 

Contttas. See Monasteries. 

Conversion of Gannani within tfaa ^n- 






piro,!. 866. Of Bor^nindlans. 877. Of 
Fnoks, 878. Of Teutoiu, its effect, 889. 
Of MoraTianSf iii. 128. Of Hungary, 271. 

Cmvoeation, tM. 876. At Oxford, 898. 

Otrbey, abbej of, ill. 186. 

Cornelius^ Pope, i. 88. Ilia confeasion, 
86. His exile and death, 85. 

CorreggiOy Oheranlo Papalict Lord of 
Parma, t. 496. 

Coneara^ Peter de. See Nicolas V. 

Cosmieal theories, yiii. 228. 

Council^ General, Pliilip tfae Fair's ap- 
Deal to, Ti. 846. Prnposals for. vU. 
246. Assumption of power by, 818. 

CkmnnlSy Oeneral. diserRditable charac- 
ter of, 1. 226. The causn of this, 228, 

CotmeiU^ (Ecomentc, of Nicea, i. 66. 
Carthage, 182. Epheeus, 229. Chal- 
eedon, 242 Second Chalcedon, 291. 
Oonstaatinople, ii. 284. Second Nicea, 
845. Lyons, yi. 129. Constance, rii. 
428. Basle, 661. 

Councils^ (Ecumenic, disputed, Constan- 
tinople, i. 466. Third Constantinople, 

Cmerttnay^ William, Archbishop of Can- 
terbury, Til. 889. Condemns Wyclifb's 
tenets. 891. 

Conrtetfy source of. In Crusades, It. 61. 

Cowtrai^ battle of. Ti. 827. 

Ckmrts of Jus