The Age of Faith

2. The Eastern Bishops

Christianity was now (400) almost completely triumphant in the East. In Egypt the native Christians, or Copts,* were already a majority of the population, supporting hundreds of churches and monasteries. Ninety Egyptian bishops acknowledged the authority of the patriarch in Alexandria, who almost rivaled the power of the Pharaohs and the Ptolemies. Some of these patriarchs were ecclesiastical politicians of no lovable type, like the Theophilus who burned to the ground the pagan temple and library of Serapis (389). More pleasing is the modest bishop of Ptolemais, Synesius. Born in Cyrene (c. 365), he studied mathematics and philosophy at Alexandria under Hypatia; to the end of his life he remained her devoted friend, calling her “the true exponent of the true philosophy.” He visited Athens and was there confirmed in his paganism; but in 403 he married a Christian lady, and gallantly accepted Christianity; he found it a simple courtesy to transform his Neoplatonic trinity of the One, the nous, and the Soul into the Father, Spirit, and the Son.⁴⁵ He wrote many delightful letters, and some minor philosophical works of which none is of value to anyone today except his essay In Praise of Baldness. In 410 Theophilus offered him the bishopric of Ptolemais. He was now a country gentleman, with more money than ambition; he protested that he was unfit, that he did not (as the Nicene Creed required) ‘believe in the resurrection of the body, that he was married, and had no intention of abandoning his wife. Theophilus, to whom dogmas were instruments, winked at these errors, and transformed Synesius into a bishop before the philosopher could make up his mind. It was typical of him that his last letter was to Hypatia, and his last prayer to Christ.⁴⁶

In Syria the pagan temples were disposed of in the manner of Theophilus. Imperial edicts ordered them closed; the surviving pagans resisted the order but resigned themselves to defeat on noting the indifference with which their gods accepted destruction. Asiatic Christianity had saner leaders than those of Egypt.* In a short life of fifty years (329?–379) the great Basil learned rhetoric under Libanius in Constantinople, studied philosophy in Athens, visited the anchorites of Egypt and Syria, and rejected their introverted asceticism; became bishop of Caesarea in Cappadocia, organized Christianity in his country, revised its ritual, introduced self-supporting cenobitic monasticism, and drew up a monastic rule that still governs the monasteries of the Greco-Slavonic world. He advised his followers to avoid the theatrical severities of the Egyptian anchorites, but rather to serve God, health, and sanity by useful work; tilling the fields, he thought, was an excellent prayer. To this day the Christian East acknowledges his pre-eminent influence.

In Constantinople hardly a sign of pagan worship remained. Christianity itself, however, was torn with conflict; Arianism was still powerful, new heresies were always rising, and every man had his own theology. “This city,” wrote Basil’s brother, Gregory of Nyassa, about 380, “is full of mechanics and slaves who are all of them profound theologians, and preach in the shops and the streets. If you desire a man to change a piece of silver he informs you wherein the Son differs from the Father; if you ask the price of a loaf.… you are told that the Son is inferior to the Father; and if you inquire whether the bath is ready, the answer is, the Son was made out of nothing.”⁴⁷ In the reign of Theodosius I the Syrian Isaac founded the first monastery in the new capital; similar institutions rapidly multiplied; and by 400 the monks were a power and a terror in the city, playing a noisy role in the conflicts of patriarch with patriarch, and of patriarch with emperor.

Gregory Nazianzen learned the bitterness of sectarian hatred when he accepted a call from the orthodox Christians of Constantinople to be their bishop (379). Valens had just died, but the Arians whom that Emperor had set up were still in ecclesiastical control, and held their services in St. Sophia. Gregory had to house his altar and his congregation in the home of a friend, but he called his modest church by a hopeful name—Anastasia (Resurrection). He was a man of equal piety and learning; he had studied in Athens along with his countryman Basil, and only his second successor would rival his eloquence. His congregation grew and grew till it was larger than those of the official basilicas. On the eve of Easter, 379, a crowd of Arians attacked the Anastasia chapel with a volley of stones. Eighteen months later the orthodox Emperor Theodosius led Gregory in pomp and triumph to his proper throne in St. Sophia. But ecclesiastical politics soon ended his tranquillity; jealous bishops proclaimed his appointment invalid, and ordered him to defend himself before a council. Too proud to fight for his see, Gregory resigned (381) and returned to Cappadocian Nazianzus, to spend the remaining eight years of his life in obscurity and peace.

When his indifferent successor died, the imperial court invited to St. Sophia a priest of Antioch known to history as St. John Chrysostom—of the Golden Mouth. Born (345?) of a noble family, he had imbibed rhetoric from Libanius, and had familiarized himself with pagan literature and philosophy; in general the Eastern prelates were more learned and disputatious than those of the West. John was a man of keen intellect and sharper temper. He disturbed his new congregation by taking Christianity seriously, condemning in plain terms the injustices and immoralities of the age.⁴⁸ He denounced the theater as an exhibition of lewd women, and as a school of profanity, seduction, and intrigue. He asked the opulent Christians of the capital why they spent so much of their wealth in loose living, instead of giving most of it to the poor as Christ had commanded. He wondered why some men had twenty mansions, twenty baths, a thousand slaves, doors of ivory, floors of mosaic, walls of marble, ceilings of gold; and threatened the rich with hell for entertaining their guests with Oriental dancing girls.⁴⁹ He scolded his clergy for their lazy and luxurious lives,⁵⁰ and their suspicious use of women to minister to them in their rectories; he deposed thirteen of the bishops under his jurisdiction for licentiousness or simony; and he reproved the monks of Constantinople for being more frequently in the streets than in their cells. He practiced what he preached: the revenues of his see were spent not in the display that usually marked the Eastern bishoprics, but in the establishment of hospitals and in assistance to the poor. Never had Constantinople heard sermons so powerful, brilliant, and frank. Here were no pious abstractions, but Christian precepts, applied so specifically that they hurt.

Who could be more oppressive than the landlords? If you look at the way in which they treat their miserable tenants, you will find them more savage than barbarians. They lay intolerable and continual imposts upon men who are weakened with hunger and toil throughout their lives, and they put upon them the burden of oppressive services. … They make them work all through the winter in cold and rain, they deprive them of sleep, and send them home with empty hands….

The tortures and beatings, the exactions and ruthless demands for services, which such men suffer from agents are worse than hunger. Who could recount the ways in which these agents use them for profit and then cheat them? Their labor turns the agent’s olive-press; but they receive not a scrap of the produce which they are compelled illegally to bottle for the agents, and they get only a tiny sum for their work.⁵¹

Congregations like to be scolded, but not to be reformed. The women persisted in their perfumes, the wealthy in their banquets, the clergy in their female domestics, the theaters in their revelations; and soon every group in the city except the powerless poor was against the man with the golden mouth. The Empress Eudoxia, wife of Arcadius, was leading the gay set of the capital in luxurious living. She interpreted one of John’s sermons as alluding to her, and she demanded of her weakling husband that he call a synod to try the patriarch. In 403 a council of Eastern bishops met at Chalcedon. John refused to appear, on the ground that he should not be tried by his enemies. The council deposed him, and he went quietly into exile; but so great a clamor of protest rose from the people that the frightened Emperor recalled him to his see. A few months later he was again denouncing the upper classes, and made some critical comments on a statue of the Empress. Eudoxia once more demanded his expulsion; and Theophilus of Alexandria, always ready to weaken a rival see, reminded Arcadius that the Chalcedon decree of deposition still stood, and could be enforced. Soldiers were sent to seize Chrysostom; he was conveyed across the Bosporus, and banished to a village in Armenia (404). When his faithful followers heard the news they broke out in wild insurrection; and in the tumult St. Sophia and the near-by Senate house were set on fire. From his exile Chrysostom sent letters of appeal to Honorius and the bishop of Rome. Arcadius ordered him removed to the remote desert of Pityus in Pontus. On the way the exhausted prelate died at Comana, in the sixty-second year of his age (407). From that time to this, with brief intermissions, the Eastern Church has remained the servant of the state.

V. ST. AUGUSTINE (354–430)

1. The Sinner

The North Africa in which Augustine was born was a miscellany of breeds and creeds. Punic and Numidian blood mingled with Roman in the population, perhaps in Augustine; so many of the people spoke Punic—the old Phoenician language of Carthage—that Augustine as bishop appointed only priests who could speak it. Donatism challenged orthodoxy, Manicheism challenged both, and apparently the majority of the people were still pagan.⁵² Augustine’s birthplace was Tagaste in Numidia. His mother, St. Monica, was a devoted Christian, whose life was almost consumed in caring and praying for her wayward son. His father was a man of narrow means and broad principles, whose infidelities were patiently accepted by Monica in the firm belief that they could not last forever.

At twelve the boy was sent to school at Madaura, and at seventeen to higher studies at Carthage. Salvian would soon describe Africa as “the cesspool of the world,” and Carthage as “the cesspool of Africa”;⁵³ hence Monica’s parting advice to her son:

She commanded me, and with much earnestness forewarned me, that I should not commit fornication, and especially that I should never defile any man’s wife. These seemed to me no better than women’s counsels, which it would be a shame for me to follow. … I ran headlong with such blindness that I was ashamed among my equals to be guilty of less impudency than they were, whom I heard brag mightily of their naughtiness; yea, and so much the more boasting by how much more they had been beastly; and I took pleasure to do it, not for the pleasure of the act only, but for the praise of it also; … and when I lacked opportunity to commit a wickedness that should make me as bad as the lost, I would feign myself to have done what I never did.⁵⁴

He proved an apt pupil in Latin also, and in rhetoric, mathematics, music, and philosophy; “my unquiet mind was altogether intent to seek for learning.”⁵⁵ He disliked Greek, and never mastered it or learned its literature; but he was so fascinated by Plato that he called him a “demigod,”⁵⁶ and did not cease to be a Platonist when he became a Christian. His pagan training in logic and philosophy prepared him to be the most subtle theologian of the Church.

Having graduated, he taught grammar at Tagaste, and then rhetoric at Carthage. Since he was now sixteen “there was much ado to get me a wife”; however, he preferred a concubine—a convenience sanctioned by pagan morals and Roman law; still unbaptized, Augustine could take his morals where he pleased. Concubinage was for him a moral advance; he abandoned promiscuity, and seems to have been faithful to his concubine until their parting in 385. In 382, still a lad of eighteen, he found himself unwillingly the father of a son, whom he called at one time “son of my sin,” but more usually Adeodatus—gift of God. He came to love the boy tenderly, and never let him go far from his side.

At twenty-nine he left Carthage for the larger world of Rome. His mother, fearing that he would die unbaptized, begged him not to go, and when he persisted, besought him to take her with him. He pretended to consent; but at the dock he left her at prayer in a chapel, and sailed without her.⁵⁷ At Rome he taught rhetoric for a year; but the students cheated him of his fees, and he applied for a professorship at Milan. Symmachus examined him, approved, and sent him to Milan by state post. There his brave mother overtook him, and persuaded him to listen with her to the sermons of Ambrose. He was moved by them, but even more by the hymns the congregation sang. At the same time Monica won him over to the idea of marriage, and in effect betrothed him, now thirty-two, to a girl with more money than years. Augustine agreed to wait two years till she should be twelve. As a preliminary he sent his mistress back to Africa, where she buried her grief in a nunnery. A few weeks of continence unnerved him, and instead of marrying he took another concubine. “Give me chastity,” he prayed, “but not yet!”⁵⁸

Amid these diversions he found time for theology. He had begun with his mother’s simple faith, but had cast it off proudly at school. For nine years (374–83) he accepted Manichean dualism as the most satisfactory explanation of a world so indifferently compounded of evil and good. For a time he flirted with the skepticism of the later Academy; but he was too emotional to remain long in suspended judgment. At Rome and Milan he studied Plato and Plotinus; Neoplatonism entered deeply into his philosophy, and, through him, dominated Christian theology till Abélard. It became for Augustine the vestibule to Christianity. Ambrose had recommended him to read the Bible in the light of Paul’s statement that “the letter killeth but the spirit maketh to live.” Augustine found that a symbolic interpretation removed what had seemed to him the puerilities of Genesis. He read Paul’s epistles, and felt that here was a man who, like himself, had passed through a thousand doubts. In Paul’s final faith there had been no mere abstract Platonic Logos, but a Divine Word that had become man. One day, as Augustine sat in a Milan garden with his friend Alypius, a voice seemed to keep ringing in his ears: “Take up and read; take up and read.” He opened Paul again, and read: “Not in rioting and drunkenness, not in chambering and wantonness, not in strife and envying; but put ye on the Lord Jesus Christ, and make not provision for the flesh to fulfill the lusts thereof.” The passage completed for Augustine a long evolution of feeling and thought; there was something infinitely warmer and deeper in this strange faith than in all the logic of philosophy. Christianity came to him as a profound emotional satisfaction. Surrendering the skepticism of the intellect, he found, for the first time in his life, moral stimulus and mental peace. His friend Alypius confessed himself ready for a like submission. Monica, receiving their capitulation, melted her heart out in grateful prayer.

On Easter Sunday of 387 Augustine, Alypius, and Adeodatus were baptized by Ambrose, with Monica standing happily by. All four resolved to go to Africa and live a monastic life. At Ostia Monica died, confident of reunion in paradise. Arrived in Africa, Augustine sold his modest patrimony and gave the proceeds to the poor. Then he and Alypius and some friends formed a religious community, and lived at Tagaste in poverty, celibacy, study, and prayer. So was founded (388) the Augustinian order, the oldest monastic fraternity in the West.

2. The Theologian

In 389 Adeodatus passed away, and Augustine mourned him as bitterly as if still uncertain of the eternal bliss awaiting those who died in Christ. Work and writing were his only consolations. In 391 Valerius, Bishop of near-by Hippo (now Bone), asked his aid in administering the diocese, and for this purpose ordained him a priest. Valerius often yielded the pulpit to him, and Augustine’s eloquence impressed the congregation even when they could not understand him. Hippo was a seaport of some 40,000 population; the Catholics had one church there, the Donatists another; the remainder of the people were Manicheans or pagans. The Manichean bishop, Fortunatus, had hitherto dominated the theological scene; Donatists joined Catholics in urging Augustine to meet him in debate; he consented; and for two days these novel gladiators crossed words before a crowd that filled the Baths of Sosius. Augustine won; Fortunatus left Hippo, and never returned (392).

Four years later Valerius, alleging his age, asked the congregation to choose his successor. Augustine was unanimously elected; and though he protested and wept, and begged the privilege of returning to his monastery, he was prevailed upon, and for the remaining thirty-four years of his life he was Bishop of Hippo; from this foot of earth he moved the world. He chose one or two deacons, and brought two monks from his monastery to help him; they lived monastically and communistically in the episcopal rectory; Augustine was a bit puzzled to understand how one of his aides, at death, could leave a tidy legacy.⁵⁹ All subsisted on a vegetarian diet, reserving meat for guests and the sick. Augustine himself is described as short and thin, and never strong; he complained of a lung disorder, and suffered unduly from the cold. He was a man of sensitive nerves, easily excited, of keen and somewhat morbid imagination, of subtle and flexible intellect. Despite a tenacious dogmatism and some occasional intolerance, he must have had many lovable qualities; several men who came to learn rhetoric from him accepted his lead into Christianity; and Alypius followed him to the end.

He had hardly taken his seat as bishop when he began a lifelong war against the Donatists. He challenged their leaders to public debate, but few cared to accept; he invited them to friendly conferences, but was met first with silence, then with insult, then with violence; several Catholic bishops in North Africa were assaulted, and some attempts seem to have been made upon the life of Augustine himself;⁶⁰ however, we do not have the Donatist side of this story. In 411 a council called by the Emperor Honorius met at Carthage to quiet the Donatist dispute; the Donatists sent 279 bishops, the Catholics 286-but bishop in Africa meant little more than parish priest. The Emperor’s legate, Marcellinus, after hearing both sides, decreed that the Donatists must hold no further meetings, and must hand over all their churches to the Catholics. The Donatists replied with acts of desperate violence, including, we are told, the murder of Restitutus, a priest of Hippo, and the mutilation of another member of Augustine’s staff. Augustine urged the government to enforce its decree vigorously;⁶¹ he retracted his earlier view that “no one should be coerced into the unity of Christ … that we must fight only by arguments, and prevail only by force of reason”;⁶² he concluded that the Church, being the spiritual father of all, should have a parent’s right to chastise an unruly son for his own good;⁶³ it seemed to him better that a few Donatists should suffer “than that all should be damned for want of co-ercion.”⁶⁴ At the same time he pled repeatedly with the state officials not to enforce the death penalty against the heretics.⁶⁵

Aside from this bitter contest, and the cares of his see, Augustine lived in the Country of the Mind, and labored chiefly with his pen. Almost every day he wrote a letter whose influence is still active in Catholic theology. His sermons alone fill volumes; and though some are spoiled by an artificial rhetoric of opposed and balanced clauses, and many deal with local and transient topics in a simple style adapted to his unlettered congregation, many of them rise to a noble eloquence born of mystic passion and profound belief. His busy mind, trained in the logic of the schools, could not be confined within the issues of his parish. In treatise after treatise he labored to reconcile with reason the doctrines of the Church that he had come to revere as the one pillar of order and decency in a ruined and riotous world. He knew that the Trinity was a stumbling block to the intellect; for fifteen years he worked on his most systematic production—De Trinitate—struggling to find analogies in human experience for three persons in one God. More puzzling still-filling all Augustine’s life with wonder and debate—was the problem of harmonizing the free will of man with the foreknowledge of God. If God is omniscient He sees the future in all details; since God is immutable, this picture that He has of all coming events lays upon them the necessity of occurring as He has foreseen them; they are irrevocably predestined. Then how can man be free? Must he not do what God has foreseen? And if God has foreseen all things, He has known from all eternity the final fate of every soul that He creates; why, then, should He create those that are predestined to be damned?

In his first years as a Christian Augustine had written a treatise De libero arbitrio (On Free Will). He had sought then to square the existence of evil with the benevolence of an omnipotent God; and his answer was that evil is the result of free will: God could not leave man free without giving him the possibility of doing wrong as well as right. Later, under the influence of Paul’s epistles, he argued that Adam’s sin had left upon the human race a stain of evil inclination; that no amount of good works, but only the freely given grace of God, could enable the soul to overcome this inclination, erase this stain, and achieve salvation. God offered this grace to all, but many refused it. God knew that they would refuse it; but this possibility of damnation was the price of that moral freedom without which man would not be man. The divine foreknowledge does not destroy this freedom; God merely foresees the choices that man will freely make.⁶⁶

Augustine did not invent the doctrine of original sin; Paul, Tertullian, Cyprian, Ambrose had taught it; but his own experience of sin, and of the “voice” that had converted him, had left in him a somber conviction that the human will is from birth inclined to evil, and can be turned to good only by the gratuitous act of God. He could not explain the evil inclination of the will except as an effect of Eve’s sin and Adam’s love. Since we are all children of Adam, Augustine argued, we share his guilt, are, indeed, the offspring of his guilt: the original sin was concupiscence. And concupiscence still befouls every act of generation; by the very connection of sex with parentage mankind is a “mass of perdition,” and most of us will be damned. Some of us will be saved, but only through the grace of the suffering Son of God, and through the intercession of the Mother who conceived Him sinlessly. “Through a woman we were sent to destruction; through a woman salvation was restored to us.”⁶⁷

Writing so much and so hurriedly—often, it appears, by dictation to amanuenses—Augustine fell more than once into exaggerations which later he strove to modify. At times he propounded the Calvinistic doctrine that God arbitrarily chose, from all eternity, the “elect” to whom He would give His saving grace.⁶⁸ A crowd of critics rose to plague him for such theories; he conceded nothing, but fought every point to the end. From England came his ablest opponent, the footloose monk Pelagius, with a strong defense of man’s freedom, and of the saving power of good works. God indeed helps us, said Pelagius, by giving us His law and commandments, by the example and precepts of His saints, by the cleansing waters of baptism, and the redeeming blood of Christ. But God does not tip the scales against our salvation by making human nature inherently evil. There was no original sin, no fall of man; only he who commits a sin is punished for it; it transmits no guilt to his progeny.⁶⁹ God does not predestine man to heaven or hell, does not choose arbitrarily whom He will damn or save; He leaves the choice of our fate to ourselves. The theory of innate human depravity, said Pelagius, was a cowardly shifting to God of the blame for man’s sins. Man feels, and therefore is, responsible; “if I ought, I can.”

Pelagius came to Rome about 400, lived with pious families, and earned a reputation for virtue. In 409 he fled from Alaric, first to Carthage, then to Palestine. There he dwelt in peace till the Spanish priest Orosius came from Augustine to warn Jerome against him (415). An Eastern synod tried the monk, and declared him orthodox; an African synod, prodded by Augustine, repudiated this finding, and appealed to Pope Innocent I, who declared Pelagius a heretic; whereupon Augustine hopefully announced, “Causa finita est” (The case is finished).⁷⁰* But Innocent, dying, was succeeded by Zosimus, who pronounced Pelagius guiltless. The African bishops appealed to Honorius; the Emperor was pleased to correct the Pope; Zosimus yielded (418); and the Council of Ephesus (431) condemned as a heresy the Pelagian view that man can be good without the helping grace of God.

Augustine could be caught in contradictions and absurdities, even in morbid cruelties of thought; but he could not be overcome, because in the end his own soul’s adventures, and the passion of his nature, not any chain of reasoning, molded his theology. He knew the weakness of the intellect: it was the individual’s brief experience sitting in reckless judgment upon the experience of the race; and how could forty years understand forty centuries? “Dispute not by excited argument,” he wrote to a friend, “those things which you do not yet comprehend, or those which in the Scriptures appear … to be incongruous and contradictory; meekly defer the day of your understanding.”⁷¹ Faith must precede understanding. “Seek not to understand that you may believe, but believe that you may understand”—crede ut intelligas.⁷² “The authority of the Scriptures is higher than all the efforts of the human intelligence.”⁷³ The Bible, however, need not always be taken literally; it was written to be intelligible to simple minds, and had to use corporeal terms for spiritual realities.⁷⁴ When interpretations differ we must rest in the decision of the Church councils, in the collective wisdom of her wisest men.⁷⁵

But even faith is not enough for understanding; there must be a clean heart to let in the rays of the divinity that surrounds us. So humbled and cleansed, one may, after many years, rise to the real end and essence of religion, which is “the possession of the living God.” “I desire to know God and the soul. Nothing more? Nothing whatever.”⁷⁶ Oriental Christianity spoke mostly of Christ; Augustine’s theology is “of the First Person”; it is of and to God the Father that he speaks and writes. He gives no description of God, for only God can know God fully;⁷⁷ probably “the true God has neither sex, age, nor body.”⁷⁸ But we can know God, in a sense intimately, through creation; everything in the world is an infinite marvel in its organization and functioning, and would be impossible without a creative intelligence;⁷⁹ the order, symmetry, and rhythm of living things proclaims a kind of Platonic deity, in whom beauty and wisdom are one.⁸⁰

We need not believe, says Augustine, that the world was created in six “days”; probably God in the beginning created only a nebulous mass (nebulosa species); but in this mass lay the seminal order, or productive capacities (rationes seminales), from which all things would develop by natural causes.⁸¹ For Augustine, as for Plato, the actual objects and events of this world pre-existed in the mind of God “as the plan of a building is conceived by the architect before it is built”;⁸² and creation proceeds in time according to these eternal exemplars in the divine mind.

3. The Philosopher

How shall we do justice so briefly to so powerful a personality, and so fertile a pen? Through 230 treatises he spoke his mind on almost every problem of theology and philosophy, and usually in a style warm with feeling and bright with new-coined phrases from his copious mint. He discussed with diffidence and subtlety the nature of time.⁸³ He anticipated Descartes’ “Cogito, ergo sum”: to refute the Academics, who denied that man can be certain of anything, he argued: “Who doubts that he lives and thinks? … For if he doubts, he lives.”⁸⁴ He presaged Bergson’s complaint that the intellect, through long dealing with corporeal things, is a constitutional materialist; he proclaimed, like Kant, that the soul is the most directly known of all realities, and clearly stated the idealistic position—that since matter is known only through mind, we cannot logically reduce mind to matter.⁸⁵ He suggested the Schopenhauerian thesis that will, not intellect, is fundamental in man; and he agreed with Schopenhauer that the world would be improved if all reproduction should cease.⁸⁶

Two of his works belong to the classics of the world’s literature. The Confessions (c. 400) is the first and most famous of all autobiographies. It is addressed directly to God, as a 100,000-word act of contrition. It begins with the sins of his youth, tells vividly the story of his conversion, and occasionally bursts into a rhapsody of prayer. All confessions are camouflage, but there was in this one a sincerity that shocked the world. Even as Augustine wrote it—forty-six and a bishop—the old carnal ideas “still live in my memory and rush into my thoughts; … in sleep they come upon me not to delight only, but even so far as consent, and most like to the deed”;⁸⁷ bishops are not always so psychoanalytically frank. His masterpiece is the moving story of how one soul came to faith and peace, and its first lines are its summary: “Thou hast created us for Thyself, and our hearts know no rest until they repose in Thee.” His faith is now unquestioning, and rises to a moving theodicy:

Too late I came to love Thee, O Thou Beauty both so ancient and so fresh. … Yea, also the heaven and the earth, and all that is in them, bid me on every side that I should love Thee. … What now do I love when I love Thee? … I asked the earth, and it answered, I am not it. … I asked the sea and the deeps and the creeping things, and they answered: We are not thy God; seek above us. I asked the fleeting winds, and the whole air with its inhabitants answered me: Anaximenes was deceived; I am not God. I asked the heavens, the sun and moon and stars; nor, said they, are we the God whom Thou seekest. And I replied unto all these: … Answer me concerning God; since that you are not He, answer me concerning Him. And they cried out with a loud voice: He made us. … They are not well in their wits to whom anything which Thou hast created is displeasing. … In Thy gift we rest; … in Thy good pleasure lies our peace.*⁸⁸

The Confessions is poetry in prose; the City of God (413–26) is philosophy in history. When the news of Alaric’s sack of Rome reached Africa, followed by thousands of desolate refugees, Augustine was stirred, like Jerome and others, by what seemed an irrational and Satanic calamity. Why should the city whose beauty and power men had built and reverenced through centuries, and now the citadel of Christendom, be surrendered by a benevolent deity to the ravages of barbarians? Pagans everywhere attributed the disaster to Christianity: the ancient gods, plundered, dethroned, and proscribed, had withdrawn their protection from the Rome that under their guidance had grown and prospered for a thousand years. Many Christians were shaken in their faith. Augustine felt the challenge deeply; all his vast temple of theology threatened to collapse if this panic of fear were not allayed. He resolved to devote all the powers of his genius to convincing the Roman world that such catastrophes did not for a moment impugn Christianity. For thirteen years he labored on his book, amid a press of obligations and distractions. He published it in piecemeal installments; the middle of it forgot the beginning and did not foresee the end; inevitably its 1200 pages became a confused concatenation of essays on everything from the First Sin to the Last Judgment; and only the depth of its thought, and the splendor of its style, lifted it out of its chaos to the highest rank in the literature of Christian philosophy.

Augustine’s initial answer was that Rome had been punished not for her new religion but for her continued sins. He described the indecency of the pagan stage, and quoted Sallust and Cicero on the corruption of Roman politics. Once Rome had been a nation of stoics, strengthened by Catos and Scipios; she had almost created law, and had given order and peace to half the world; in those heroic days God had made His face to shine upon her. But the seeds of moral decay lay in the very religion of ancient Rome, in gods who encouraged, rather than checked, the sexual nature of man: “the god Virgineus to loose the virgin’s girdle, Subigus to place her under the man, Prema to press her down … Priapus upon whose huge and beastly member the new bride was commanded by religious order to get up and sit!”⁸⁹ Rome was punished because she worshiped, not because she neglected, such deities. The barbarians spared Christian churches and those who fled to them, but showed no mercy to the remnants of pagan shrines; how, then, could the invaders be the agents of a pagan revenge?

Augustine’s second answer was a philosophy of history—an attempt to explain the events of recorded time on one universal principle. From Plato’s conception of an ideal state existing “somewhere in heaven,” from St. Paul’s thought of a community of saints living and dead,⁹⁰ from the Donatist Tyconius’ doctrine of two societies, one of God and one of Satan,⁹¹ Augustine took the basic idea of his book as a tale of two cities: the earthly city of worldly men devoted to earthly affairs and joys; and the divine city of the past, present, and future worshipers of the one true God. Marcus Aurelius had provided a noble phrase: “The poet could say of Athens, Thou lovely city of Cecrops; and shalt not thou say of the world, Thou lovely city of God?”⁹²—but Aurelius had meant by this the whole orderly universe. The civitas Dei, says Augustine, was founded by the creation of the angels; the civitas terrena by the rebellion of Satan. “Mankind is divided into two sorts: such as live according to man, and such as live according to God. These we mystically call the ‘two cities’ or societies, the one predestined to reign eternally with God, the other condemned to perpetual torment with the Devil.”⁹³ An actual city or empire need not in all aspects be confined within the Earthly City; it may do good things—legislate wisely, judge justly, and aid the Church; and these good actions take place, so to speak, within the City of God. This spiritual city, again, is not identical with the Catholic Church; the Church too may have terrestrial interests, and its members may fall into self-seeking and sin, slipping from one city into the other. Only at the Last Judgment will the two cities be separate and distinct.⁹⁴

By a symbolic extension of her membership to heavenly as well as to earthly souls, to pre-Christian as well as Christian righteous men, the Church may be—and by Augustine occasionally is—identified with the City of God.⁹⁵ The Church would later accept this identification as an ideological weapon of politics, and would logically deduce from Augustine’s philosophy the doctrine of a theocratic state, in which the secular powers, derived from men, would be subordinate to the spiritual power held by the Church and derived from God. With this book paganism as a philosophy ceased to be, and Christianity as a philosophy began. It was the first definitive formulation of the medieval mind.

4. The Patriarch

The old lion of the faith was still at his post when the Vandals came. To the end he remained in the theological arena, felling new heresies, countering critics, answering objections, resolving difficulties. He considered gravely whether woman will retain her sex in the next world; whether the deformed and the mutilated, the thin and the fat, will be reborn as they were; and how those will be restored who were eaten by others in a famine.⁹⁶ But age had come upon him, with sad indignities. Asked about his health he replied: “In spirit I am well … in body I am confined to bed. I can neither walk nor stand nor sit down because of swelling piles. … Yet even so, since that is the Lord’s good pleasure, what should I say but that I am well?”⁹⁷

He had done his best to deter Boniface from rebellion against Rome, and had shared in recalling him to loyalty. As Gaiseric advanced, many bishops and priests asked Augustine should they stay at their posts or flee; he bade them stay, and gave example. When the Vandals laid siege to Hippo, Augustine maintained the morale of the starving people by his sermons and his prayers. In the third month of the siege he died, aged seventy-six. He left no will, having no goods; but he had written his own epitaph: “What maketh the heart of the Christian heavy? The fact that he is a pilgrim, and longs for his own country.”⁹⁸

Few men in history have had such influence. Eastern Christianity never took to him, partly because he was thoroughly un-Greek in his limited learning and in his subordination of thought to feeling and will; partly because the Eastern Church had already submitted to the state. But in the West he gave a definitive stamp to Catholic theology. Anticipating and inspiring Gregory VII and Innocent III, he formulated the claim of the Church to supremacy over the mind and the state; and the great battles of popes against emperors and kings were political corollaries of his thought. Until the thirteenth century he dominated Catholic philosophy, giving it a Neoplatonic tinge; and even Aquinas the Aristotelian often followed his lead. Wyclif, Huss, and Luther believed they were returning to Augustine when they left the Church; and Calvin based his ruthless creed upon Augustine’s theories of the elect and the damned. At the same time that he stimulated men of intellect, he became an inspiration to those whose Christianity was more of the heart than of the head; mystics tried to retrace his steps in seeking a vision of God; and men and women found food and phrases for their piety in the humility and tenderness of his prayers. It may be the secret of his influence that he united and strengthened both the philosophical and the mystical strains in Christianity, and opened a path not only for Thomas Aquinas but for Thomas à Kempis as well.

His subjective, emotional, anti-intellectual emphasis marked the end of classical, the triumph of medieval, literature. To understand the Middle Ages we must forget our modern rationalism, our proud confidence in reason and science, our restless search after wealth and power and an earthly paradise; we must enter sympathetically into the mood of men disillusioned of these pursuits, standing at the end of a thousand years of rationalism, finding all dreams of utopia shattered by war and poverty and barbarism, seeking consolation in the hope of happiness beyond the grave, inspired and comforted by the story and figure of Christ, throwing themselves upon the mercy and goodness of God, and living in the thought of His eternal presence, His inescapable judgment, and the atoning death of His Son. St. Augustine above all others, and even in the age of Symmachus, Claudian, and Ausonius, reveals and phrases this mood. He is the most authentic, eloquent, and powerful voice of the Age of Faith in Christendom.

VI. THE CHURCH AND THE WORLD

Augustine’s argument against paganism was the last rebuttal in the greatest of historic debates. Paganism survived in the moral sense, as a joyous indulgence of natural appetites; as a religion it remained only in the form of ancient rites and customs condoned, or accepted and transformed, by an often indulgent Church. An intimate and trustful worship of saints replaced the cult of the pagan gods, and satisfied the congenial polytheism of simple or poetic minds. Statues of Isis and Horus were renamed Mary and Jesus; the Roman Lupercalia and the feast of the purification of Isis became the Feast of the Nativity;⁹⁹ the Saturnalia were replaced by Christmas celebrations, the Floralia by Pentecost, an ancient festival of the dead by All Souls’ Day,¹⁰⁰ the resurrection of Attis by the resurrection of Christ.¹⁰¹ Pagan altars were rededicated to Christian heroes; incense, lights, flowers, processions, vestments, hymns, which had pleased the people in older cults were domesticated and cleansed in the ritual of the Church; and the harsh slaughter of a living victim was sublimated in the spiritual sacrifice of the Mass.

Augustine had protested against the adoration of saints, and in terms that Voltaire might have used in dedicating his chapel at Ferney: “Let us not treat the saints as gods; we do not wish to imitate those pagans who adore the dead. Let us not build them temples, nor raise altars to them; but with their relics let us raise an altar to the one god.”¹⁰² The Church, however, wisely accepted the inevitable anthropomorphism of popular theology. She resisted,¹⁰³ then used, then abused, the cult of martyrs and relics. She opposed the worship of images and icons, and warned her faithful that these should be reverenced only as symbols;¹⁰⁴ but the ardor of public feeling overcame these cautions, and led to the excesses that aroused the Byzantine iconoclasts. The Church denounced magic, astrology, and divination, but medieval, like ancient, literature, was full of them; soon people and priests would use the sign of the cross as a magic incantation to expel or drive away demons. Exorcisms were pronounced over the candidate for baptism, and total nude immersion was required lest a devil should hide in some clothing or ornament.¹⁰⁵ The dream cures once sought in the temples of Aesculapius could now be obtained in the sanctuary of Sts. Cosmas and Damian in Rome, and would soon be available at a hundred shrines. In such matters it was not the priests who corrupted the people, but the people who persuaded the priests. The soul of the simple man can be moved only through the senses and the imagination, by ceremony and miracle, by myth and fear and hope; he will reject or transform any religion that does not give him these. It was natural that amid war and desolation, poverty and disease, a frightened people should find refuge and solace in chapels, churches, and cathedrals, in mystic lights and rejoicing bells, in processions, festivals, and colorful ritual.

By yielding to these popular necessities the Church was enabled to incul-cate a new morality. Ambrose, always the Roman administrator, had tried to formulate the ethics of Christianity in Stoic terms, converting Cicero to his needs; and in the greater Christians of the Middle Ages, from Augustine to Savonarola, the Stoic ideal of self-control and uncompromising virtue informed the Christian mold. But that masculine morality was not the ideal of the people. They had had Stoics long enough; they had seen the masculine virtues incarnadine half the world; they longed for gentler, quieter ways, by which men might be persuaded to live in stability and peace. For the first time in European history the teachers of mankind preached an ethic of kindliness, obedience, humility, patience, mercy, purity, chastity, and tenderness—virtues perhaps derived from the lowly social origins of the Church, and their popularity among women, but admirably adapted to restore order to a de-moralized people, to tame the marauding barbarian, to moderate the violence of a falling world.

The reforms of the Church were greatest in the realm of sex. Paganism had tolerated the prostitute as a necessary mitigation of an arduous monogamy; the Church denounced prostitution without compromise, and demanded a single standard of fidelity for both sexes in marriage. She did’not quite succeed; she raised the morals of the home, but prostitution remained, driven into stealth and degradation. Perhaps to counterbalance a sexual instinct that had run wild, the new morality exaggerated chastity into an obsession, and subordinated marriage and parentage to a lifelong virginity or celibacy as an ideal; and it took the Fathers of the Church some time to realize that no society could survive on such sterile principles. But this puritanic reaction can be understood if we recall the licentiousness of the Roman stage, the schools of prostitution in some Greek and Oriental temples, the widespread abortion and infanticide, the obscene paintings on Pompeian walls, the unnatural vice so popular in Greece and Rome, the excesses of the early emperors, the sensuality of the upper classes as revealed in Catullus and Martial, Tacitus and Juvenal. The Church finally reached a healthier view, and indeed came in time to take a lenient attitude to sins of the flesh. Meanwhile some injury was done to the conception of parentage and the family. Too many Christians of these early centuries thought that they could serve God best—or, rather, most easily escape hell—by abandoning their parents, mates, or children, and fleeing from the responsibilities of life in the frightened pursuit of a selfishly individual salvation. In paganism the family had been the social and religious unit; it was a loss that in medieval Christianity this unit became the individual.

Nevertheless the Church strengthened the family by surrounding marriage with solemn ceremony, and exalting it from a contract to a sacrament. By making matrimony indissoluble she raised the security and dignity of the wife, and encouraged the patience that comes from hopelessness. For a time the status of woman was hurt by the doctrine of some Christian Fathers that woman was the origin of sin and the instrument of Satan; but some amends were made by the honors paid to the Mother of God. Having accepted marriage, the Church blessed abundant motherhood, and sternly forbade abortion or infanticide; perhaps it was to discourage these practices that her theologians damned to a limbo of eternal darkness any child that died without baptism. It was through the influence of the Church that Valentinian I, in 374, made infanticide a capital crime.

The Church did not condemn slavery. Orthodox and heretic, Roman and barbarian alike assumed the institution to be natural and indestructible; a few philosophers protested, but they too had slaves. The legislation of the Christian emperors in this matter does not compare favorably with the laws of Antoninus Pius or Marcus Aurelius. Pagan laws condemned to slavery any free woman who married a slave; the laws of Constantine ordered the woman to be executed, and the slave to be burned alive. The Emperor Gratian decreed that a slave who accused his master of any offense except high treason to the state should be burned alive at once, without inquiry into the justice of the charge.¹⁰⁶ But though the Church accepted slavery as part of the law of war, she did more than any other institution of the time to mitigate the evils of servitude. She proclaimed, through the Fathers, the principle that all men are by nature equal—presumably meaning in legal and moral rights; she practiced the principle in so far as she received into her communion all ranks and classes: though no slave could be ordained to the priesthood, the poorest freedman could rise to high places in the ecclesiastical hierarchy. The Church repudiated the distinction made in pagan law between wrongs done to a freeman and those done to a slave. She encouraged manumission, made emancipation of slaves a mode of expiating sins, or of celebrating some good fortune, or of approaching the judgment seat of God. She spent great sums freeing from slavery Christians captured in war.¹⁰⁷ Nevertheless slavery continued throughout the Middle Ages, and died without benefit of clergy.

The outstanding moral distinction of the Church was her extensive provision of charity. The pagan emperors had provided state funds for poor families, and pagan magnates had done something for their “clients” and the poor. But never had the world seen such a dispensation of alms as was now organized by the Church. She encouraged bequests to the poor, to be administered by her; some abuses and malversation crept in, but that the Church carried out her obligations abundantly is attested by the jealous emulation of Julian. She helped widows, orphans, the sick or infirm, prisoners, victims of natural catastrophes; and she frequently intervened to protect the lower orders from unusual exploitation or excessive taxation.¹⁰⁸ In many cases priests, on attaining the episcopacy, gave all their property to the poor. Christian women like, Fabiola, Paula, and Melania devoted fortunes to charitable work. Following the example of pagan valetudinaria, the Church or her rich laymen founded public hospitals on a scale never known before. Basil established a famous hospital, and the first asylum for lepers, at Caesarea in Cappadocia. Xenodochia—refuges for wayfarers—rose along pilgrim routes; the Council of Nicaea ordered that one should be provided in every city Widows were enlisted to distribute charity, and found in this work a new significance for their lonely lives. Pagans admired the steadfastness of Christians in caring for the sick in cities stricken with famine or pestilence.¹⁰⁹

What did the Church do in these centuries for the minds of men? As Roman schools still existed, she did not feel it her function to promote intellectual development. She exalted feeling above intellect; in this sense Christianity was a “romantic” reaction against the “classic” trust in reason; Rousseau was merely a lesser Augustine. Convinced that survival demanded organization, that organization required agreement on basic principles and beliefs, and that the vast majority of her adherents longed for authoritatively established beliefs, the Church defined her creed in unchangeable dogmas, made doubt a sin, and entered upon an unending conflict with the fluent intellect and changeable ideas of men. She claimed that through divine revelation she had found the answers to the old problems of origin, nature, and destiny; “we who are instructed in the knowledge of truth by the Holy Scriptures,” wrote Lactantius (307), “know the beginning of the world and its end.”¹¹⁰ Tertullian had said as much a century before (197), and had suggested a cloture on philosophy.¹¹¹ Having displaced the axis of man’s concern from this world to the next, Christianity offered supernatural explanations for historical events, and thereby passively discouraged the investigation of natural causes; many of the advances made by Greek science through seven centuries were sacrificed to the cosmology and biology of Genesis.

Did Christianity bring a literary decline? Most of the Fathers were hostile to pagan literature, as permeated with a demonic polytheism and a degrading immorality; but the greatest of the Fathers loved the classics notwithstanding, and Christians like Fortunatus, Prudentius, Jerome, Sidonius, and Ausonius aspired to write verse like Virgil’s or prose like Cicero’s. Gregory Nazianzen, Chrysostom, Ambrose, Jerome, and Augustine outweigh, even in a literary sense, their pagan contemporaries—Ammianus, Symmachus, Claudian, Julian. But after Augustine prose style decayed; written Latin took over the rough vocabulary and careless syntax of the popular speech; and Latin verse for a time deteriorated into doggerel before molding new forms into majestic hymns.

The basic cause of cultural retrogression was not Christianity but barbarism; not religion but war. The human inundations ruined or impoverished cities, monasteries, libraries, schools, and made impossible the life of the scholar or the scientist. Perhaps the destruction would have been worse had not the Church maintained some measure of order in a crumbling civilization. “Amid the agitations of the world,” said Ambrose, “the Church remains unmoved; the waves cannot shake her. While around her everything is in a horrible chaos, she offers to all the shipwrecked a tranquil port where they will find safety.”¹¹² And often it was so.

The Roman Empire had raised science, prosperity, and power to their ancient peaks. The decay of the Empire in the West, the growth of poverty and the spread of violence, necessitated some new ideal and hope to give men consolation in their suffering and courage in their toil: an age of power gave way to an age of faith. Not till wealth and pride should return in the Renaissance would reason reject faith, and abandon heaven for utopia. But if, thereafter, reason should fail, and science should find no answers, but should multiply knowledge and power without improving conscience or purpose; if all utopias should brutally collapse in the changeless abuse of the weak by the strong: then men would understand why once their ancestors, in the barbarism of those early Christian centuries, turned from science, knowledge, power, and pride, and took refuge for a thousand years in humble faith, hope, and charity.

CHAPTER IV

Europe Takes Form

325–529

I. BRITAIN BECOMES ENGLAND: 325–577

UNDER Roman rule every class in Britain flourished except the peasant proprietors. The large estates grew at the expense of small holdings; the free peasant was in many cases bought out, and became a tenant farmer, or a proletarian in the towns. Many peasants supported the Anglo-Saxon invaders against the landed aristocracy.¹ Otherwise, Roman Britain prospered. Cities multiplied and grew, wealth mounted;² many homes had central heating and glass windows;³ many magnates had luxurious villas. British weavers already exported those excellent woolens in which they still lead the world. A few Roman legions, in the third century, sufficed to maintain external security and internal peace.

But in the fourth and fifth centuries security was threatened on every front: on the north by the Picts of Caledonia; on the east and south by Norse and Saxon raiders; on the west by the unsubdued Celts of Wales and the adventurous Gaels and “Scots” of Ireland. In 364–7 “Scot” and Saxon coastal raids increased alarmingly; British and Gallic troops repelled them, but Stilicho had to repeat the process a generation later. In 381 Maximus, in 407 the usurper Constantine, took from Britain, for their personal purposes, legions needed for home defense, and few of these men returned. Invaders began to pour over the frontiers; Britain appealed to Stilicho for help (400), but he was fully occupied in driving Goths and Huns from Italy and Gaul. When a further appeal was made to the Emperor Honorius he answered that the British must help themselves as best they could.⁴ “In the year 409,” says Bede, “the Romans ceased to rule in Britain.”⁵

Faced with a large-scale invasion of Picts, the British leader Vortigern invited some North German tribes to come to his help.⁶ Saxons came from the region of the Elbe, Angles from Schleswig, Jutes from Jutland. Tradition—perhaps legend—reports that the Jutes arrived in 449 under the command of two brothers suspiciously named Hengist and Horsa—i.e., stallion and mare. The vigorous Germans drove back the Picts and “Scots,” received tracts of land as reward, noted the military weakness of Britain, and sent the joyful word to their fellows at home.⁷ Uninvited German hordes landed on Britain’s shores; they were resisted with more courage than skill; they alternately advanced and retired through a century of guerrilla war; finally the Teutons defeated the British at Deorham (577), and made themselves masters of what would later be called Angle-land—England. Most Britons thereafter accepted the conquest, and mingled their blood with that of the conquerors; a hardy minority retreated into the mountains of Wales and fought on; some others crossed the Channel and gave their name to Brittany. The cities of Britain were ruined by the long contest; transport was disrupted, industry decayed; law and order languished, art hibernated, and the incipient Christianity of the island was overwhelmed by the pagan gods and customs of Germany. Britain and its language became Teutonic; Roman law and institutions disappeared; Roman municipal organization was replaced by village communities. A Celtic element remained in English blood, physiognomy, character, literature, and art, but remarkably little in English speech, which is now a cross between German and French.

If we would feel the fever of those bitter days we must turn from history to the legends of Arthur and his knights, and their mighty blows to “break the heathen and uphold the Christ.” St. Gildas, a Welsh monk, in a strange book, half history and half sermon, On the Destruction of Britain (546?), mentions a “siege of Mons Badonicus” in these wars; and Nennius, a later British historian (c. 796), tells of twelve battles that Arthur fought, the last at Mt. Badon near Bath.⁸ Geoffrey of Monmouth (1100?–54) provides romantic details: how Arthur succeeded his father Uther Pendragon as king of Britain, opposed the invading Saxons, conquered Ireland, Iceland, Norway, and Gaul, besieged Paris in 505, drove the Romans out of Britain, suppressed at great sacrifice of his men the rebellion of his nephew Modred, killed him in battle at Winchester, was himself mortally wounded there, and died “in the 542nd year of Our Lord’s incarnation.”⁹ William of Malmesbury (1090?–1143) informs us that

when Vortimer [Vortigern’s brother] died, the strength of the Britons decayed, and they would soon have perished altogether had not Ambrosius, the sole survivor of the Romans, … quelled the presumptuous barbarians with the powerful aid of the warlike Arthur. Arthur long upheld the sinking state, and roused the broken spirit of his countrymen to war. Finally, at Mt. Badon, relying on an image of the Virgin which he had affixed to his armor, he engaged 900 of the enemy single-handed, and dispersed them with incredible slaughter.¹⁰

Let us agree that it is incredible. We must be content with accepting Arthur as in essentials a vague but historical figure of the sixth century, probably not a saint, probably not a king.¹¹ The rest we must resign to Chrétien of Troyes, the delectable Malory, and the chaste Tennyson.

II. IREAND: 160–529

The Irish believe—and we cannot gainsay them—that their island of “mists and mellow fruitfulness” was first peopled by Greeks and Scythians a thousand or more years before Christ, and that their early chieftains—Cuchalain, Conor, Conall—were sons of God.¹² Himilco, the Phoenician explorer, touched Ireland about 510 B.C., and described it as “populous and fertile.”¹³ Perhaps in the fifth century before Christ some Celtic adventurers from Gaul or Britain or both crossed into Ireland, and conquered the natives, of whom we know nothing. The Celts apparently brought with them the iron culture of Hallstatt, and a strong kinship organization that made the individual too proud of his clan to let him form a stable state. Clan fought clan, kingdom fought kingdom, for a thousand years; between such wars the members of a clan fought one another; and when they died, good Irishmen, before St. Patrick came, were buried upright ready for battle, with faces turned toward their foes.¹⁴ Most of the kings died in battle, or by assassination.¹⁵ Perhaps out of eugenic obligation, perhaps as vicars of gods who required first fruits, these ancient kings, according to Irish tradition, had the right to deflower every bride before yielding her to her husband. King Conchobar was praised for his especial devotion to this duty.¹⁶ Each clan kept a record of its members and their genealogy, its kings and battles and antiquities, “from the beginning of the world.”¹⁷

The Celts established themselves as a ruling class, and distributed their clans in five kingdoms: Ulster, North Leinster, South Leinster, Munster, Connaught. Each of the five kings was sovereign, but all the clans accepted Tara, in Meath, as the national capital. There each king was crowned; and there, at the outset of his reign, he convened the Feis or convention of the notables of all Ireland to pass legislation binding on all the kingdoms, to correct and record the clan genealogies, and to register these in the national archives. To house this assembly King Cormac mac Airt, in the third century, built a great hall, whose foundations can still be seen. A provincial council—the Aonach, or Fair—met annually or triennially in the capital of each kingdom, legislated for its area, imposed taxes, and served as a district court. Games and contests followed these conventions: music, song, jugglery, farces, story-telling, poetry recitals, and many marriages brightened the occasion, and a large part of the population shared in the festivity. From this distance, which lends enchantment to the view, such a reconciliation of central government and local freedom seems almost ideal. The Feis continued till 560; the Aonach till 1168.

The first character whom we may confidently count as historical is Tuathal, who ruled Leinster and Meath about A.D. 160. King Niall (c. 358) invaded Wales and carried off immense booty, raided Gaul, and was killed (by an Irishman) on the river Loire; from him descended most of the later Irish kings (O’Neills). In the fifth year of the reign of his son Laeghaire (Leary), St. Patrick came to Ireland. Before this time the Irish had developed an alphabet of straight lines in various combinations; they had an extensive literature of poetry and legend, transmitted orally; and they had done good work in pottery, bronze, and gold. Their religion was an animistic polytheism, which worshiped sun and moon and divers natural objects, and peopled a thousand spots in Ireland with fairies, demons, and elves. A priestly clan of white-robed druids practiced divination, ruled sun and winds with magic wands and wheels, caused magic showers and fires, memorized and handed down the chronicles and poetry of the tribe, studied the stars, educated the young, counseled the kings, acted as judges, formulated laws, and sacrificed to the gods from altars in the open air. Among the sacred idols was a gold-covered image called the Crom Cruach; this was the god of all the Irish clans; to him, apparently, sacrifice was offered of the first-born child in every family¹⁸—perhaps as a check on excessive population. The people believed in reincarnation, but they also dreamed of a heavenly isle across the sea, “where there is no wailing or treachery, nothing rough or harsh, but sweet music striking upon the ear; a beauty of a wondrous land, whose view is a fair country, incomparable in its haze.”¹⁹ A story told how Prince Conall, moved by such descriptions, embarked in a boat of pearl and set out to find this happy land.

Christianity had come to Ireland a generation or more before Patrick. An old chronicle, confirmed by Bede, writes, under the year 431: “Palladius is ordained by Pope Celestine, and is sent as their first bishop to the Irish believers in Christ.”²⁰ Palladius, however, died within the year; and the honor of making Ireland unalterably Catholic fell to her patron saint.

He was born in the village of Bonnaventa in western England, of a middle class family, about 389. As the son of a Roman citizen, he was given a Roman name, Patricius. He received only a modest education, and apologized for his rusticitas; but he studied the Bible so faithfully that he could quote it from memory to almost any purpose. At sixteen he was captured by “Scot” (Irish) raiders and taken to Ireland, where for six years he served as a herder of pigs.²¹ In those lonely hours “conversion” came to him; he passed from religious indifference to intense piety; he describes himself as rising every day before dawn to go out and pray in whatever weather—hail or rain or snow. At last he escaped, found his way to the sea, was picked up, desolate, by sailors, and was carried to Gaul, perhaps to Italy. He worked his way back to England, rejoined his parents, and lived with them a few years. But something called him back to Ireland—perhaps some memory of its rural loveliness, or the hearty kindliness of its people. He interpreted the feeling as a divine message, a call to convert the Irish to Christianity. He went to Lérins and Auxerre, studied for the priesthood, and was ordained. When news reached Auxerre that Palladius was dead, Patrick was made a bishop, dowered with relics of Peter and Paul, and sent to Ireland (432).

He found there, on the throne of Tara, an enlightened pagan, Laeghaire. Patrick failed to convert the king, but won full freedom for his mission. The Druids opposed him, and showed the people their magic; Patrick met them with the formulas of the exorcists—a minor clerical order—whom he had brought with him to cast out demons. In the Confessions that he wrote in his old age Patrick tells of the perils he encountered in his work: twelve times his life was in danger; once he and his companions were seized, held captive a fortnight, and threatened with death; but some friends persuaded the captors to set them free.²² Pious tradition tells a hundred fascinating stories of his miracles: “he gave sight to the blind and hearing to the deaf,” says Nennius,²³ “cleansed the lepers, cast out devils, redeemed captives, raised nine persons from the dead, and wrote 365 books.” But probably it was Patrick’s character, rather than his wonders, that converted the Irish—the undoubting confidence of his belief, and the passionate persistence of his work. He was not a patient man; he could dispense maledictions and benedictions with equal readiness;²⁴ but even this proud dogmatism convinced. He ordained priests, built churches, established monasteries and nunneries, and left strong spiritual garrisons to guard his conquests at every turn. He made it seem a supreme adventure to enter the ecclesiastical state; he gathered about him men and women of courage and devotion, who endured every privation to spread the good news that man was redeemed. He did not convert all Ireland; some pockets of paganism and its poetry survived, and leave traces to this day; but when he died (461) it could be said of him, as of no other, that one man had converted a nation.

Only second to him in the affection of the Irish people stands the woman who did most to consolidate his victory. St. Brigid, we are told, was the daughter of a slave and a king; but we know nothing definite of her before 476, when she took the veil. Overcoming countless obstacles, she founded the “Church of the Oak Tree”—Cill-dara—at a spot still so named, Kildare; soon it developed into a monastery, a nunnery, and a school as famous as that which grew at Patrick’s Armagh. She died about 525, honored throughout the island; and 10,000 Irish women still bear the name of the “Mary of the Gael.” A generation later St. Ruadhan laid a curse upon Tara; after 558, when King Diarmuid died, the ancient halls were abandoned, and Ireland’s kings, still pagan in culture, became Christian in creed.

III. PRELUDE TO FRANCE

1. The Last Days of Classic Gaul: 310–480

Gaul, in the fourth and fifth centuries, was materially the most prosperous, intellectually the most advanced, of Roman provinces in the West. The soil was generous, the crafts were skilled, the rivers and the seas bore a teeming trade. State-supported universities flourished at Narbonne, Aries, Bordeaux, Toulouse, Lyons, Marseille, Poitiers, and Trier; teachers and orators, poets and sages enjoyed a status and acclaim usually reserved for politicians and pugilists. With Ausonius and Sidonius, Gaul took over the literary leadership of Europe.

Decimus Magnus Ausonius was the poet and embodiment of this Gallic Silver Age. He was born at Bordeaux about 310, son of its leading physician. He received his education there, and later told the world, in generous hexameters, the virtues of his teachers, remembering their smiles and forgetting their blows.²⁵ In the even tenor of his years he too became a professor at Bordeaux, taught “grammar” (i.e., literature) and “rhetoric” (i.e., oratory and philosophy) for a generation, and tutored the future Emperor Gratian. The sincere affection with which he writes of his parents, uncles, wife, children, and pupils suggests a home and a life like that of a nineteenth-century university town in the United States. He describes pleasantly the house and fields that he inherited from his father, and where he hopes to spend his declining years. He says to his wife, in the early years of their marriage: “Let us live always as we live now, and let us not abandon the names that we have given each other in our first love. … You and I must always remain young, and you shall always be beautiful to me. We must keep no count of the years.”²⁶ Soon, however, they lost the first child that she gave him. Years later he commemorated it lovingly: “I will not leave you unwept, my firstborn child, called by my name. Just as you were practicing to change your babbling into the first words of childhood … we had to mourn your death. You lie on your great-grandfather’s bosom, sharing his grave.”²⁷ His wife died early in their happy marriage, after giving him a daughter and a son. He was so deeply bound to her that he never married again; and in his old age he described with fresh grief the pain of his loss, and the somber silence of the house that had known the care of her hands and the cadence of her feet.

His poems pleased his time by their tender sentiment, their rural pictures, the purity of their Latin, the almost Virgilian smoothness of their verse. Paulinus, the future saint, compared his prose with Cicero’s, and Symmachus could not find in Virgil anything lovelier than Ausonius’ Mosella. The poet had grown fond of that river while with Gratian at Trier; he describes it as running through a very Eden of vineyards, orchards, villas, and prospering farms; for a time he makes us feel the verdure of its banks and the music of its flow; then, with all-embracing bathos, he indites a litany to the amiable fish to be found in the stream. This Whitmanesque passion for cataloguing relatives, teachers, pupils, fish is not redeemed by Whitman’s omnivorous feeling and lusty philosophy; Ausonius, after thirty years of grammar, could hardly burn with more than literary passions. His poems are rosaries of friendship, litanies of praise; but those of us who have not known such alluring uncles or seductive professors are rarely exalted by these doxologies.

When Valentinian I died (375), Gratian, now Emperor, called his old tutor to him, and showered him and his with political plums. In quick succession Ausonius was prefect of Illyricum, Italy, Africa, Gaul; finally, at sixty-nine, consul. At his urging, Gratian decreed state aid for education, for poets and physicians, and for the protection of ancient art. Through his influence Symmachus was made prefect of Rome, and Paulinus a provincial governor. Ausonius mourned when Paulinus became a saint; the Empire, threatened everywhere, needed such men. Ausonius too was a Christian, but not too seriously; his tastes, subjects, meters, and mythology were blithely pagan.

At seventy the old poet returned to Bordeaux, to live another twenty years. He was now a grandfather, and could match the filial poems of his youth with the grandparental fondness of age. “Be not afraid,” he counsels his grandson, “though the school resound with many a stroke, and the old master wears a scowling face; let no outcry, or sound of stripes, make you quake as the morning hours move on. That he brandishes the cane for a scepter, that he has a full outfit of birches … is but the outward show to cause idle fears. Your father and mother went through all this in their day, and have lived to soothe my peaceful and serene old age.”²⁸ Fortunate Ausonius, to have lived and died before the barbarian flood!

Apollinaris Sidonius was to Gallic prose in the fifth century what Ausonius had been to Gallic poetry in the fourth. He burst upon the world at Lyons (432), where his father was prefect of Gaul. His grandfather had filled the same office, and his mother was a relative of that Avitus who would become emperor in 455, and whose daughter Sidonius would marry in 452. It would have been difficult to improve upon these arrangements. Papianilla brought him as dowry a luxurious villa near Clermont. His life for some years was a round of visits to and from his aristocratic friends. They were people of culture and refinement, with a flair for gambling and idleness;²⁹ they lived in their country houses, and seldom soiled their hands with politics; they were quite incapable of protecting their luxurious ease against the invading Goths. They did not care for city life; already French and British wealth was preferring the country to the town. In these sprawling villas—some with 125 rooms—all comforts and elegances were gathered: mosaic floors, columned halls, landscape murals, sculptures in marble and bronze, great fireplaces and baths, gardens and tennis courts,³⁰ and environing woods in which ladies and gentlemen might hunt with all the glamour of falconry. Nearly every villa had a good library, containing the classics of pagan antiquity and some respectable Christian texts.³¹ Several of Sidonius’ friends were book collectors; and doubtless there were in Gaul, as in Rome, rich men who valued good bindings above mere contents, and were satisfied with the culture they could get from the covers of their books.

Sidonius illustrates the better side of this genteel life—hospitality, courtesy, good cheer, moral decency, with a touch of chiseled poetry and melodious prose. When Avitus went to Rome to be emperor, Sidonius accompanied him, and was chosen to deliver the welcoming panegyric (456). He returned to Gaul a year later with Avitus deposed; but in 468 we find him in Rome again, holding the high office of prefect of the city amid the last convulsions of the state. Moving comfortably through the chaos, he described the high society of Gaul and Rome in letters modeled upon those of Pliny and Symmachus, and matching them in vanity and grace. Literature now had little to say, and said it with such care that nothing remained but form and charm. At their best there is in these letters that genial tolerance and sympathetic understanding of the educated gentleman which has adorned the literature of France since the days when it was not yet French. Sidonius brought into Gaul the Roman love for gracious causeries. From Cicero and Seneca through Pliny, Symmachus, Macrobius, and Sidonius to Montaigne, Montesquieu, Voltaire, Renan, Sainte-Beuve, and Anatole France is one line, almost, by bountiful avatars, one mind.

Lest we misrepresent Sidonius we must add that he was a good Christian and a brave bishop. In 469, unexpectedly and unwillingly, he found himself precipitated from lay status to the episcopacy of Clermont. A bishop in those days had to be a civil administrator as well as a spiritual guide; and men of experience and wealth like Ambrose and Sidonius had qualifications that proved more effective than theological erudition. Having little of such learning, Sidonius had few anathemas to bestow; instead, he gave his silver plate to the poor, and forgave sins with an alarming readiness. From one of his letters we perceive that the prayers of his flock were sometimes interrupted by refreshments.³² Reality broke into this pleasant life when Euric, King of the Visigoths, decided to annex Auvergne. Each summer, for four years, the Goths laid siege to Clermont, its capital. Sidonius fought them with diplomacy and prayer, but failed; when at last the city fell he was taken captive, and was imprisoned in a fortress near Carcassonne (475). Two years later he was released and restored to his see. How long he survived we do not know; but already at forty-five he wished to be “delivered from the pains and burdens of present life by a holy death.”³³ He had lost faith in the Roman Empire, and now put all his hopes for civilization in the Roman Church. The Church forgave him his half-pagan poetry, and made him a saint.

2. The Franks: 240–511

With the death of Sidonius the night of barbarism closed down upon Gaul. We must not exaggerate that darkness. Men still retained economic skills, traded goods, minted coinage, composed poetry, and practiced art; and under Euric (466–84) and Alaric II (484–507) the Visigothic kingdom in southwestern Gaul was sufficiently orderly, civilized, and progressive to draw praise from Sidonius himself.³⁴ In 506 Alaric II issued a Breviarium, or summary, of laws for his realm; it was a comparatively enlightened code, reducing to rule and reason the relations between the Romano-Gallic population and its conquerors. A like code was enacted (510) by the Burgundian kings who had peaceably established their people and power in southeastern Gaul. Until the revival of Roman law at Bologna in the eleventh century, Latin Europe would be governed by Gothic and Burgundian codes, and the kindred laws of the Franks.

History picks up the Franks in 240, when the Emperor Aurelian defeated them near Mainz. The Ripuarian Franks—“of the bank”—settled early in the fifth century on the west slopes of the Rhine; they captured Cologne (463), made it their capital, and extended their power in the Rhine valley from Aachen to Metz. Some Frank tribes remained on the east side of the river, and gave their name to Franconia. The Salic Franks may have taken their distinguishing name from the river Sala (now Ijssel) in the Netherlands. Thence they moved south and west, and about 356 occupied the region between the Meuse, the ocean, and the Somme. For the most part their spread was by peaceful migration, sometimes by Roman invitation to settle sparsely occupied lands; by these diverse ways northern Gaul had become half Frank by 430. They brought their Germanic language and pagan faith with them; so that during the fifth century Latin ceased to be the speech, and Christianity the religion, of the peoples along the lower Rhine.

The Salic Franks described themselves, in the prologue to their “Salic Law,” as “the glorious people, wise in council, noble in body, radiant in health, excelling in beauty, daring, quick, hardened … this is the people that shook the cruel yoke of the Romans from its neck.”³⁵ They considered themselves not barbarians but self-liberated freemen; Frank meant free, enfranchised. They were tall and fair; knotted their long hair in a tuft on the head, and let it fall thence like a horse’s tail; wore mustaches but no beards; bound their tunics at the waist with leather belts covered with segments of enameled iron; from this belt hung sword and battle-ax, and articles of toilet like scissors and combs.³⁶ The men, as well as the women, were fond of jewelry, and wore rings, armlets, and beads. Every able-bodied male was a warrior, taught from youth to run, leap, swim, and throw his lance or ax to its mark. Courage was the supreme virtue, for which murder, rapine, and rape might be readily forgiven. But history, by telescoping one dramatic event into the next, leaves a false impression of the Franks as merely warriors. Their conquests and battles were no more numerous, and far less extensive and destructive, than our own. Their laws show them engaged in agriculture and handicrafts, making northeastern Gaul a prosperous and usually peaceful rural society.

The Salic Law was formulated early in the sixth century, probably in the same generation that saw Justinian’s full development of Roman law. We are told that “four venerable chieftains” wrote it, and that it was examined and approved by three successive assemblies of the people.³⁷ Trial was largely by “compurgation” and ordeal. A sufficient number of qualified witnesses attesting the good character of a defendant cleared him of any charge of which he was not evidently guilty. The number of witnesses required varied with the enormity of the-alleged crime: seventy-two could free a supposed murderer, but when the chastity of a queen of France was in question, three hundred nobles were needed to certify the paternity of her child.³⁸ If the matter at issue still stood in doubt, the law of ordeal was invoked. The accused, bound hand and foot, might be flung into a river, to sink if innocent, to float if guilty (for the water, having been exorcised by religious ceremony, would reject a sinful person);³⁹ or the accused would be made to walk barefoot through fire or over red-hot irons; or to hold a red-hot iron in his hand for a given time; or to plunge a bare arm into boiling water and pluck out an object from the bottom. Or accuser and accused would stand with arms outstretched in the form of a cross, until one or the other proclaimed his guilt by letting his arm fall with fatigue; or the accused would take the consecrated wafer of the Eucharist and, if guilty, would surely be struck down by God; or trial by combat would decide between two freemen when legal evidence still left a reasonable doubt. Some of these ordeals were old in history: the Avesta indicates that the ordeal of boiling water was used by the ancient Persians; the laws of Manu (before A.D. 100) mention Hindu ordeals by submersion; and ordeals by fire or hot irons appear in Sophocles’ Antigone.⁴⁰ The Semites rejected ordeals as impious, the Romans ignored them as superstitious; the Germans developed them to the full; the Christian Church reluctantly accepted them, and surrounded them with religious ceremony and solemn oath.

Trial by combat was as old as ordeal. Saxo Grammaticus describes it as compulsory in Denmark in the first century A.D.; the laws of the Angles, Saxons, Franks, Burgundians, and Lombards indicate its general use among them; and St. Patrick found it in Ireland. When a Roman Christian complained to the Burgundian King Gundobad that such a trial would decide not guilt but skill, the King replied: “Is it not true that the issue of wars and combats is directed by the judgment of God, and that His Providence awards the victory to the just cause?”⁴¹ The conversion of the barbarians to Christianity merely changed the name of the deity whose judgment was invoked. We cannot judge or understand these customs unless we put ourselves in the place of men who took it for granted that God entered causally into every event, and would not connive at an unjust verdict. With such a dire test to face, accusers uncertain of their case or their evidence would think twice before bothering the courts with their complaints; and guilty defendants would shirk the ordeal, and offer compensation in its place.

For nearly every crime had its price: the accused or convicted man might usually absolve himself by paying a wergild or “man-payment”—one third to the government, two thirds to the victim or his family. The sum varied with the social rank of the victim, and an economical criminal had to take many facts into consideration. If a man immodestly stroked the hand of a woman he was to be fined fifteen denarii ($2.25);* if he so stroked her upper arm, he paid thirty-five denarii ($5.25); if he touched her unwilling bosom he paid forty-five denarii ($6.75).⁴² This was a tolerable tariff in comparison with other fines: 2500 denarii ($375) for the assault and robbery of a Frank by a Roman, 1400 for the assault and robbery of a Roman by a Frank, 8000 denarii for killing a Frank, 4000 for killing a Roman:⁴³ so low had the mighty Roman fallen in the eyes of his conquerors. If, as not seldom happened, satisfactory compensation was not received by the victim or his relatives, they might take their own revenge; in this way vendettas might leave a trail of blood through many generations. Wergild and judicial combat were the best expedients that primitive Germans could devise to wean men from vengeance to law.

The most famous clause in the Salic Law read: “Of Salic land no portion of the inheritance shall go to a woman” (lix, 6); on this basis, in the fourteenth century, France would reject the claim of the English King Edward III to the French throne through his mother Isabelle; whereupon would follow the Hundred Years’ War. The clause applied only to realty, which was presumed to require for its protection the military power of a male. In general the Salic Law did no service to women. It exacted a double wergild for their murder,⁴⁴ valuing them as the possible mothers of many men. But (like early Roman law) it kept women under the perpetual wardship of father, husband, or son; it made death the penalty for adultery by the wife, but asked no penalty of the adulterous male;⁴⁵ and it permitted divorce at the husband’s whim.⁴⁶ Custom, if not law, allowed polygamy to the Frank kings.

The first Frank king known by name was the Chlodio who attacked Cologne in 431; Aëtius defeated him, but Chlodio succeeded in occupying Gaul as far west as the Somme, and making Tournai his capital. A possibly legendary successor, Merovech (“Son of the Sea”?), gave his name to the Merovingian dynasty, which ruled the Franks till 751. Merovech’s son Childeric seduced Basina, wife of a Thuringian king; she went to be his queen, saying she knew no man wiser, stronger, or handsomer. The child of their union was Clovis, who founded France and gave his name to eighteen French kings.*

Clovis inherited the Merovingian throne in 481, aged fifteen. His realm was then a mere corner of Gaul; other Frank tribes ruled the Rhineland, and the Visigothic and Burgundian kingdoms in southern Gaul had been made fully independent by the fall of Rome. Northwest Gaul, still nominally under Roman power, was left defenseless. Clovis invaded it, captured towns and dignitaries, accepted ransoms, sold spoils, bought troops, supplies, and arms, advanced to Soissons, and defeated a “Roman” army (486). During the next ten years he extended his conquests till they touched Brittany and the Loire. He won over the Gallic population by leaving them in possession of their lands, and the orthodox Christian clergy by respecting their creed and their wealth. In 493 he married a Christian, Clothilde, who soon converted him from paganism to Nicene Christianity. Remi, bishop and saint, baptized him at Reims before an audience of prelates and notables judiciously invited from all Gaul; and 3000 soldiers followed Clovis to the font. Perhaps Clovis, longing to reach the Mediterranean, thought France was worth a Mass. The orthodox population in Visigothic and Burgundian Gaul now looked askance at their Arian rulers, and became the secret or open allies of the young Frank king.

Alaric II saw the oncoming tide, and tried to turn it back with fair words. He invited Clovis to a conference; they met at Amboise, and pledged lasting friendship. But Alaric, returning to Toulouse, arrested some orthodox bishops for conspiring with the Franks. Clovis summoned his martial assembly and said: “I take it very hard that these Arians hold part of Gaul. Let us go with God’s help and conquer them.”⁴⁷ Alaric defended himself as well as he could with a divided people; he was defeated at Vouillé, near Poitiers (507), and was slain by Clovis’ hand. “After Clovis had spent the winter in Bordeaux,” says Gregory of Tours, “and had taken all the treasures of Alaric from Toulouse, he went to besiege Angoulême. And the Lord gave him such grace that the walls fell down of their own accord”;⁴⁸ here, so soon, is the characteristic note of the medieval chronicler. Sigebert, the old king of the Ripuarian Franks, had long been an ally of Clovis. To Sigebert’s son Clovis now suggested the advantages that would come from Sigebert’s death. The son killed his father; Clovis sent professions of friendship to the patricide, and agents to murder him; this having been attended to, Clovis marched to Cologne, and persuaded the Ripuarian chieftains to accept him as their king. “Every day,” says Gregory, “God caused his enemies to fall beneath his hand … because he walked with a right heart before the Lord, and did the things that were pleasing in His sight.”⁴⁹

The conquered Arians were readily converted to the orthodox faith, and their clergy, by omitting an iota, were allowed to retain their clerical rank. Clovis, rich with captives, slaves, spoils, and benedictions, moved his capital to Paris. There, four years later, he died, old at forty-five. Queen Clothilde, having helped to make Gaul France, “came to Tours after the death of her husband, and served there in the church of St. Martin, and dwelt in the place with the greatest chastity and kindness all the days of her life.”⁵⁰

3. The Merovingians: 511–614

Clovis, who had longed for sons, had too many at his death. To avoid a war of succession he divided his kingdom among them: Childebert received the region of Paris, Chlodomer that of Orléans, Chlotar that of Soissons, Theodoric that of Metz and Reims. With barbarian energy they continued the policy of unification by conquest. They took Thuringia in 530, Burgundy in 534, Provence in 536, Bavaria and Swabia in 555; and Chlotar I, outliving his brothers and inheriting their kingdoms, governed a Gaul vaster than any later France. Dying (561), he redivided Gaul into three parts: the Reims and Metz region, known as Austrasia (i.e., East), went to his son Sigebert; Burgundy to Gunthram; and to Chilperic the Soissons region, known as Neustria (i.e., Northwest).

From the day of Clovis’ marriage the history of France has been bisexual, mingling love and war. Sigebert sent costly presents to Athanagild, Visigothic king of Spain, and asked for his daughter Brunhilda; Athanagild, fearing the Franks even when they bore gifts, consented; and Brunhilda came to grace the halls of Metz and Reims (566). Chilperic was envious; all that he had was a simple wife, Audovera, and a rough concubine, Fredegunda. He asked Athanagild for Brunhilda’s sister; Galswintha came to Soissons, and Chilperic loved her, for she had brought great treasures. But she was older than her sister. Chilperic returned to the arms of Fredegunda; Galswintha proposed to go back to Spain; Chilperic had her strangled (567). Sigebert declared war upon Chilperic, and defeated him; but two slaves sent by Fredegunda assassinated Sigebert. Brunhilda was captured, escaped, crowned her young son Childebert II, and ruled ably in his name.

Chilperic is described to us as “the Nero and Herod of our time,” ruthless, murderous, lecherous, gluttonous, greedy for gold. Gregory of Tours, our sole authority for this portrait, partly explains it by making him also the Frederick II of his age. Chilperic, he tells us, scoffed at the idea of three persons in one God, and at the conception of God as like a man; held scandalous discussions with Jews; protested against the wealth of the Church and the political activity of the bishops; annulled wills made in favor of churches; sold bishoprics to the highest bidders; and tried to remove Gregory himself from the see of Tours.⁵¹ The poet Fortunatus described the same king as a synthesis of virtues, a just and genial ruler, a Cicero of eloquence; but Chilperic had rewarded Fortunatus’ verse.⁵²

Chilperic was stabbed to death in 584, possibly by an agent of Brunhilda. He left an infant son, Chlotar II, in whose stead Fredegunda ruled Neustria with as much skill, perfidy, and cruelty as any man of the time. She sent a young cleric to kill Brunhilda; when he returned unsuccessful she had his hands and feet cut off; but these items too are from Gregory.⁵³ Meanwhile the nobles of Austrasia, encouraged by Chlotar II, raised revolt after revolt against the imperious Brunhilda; she controlled them as well as she could by diplomacy tempered with assassination; finally they deposed her, aged eighty, tortured her for three days, tied her by hair, hand, and foot to the tail of a horse, and lashed the horse to flight (614). Chlotar II inherited all three kingdoms, and the Frank realm was again one.

From this red chronicle we may exaggerate the barbarism that darkened Gaul hardly a century after the urbane and polished Sidonius; men must find some substitute for elections. The unifying work of Clovis was undone by his descendants, as that of Charlemagne would be; but at least government continued, and not all Gauls could afford the polygamy and brutality of their kings. The apparent autocracy of the monarch was limited by the power of jealous nobles; he rewarded their services in administration and war with estates on which they were practically sovereign; and on these great demesnes began the feudalism that would fight the French monarchy for a thousand years. Serfdom grew, and slavery received a new lease of life from new wars. Industry passed from the towns to the manors; the towns shrank in size, and fell under the control of the feudal lords; commerce was still active, but hindered by unstable currencies, highway brigandage, and the rise of feudal tolls. Famine and pestilence fought successfully against the eager reproductiveness of men.

The Frank chieftains intermarried with what remained of the Gallo-Roman senatorial class, and generated the aristocracy of France. It was in these centuries a nobility of force, relishing war, scorning letters, proud of its long beards and silken robes, and almost as polygamous as any Moslem save Mohammed. Seldom has an upper class shown such contempt for morality. Conversion to Christianity had no effect upon them; Christianity seemed to them merely an expensive agency of rule and popular pacification; and in “the triumph of barbarism and religion” barbarism dominated for five centuries. Assassination, patricide, fratricide, torture, mutilation, treachery, adultery, and incest mitigated the boredom of rule. Chilperic, we are told, ordered every joint in Sigila the Goth to be burned with white-hot irons, and each limb to be torn from its socket.⁵⁴ Charibert had as mistresses two sisters, one a nun; Dagobert (628–39) had three wives at once. Sexual excesses perhaps accounted for the exceptional sterility of the Merovingian kings: of Clovis’ four sons only Chlotar had issue; of Chlotar’s four sons only one had a child. The kings married at fifteen, and were exhausted at thirty; many of them died before the age of twenty-eight.⁵⁵ By 614 the Merovingian house had spent its energy, and was ready to be replaced.

Amid this chaos education barely survived. By 600 literacy had become a luxury of the clergy. Science was almost extinct. Medicine remained, for we hear of court physicians; but among the people magic and prayer seemed better than drugs. Gregory, Bishop of Tours (538?–94), denounced as sinful the use of medicine instead of religion as a means of curing illness. In his own sickness he sent for a physician, but soon dismissed him as ineffectual; then he drank a glass of water containing dust from St. Martin’s tomb, and was completely cured.⁵⁶ Gregory himself was the chief prose writer of his time. He knew personally several Merovingian kings, and occasionally served as their emissaries; his History of the Franks is a crude, disorderly, prejudiced, superstitious, and vivid firsthand account of the later Merovingian age. His Latin is corrupt, vigorous, direct; he apologizes for his bad grammar, and hopes that sins of grammar will not be punished on Judgment Day.⁵⁷ He accepts miracles and prodigies with the trustful imagination of a child or the genial shrewdness of a bishop; “we shall mingle together in our tale the miraculous doings of the saints and the slaughters of the nations.”⁵⁸ In 587, he assures us, snakes fell from the sky, and a village with all its buildings and inhabitants suddenly disappeared.⁵⁹ He denounces everything in anyone guilty of unbelief or of injury to the Church; but he accepts without flinching the barbarities, treacheries, and immoralities of the Church’s faithful sons. His prejudices are frank, and can be easily discounted. The final impression is one of engaging simplicity.

After him the literature of Gaul becomes predominantly religious in content, barbarous in language and form—with one shining exception. Venantius Fortunatus (c. 530–610) was born in Italy and educated at Ravenna; at thirty-five he moved to Gaul, wrote lauds for its bishops and queens, and developed a platonic affection for Radegunda, wife of the first Chlotar. When she founded a convent Fortunatus became a priest, her chaplain, and finally bishop of Poitiers. He wrote pretty poems in honor of potentates and saints; twenty-nine to Gregory of Tours; a life of St. Martin in heroic verse; above all, some sonorous hymns, of which one, Pange lingua, inspired Thomas Aquinas to a similar theme and still higher performance, while another, Vexilia regis, became a lasting part of Catholic liturgy. He mingled feeling admirably with poetic skill; reading his fresh and genial lines we discover the existence of kindliness, sincerity, and the tenderest sentiment amid the royal brutalities of the Merovingian age.

IV. VISIGOTHIC SPAIN: 456–711

In 420, as we have seen, the Visigoths of Gaul recaptured Spain from the Vandals, and returned it to Rome. But Rome could not defend it; eighteen years later the Suevi emerged from their hills in the northwest, and overran the peninsula. The Visigoths under Theodoric II (456) and Euric (466) came down again across the Pyrenees, reconquered most of Spain, and this time kept the country as their own. A Visigothic dynasty ruled Spain thereafter till the coming of the Moors.

At Toledo the new monarchy built a splendid capital and gathered an opulent court. Athanagild (564–7) and Leovigild (568–86) were strong rulers, who defeated Frank invaders in the north and Byzantine armies in the south; it was the wealth of Athanagild that won for his daughters the privilege of being murdered as Frank queens. In 589 King Recared changed his faith, and that of most Visigoths in Spain, from Arian to orthodox Christianity; perhaps he had read the history of Alaric II. The bishops now became the chief support of the monarchy, and the chief power in the state; by their superior education and organization they dominated the nobles who sat with them in the ruling councils of Toledo; and though the king’s authority was theoretically absolute, and he chose the bishops, these councils elected him, and exacted pledges of policy in advance. Under the guidance of the clergy a system of laws was promulgated (634) which was the most competent and least tolerant of all the barbarian codes. It improved procedure by weighing the evidence of witnesses rather than the character certificates of friends; it applied the same laws to Romans and Visigoths alike, and established the principle of equality before the law.⁶⁰ But it rejected freedom of worship, demanded orthodox Christianity of all inhabitants, and sanctioned a long and bitter persecution of the Spanish Jews.

Through the influence of the Church, which retained Latin in her sermons and liturgy, the Visigoths, within a century after their conquest of Spain, forgot their Germanic speech, and corrupted the Latin of the peninsula into the masculine power and feminine beauty of the Spanish tongue. Monastic and episcopal schools provided education, mostly ecclesiastical but partly classical; and academies rose at Vaclara, Toledo, Saragossa, and Seville. Poetry was encouraged, drama was denounced as obscene—which it was. The only name surviving from the literature of Gothic Spain is that of Isidore of Seville (c. 560–636). An edifying legend tells how a Spanish lad, reproved for mental sluggishness, ran away from home, and, tired with wandering, sat down by a well. His eye was caught by the deep furrow in a stone at the edge; a passing maiden explained that the furrow was worn by the attrition of the rope that lowered and raised the bucket. “If,” said Isidore to himself, “by daily use the soft rope could penetrate the stone, surely perseverance could overcome the dullness of my brain.” He returned to his father’s house, and became the learned Bishop of Seville.⁶¹ Actually we know little of his life. Amid the chores of a conscientious cleric he found time to write half a dozen books. Perhaps as an aid to memory he compiled through many years a medley of passages, on all subjects, from pagan and Christian authors; his friend Braulio, Bishop of Saragossa, urged him to publish these excerpts; yielding, he transformed them into one of the most influential books of the Middle Ages—Etymologiarum sive originum libri xx (Twenty Books of Etymologies or Origins)—now a volume of 900 octavo pages. It is an encyclopedia, but not alphabetically arranged; it deals successively with grammar, rhetoric, and logic as the “trivium”; then with arithmetic, geometry, music, and astronomy as the “quadrivium”; then with medicine, law, chronology, theology, anatomy, physiology, zoology, cosmography, physical geography, architecture, surveying, mineralogy, agriculture, war, sports, ships, costumes, furniture, domestic utensils …; and under each topic it defines, and seeks the origin of, the basic terms. Man, we learn, is called homo because God made him from the earth (humus); the knees are genua because in the foetus they lie opposite the cheeks (genae).⁶² Isidore was an industrious, if indiscriminate, scholar; he knew considerable Greek, was familiar with Lucretius (rarely mentioned in the Middle Ages), and preserved in extracts many passages of pagan literature that would otherwise have been lost. His work is a farrago of weird etymologies, incredible miracles, fanciful allegorical interpretations of the Scriptures, science and history distorted to prove moral principles, and factual errors that a little observation would have set straight. His book stands as a lasting monument to the ignorance of his time.

Of the arts in Visigothic Spain almost nothing remains. Apparently Toledo, Italica, Cordova, Granada, Merida, and other cities had fine churches, palaces, and public buildings, designed in classic styles but distinguished by Christian symbols and Byzantine ornament.⁶³ In the palaces and cathedral of Toledo, according to Arab historians, Arab conquerors found twenty-five gold and jeweled crowns; an illuminated Psalter written upon gold leaf with ink made of melted rubies; tissues inwoven, armor inlaid, swords and daggers studded, vases filled, with jewelry; and an emerald table inwrought with silver and gold—one of many costly gifts of the Visigothic rich to their protective Church.

Under the Visigothic regime the exploitation of the simple or unfortunate by the clever or the strong continued as under other governmental forms. Princes and prelates united in a majesty of secular or religious ceremonies, tabus, and terrors to subdue the passions, and quiet the thoughts, of the populace. Property was concentrated in the hands of a few; the great gulf between rich and poor, between Christian and Jew, divided the nation into three states; and when the Arabs came, the poor and the Jews connived at the overthrow of a monarchy and a Church that had ignored their poverty or oppressed their faith.

In 708, on the death of the feeble king Witiza, the aristocracy refused the throne to his children, but gave it to Roderick. The sons of Witiza fled to Africa, and asked the aid of Moorish chieftains. The Moors made some tentative raids upon the Spanish coast, found Spain divided and almost defenseless, and in 711 came over in fuller force. The armies of Tariq and Roderick joined battle on the shores of Lake Janda in the province of Cadiz; part of the Visigothic forces went over to the Moors; Roderick disappeared. The victorious Moslems advanced to Seville, Cordova, Toledo; several towns opened their gates to the invaders. The Arab general Musa established himself in the capital (713), and announced that Spain now belonged to the prophet Mohammed and the caliph of Damascus.

V. OSTROGOTHIC ITALY: 493–536

1. Theodoric

When Attila’s empire crumbled at his death (453) the Ostrogoths whom he had subdued regained their independence. The Byzantine emperors paid them to drive other German barbarians westward, rewarded them with Pannonia, and took Theodoric, the seven-year-old son of their King Theodemir, to Constantinople as a hostage for Ostrogothic fidelity. In eleven years at the Byzantine court Theodoric acquired intelligence without education, absorbed the arts of war and government, but apparently never learned to write.⁶⁴ He won the admiration of the Emperor Leo I; and when Theodemir died (475), Leo recognized Theodoric as king of the Ostrogoths.

Leo’s successor Zeno, fearful that Theodoric might trouble Byzantium, suggested to him the conquest of Italy. Odoacer had formally acknowledged, actually ignored, the Eastern emperors; Theodoric, Zeno hoped, might bring Italy back under Byzantine rule; in any case the two leaders of dangerous tribes would amuse each other while Zeno studied theology. Theodoric liked—some say propounded—the idea. As Zeno’s patricius he led the Ostrogoths, including 20,000 warriors, across the Alps (488). The orthodox bishops of Italy, disliking Odoacer’s Arianism, supported the Arian invader as representing an almost orthodox emperor. With their help Theodoric broke Odoacer’s sturdy resistance in five years of war, and persuaded him to a compromise peace. He invited Odoacer and his son to dine with him at Ravenna, fed them generously, and slew them with his own hand (493). So treacherously began one of the most enlightened reigns in history.

A few campaigns brought under Theodoric’s rule the western Balkans, southern Italy, and Sicily. He maintained a formal subordination to Byzantium, struck coins only in the emperor’s name, and wrote with due deference to the Senate that still sat in Rome. He took the title of rex or king; but this term, once so hateful to Romans, was now generally applied to rulers of regions that acknowledged the sovereignty of Byzantium. He accepted the laws and institutions of the late Western Empire, zealously protected its monuments and forms, and devoted his energy and intelligence to restoring orderly government and economic prosperity among the people whom he had conquered. He confined his Goths to police and military service, and quieted their grumbling with ample pay; administration and the courts remained in Roman hands. Two thirds of the soil of Italy was left to the Roman population, one third was distributed among the Goths; even so not all the arable land was tilled. Theodoric ransomed Roman captives from other nations, and settled them as peasant proprietors in Italy. The Pontine Marshes were drained, and returned to cultivation and health. Believing in a regulated economy, Theodoric issued an “Edict Concerning Prices to be Maintained at Ravenna”; we do not know what prices were decreed; we are told that the cost of food, in Theodoric’s reign, was one third lower than before;⁶⁵ but this may have been due less to regulation than to peace. He reduced governmental personnel and salaries, ended state subsidies to the Church, and kept taxes low. His revenues nevertheless sufficed to repair much of the damage that invaders had done to Rome and Italy, and to erect at Ravenna a modest palace and the churches of Sant’ Apollinare and San Vitale. Verona, Pavia, Naples, Spoleto, and other Italian cities recovered under his rule all the architectural splendor of their brightest days. Though an Arian, Theodoric protected the orthodox Church in her property and worship; and his minister Cassiodorus, a Catholic, phrased in memorable words a policy of religious freedom: “We cannot command religion, for no one can be forced to believe against his will.”⁶⁶ A Byzantine historian, Procopius, in the following generation, indited an impartial tribute to the “barbarian” king:

Theodoric was exceedingly careful to observe justice … and attained the highest degree of wisdom and manliness. … Although in name he was a usurper, yet in fact he was as truly an emperor as any who have distinguished themselves in this office from the beginning of time. Both the Goths and the Romans loved him greatly. … When he died he had not only made himself an object of terror to his enemies, but he also left to his subjects a keen sense of bereavement and lose.⁶⁷

2. Boethius

In this environment of security and peace Latin literature in Italy had its final fling. Flavius Magnus Aurelius Cassiodorus (480?–573) served as secretary to both Odoacer and Theodoric. At the latter’s suggestion he wrote a History of the Goths,⁶⁸ which aimed to show supercilious Romans that the Goths, too, had behind them noble ancestors and heroic deeds. Perhaps more objectively Cassiodorus compiled a Chronicon, a chronological history of the world from Adam to Theodoric. At the close of his long political career he published as Variae a collection of his letters and state papers; some a little absurd, some a bit bombastic, many revealing a high level of morals and statesmanship in the minister and his king. About 540, having seen the ruin and fall of both the governments that he had served, he retired to his estate at Squillace in Calabria, founded two monasteries, and lived there as half monk and half grandee till his death at the age of ninety-three. He taught his fellow monks to copy manuscripts, pagan as well as Christian, and provided a special room—the scriptorium—for this work. His example was followed in other religious institutions, and much of our modern treasure of ancient literature is the result of the monastic copying initiated by Cassiodorus. In his last years he composed a textbook—Institutiones divinarum et humanarum lectionum—or Course of Religious and Secular Studies—which boldly defended the Christian reading of pagan literature, and adopted from Martianus Capella that division of the scholastic curriculum into “trivium” and “quadrivium” which became the usual arrangement in medieval education.

The career of Anicius Manlius Severinus Boethius (475?–524) paralleled that of Cassiodorus, except in longevity. Both were born of rich Roman families, served Theodoric as ministers, labored to build a bridge between paganism and Christianity, and wrote dreary books that were read and treasured for a thousand years. Boethius’ father was consul in 483; his father-in-law, Symmachus the Younger, was descended from the Symmachus who had fought for the Altar of Victory. He received the best education that Rome could give, and then spent eighteen years in the schools of Athens. Returning to his Italian villas, he buried himself in study. Resolved to save the elements of a classical culture that was visibly dying, he gave his time—the scholar’s most grudging gift—to summarizing in lucid Latin the works of Euclid on geometry, of Nicomachus on arithmetic, of Archimedes on mechanics, of Ptolemy on astronomy. … His translation of Aristotle’s Organon, or logical treatises, and of Porphyry’s Introduction to the Categories of Aristotle provided the leading texts and ideas of the next seven centuries in logic, and set the stage for the long dispute between realism and nominalism. Boethius tried his hand also at theology: in an essay on the Trinity he defended the orthodox Christian doctrine, and laid down the principle that where faith and reason conflict, faith should prevail. None of these writings repays reading today, but it would be hard to exaggerate their influence on medieval thought.

Moved by his family’s tradition of public service, Boethius dragged himself from these abstruse pursuits into the whirlpool of political life. He rose rapidly; became consul, then patricius, then master of the offices—i.e., prime minister (522). He distinguished himself by both his philanthropy and his eloquence; men compared him with Demosthenes and Cicero. But eminence makes enemies. The Gothic officials at the court resented his sympathy with the Roman and the Catholic population, and aroused the suspicions of the King. Theodoric was now sixty-nine, failing in health and mind, wondering how to transmit in stability the rule of an Arian Gothic family over a nation nine tenths Roman and eight tenths Catholic. He had reason to believe that both the aristocracy and the Church were his foes, who impatiently awaited his death. In 523 Justinian, Byzantine regent, issued an edict banishing all Manicheans from the Empire, and barring from civil or military office all pagans and heretics—including all Arians except Goths. Theodoric suspected that the exception was intended to disarm him, but would be withdrawn at the first opportunity; and he judged the decree a poor return for the full liberties that he had accorded to the orthodox creed in the West. Had he not raised to the highest offices that same Boethius who had written an anti-Arian tract on the Trinity? In this very year 523 he had given to the church of St. Peter two magnificent chandeliers of solid silver as a gesture of courtesy to the pope. However, he had offended a great part of the population by protecting the Jews; when mobs destroyed synagogues in Milan, Genoa, and Rome, he had rebuilt the synagogues at public expense.⁶⁹

It was in this conjuncture of events that word reached Theodoric of a senatorial conspiracy to depose him. Its leader, he was told, was Albinus, president of the Senate and friend of Boethius. The generous scholar hastened to Theodoric, guaranteed the innocence of Albinus, and said: “If Albinus is a criminal, I and the whole Senate are equally guilty.” Three men of blemished reputation accused Boethius of sharing in the plot, and they adduced a document, bearing Boethius’ signature, which invited the Byzantine Empire to reconquer Italy. Boethius denied all charges, and rejected the document as a forgery; later, however, he admitted: “Had there been any hopes of liberty I should have freely indulged them. Had I known of a conspiracy against the King … you would not have known of it from me.”⁷⁰ He was arrested (523).

Theodoric sought some understanding with the Emperor. In words worthy of a philosopher king he wrote to Justin:

To pretend to dominion over the conscience is to usurp the prerogative of God. By the nature of things the power of sovereigns is confined to political government; they have no right of punishment except over those who disturb the public peace. The most dangerous heresy is that of a sovereign who separates himself from part of his subjects because they believe not according to his belief.⁷¹

Justin replied that he had a right to refuse office to men whose loyalty he could not trust, and that the order of society required unity of belief. The Arians of the East appealed to Theodoric to protect them. He asked Pope John I to go to Constantinople and intercede for the dismissed Arians; the Pope protested that this was no mission for one pledged to destroy heresy; but Theodoric insisted. John was received with such honors in Constantinople, and returned with such empty hands, that Theodoric accused him of treason, and flung him into jail, where, a year later, he died.⁷²

Meanwhile Albinus and Boethius had been tried before the King, adjudged guilty, and sentenced to death. The frightened Senate passed decrees repudiating them, confiscating their property, and approving the penalty. Symmachus defended his son-in-law, and was himself arrested. Boethius, in prison, now composed one of the most famous of medieval books—De consolatione philosophiae. In its alternation of undistinguished prose and charming verse no tear finds voice; there is only a Stoic resignation to the unaccountable whims of fortune, and an heroic attempt to reconcile the misfortunes of good men with the benevolence, omnipotence, and prescience of God. Boethius reminds himself of all the blessings that life has showered upon him—wealth, and a “noble father-in-law, and a chaste wife,” and exemplary children; he recalls his dignities, and the proud moment when he thrilled with his eloquence a Senate whose presiding consuls were both of them his sons. Such bliss, he tells himself, cannot last forever; fortune must balance it now and then with a chastening blow; and so much happiness can forgive so fatal a calamity.⁷³ And yet such recalled felicity can sharpen affliction: “in all adversity of fortune,” says Boethius in a line that Dante made Francesca echo, “it is the most unhappy kind of misfortune to have been happy.”⁷⁴ He asks Dame Philosophy—whom he personifies in medieval style—where real happiness lies; he discovers that it does not lie in wealth or glory, pleasure or power; and he concludes that there is no true or secure happiness except in union with God; “blessedness is one with divinity.”⁷⁵ Strangely, there is no suggestion, in this book, of personal immortality, no reference to Christianity or to any specifically Christian doctrine, no line that might not have been written by Zeno, Epictetus, or Aurelius. The last work of pagan philosophy was written by a Christian who, in the hour of death, remembered Athens rather than Golgotha.

On October 23, 524, his executioners came. They tied a cord around his head, and tightened it till his eyes burst from their sockets; then they beat him with clubs till he died. A few months later Symmachus was put to death. According to Procopius,⁷⁶ Theodoric wept for the wrong he had done to Boethius and Symmachus. In 526 he followed his victims to the grave.

His kingdom died soon after him. He had nominated his grandson Athalaric to succeed him; but Athalaric being only ten years old, his mother Amalasuntha ruled in his name. She was a woman of considerable education and many accomplishments, a friend and perhaps a pupil of Cassiodorus, who now served her as he had served her father. But she leaned too much toward Roman ways to please her Gothic subjects; and they objected to the classical studies with which, in their views, she was enfeebling the King. She yielded the boy to Gothic tutors; he took to sexual indulgence, and died at eighteen. Amalasuntha associated her cousin Theodahad with her on the throne, having pledged him to let her rule. Presently he deposed and imprisoned her. She appealed to Justinian, now Byzantine Emperor, to come to her aid. Belisarius came.

CHAPTER V

Justinian

527–565

I. THE EMPEROR

IN 408 Arcadius died, and his son Theodosius II, aged seven, became Emperor of the East. Theodosius’ sister Pulcheria, having the advantage of him by two years, undertook his education, with such persistent solicitude that he was never fit to govern. He left this task to the praetorian prefect and the Senate, while he copied and illuminated manuscripts; he seems never to have read the Code that preserves his name. In 414 Pulcheria assumed the regency at the age of sixteen, and presided over the Empire for thirty-three years. She and her two sisters vowed themselves to virginity, and appear to have kept their vows. They dressed with ascetic simplicity, fasted, sang hymns and prayed, established hospitals, churches, and monasteries, and loaded them with gifts. The palace was turned into a convent, into which only women and a few priests might enter. Amid all this sanctity Pulcheria, her sister-in-law Eudocia, and their ministers governed so well that in all the forty-two years of Theodosius’ vicarious reign the Eastern Empire enjoyed exceptional tranquillity, while the Western was crumbling into chaos. The least forgotten event of this period was the publication of the Theodosian Code (438). In 429 a corps of jurists was commissioned to codify all laws enacted in the Empire since the accession of Constantine. The new code was accepted in both East and West, and remained the law of the Empire until the greater codification under Justinian.

Between Theodosius II and Justinian I the Eastern Empire had many rulers who in their day made great stir, but are now less than memories: the lives of great men all remind us how brief is immortality. Leo I (457–74) sent against Gaiseric (467) the greatest fleet ever assembled by a Roman government; it was defeated and destroyed. His son-in-law Zeno the Isaurian (474–91), anxious to quiet the Monophysites, caused a bitter schism between Greek and Latin Christianity by imperially deciding, in his “unifying” letter, the Henoticon, that there was but one nature in Christ. Anastasius (491–518) was a man of ability, courage, and good will; he restored the finances of the state by wise and economical administration, reduced taxes, abolished the contests of men with wild beasts at the games, made Constantinople almost impregnable by building the “Long Walls” for forty miles from the Sea of Marmora to the Black Sea, expended state funds on many other useful public works, and left in the treasury 320,000 pounds of gold ($134,400,000), which made possible the conquests of Justinian. The populace resented his economies and his Monophysite tendencies; a mob besieged his palace, and killed three of his aides; he appeared to them in all the dignity of his eighty years, and offered to resign if the people could agree on a successor. It was an impossible condition, and the crowd ended by begging him to retain the crown. When presently he died, the throne was usurped by Justin, an illiterate senator (518–27), who so loved his septuagenarian ease that he left the management of the Empire to his brilliant regent and nephew Justinian.

Procopius, his historian and enemy, would have been dissatisfied with Justinian from birth, for the future emperor was born (482) of lowly Illyrian—perhaps Slavic¹—peasants near the ancient Sardica, the modern Sofia. His uncle Justin brought him to Constantinople, and procured him a good education. Justinian so distinguished himself as an officer in the army, and as for nine years aide and apprentice to Justin, that when the uncle died (527), the nephew succeeded him as emperor.

He was now forty-five, of medium height and build, smooth shaven, ruddy faced, curly haired, with pleasant manners and a ready smile that could cover a multitude of aims. He was as abstemious as an anchorite, eating little and subsisting mostly on a vegetarian regimen;² he fasted often, sometimes to exhaustion. Even during these fasts he continued his routine of rising early, devoting himself to state affairs “from early dawn to midday, and far into the night.” Frequently when his aides thought he had retired, he was absorbed in study, eager to become a musician and an architect, a poet and a lawyer, a theologian and a philosopher, as well as an emperor; nevertheless he retained most of the superstitions of his time. His mind was constantly active, equally at home in large designs and minute details. He was not physically strong or brave; he wished to abdicate in the early troubles of his reign, and never took the field in his many wars. Perhaps it was a defect of his amiability that he was easily swayed by his friends, and therefore often vacillated in policy; frequently he subordinated his judgment to that of his wife. Procopius, who devoted a volume to Justinian’s faults, called him “insincere, crafty, hypocritical, dissembling his anger, double-dealing, clever, a perfect artist in acting out an opinion which he pretended to hold, and even able to produce tears … to the need of the moment”;³ but this might be a description of an able diplomat. “He was a fickle friend,” continues Procopius, “a truceless enemy, an ardent devotee of assassination and robbery.” Apparently he was these at times; but he was also capable of generosity and lenience. A general, Probus, was accused of reviling him, and was tried for treason; when the report of the trial was laid before Justinian he tore it up and sent a message to Probus: “I pardon you for your offense against me; pray that God also may pardon you.”⁴ He bore frank criticism without resentment. “This tyrant,” so unfortunate in his historian, “was the most accessible person in the world. For even men of low estate and altogether obscure had complete freedom not only to come before him but to converse with him.”⁵

At the same time he promoted the pomp and ceremony of his court even beyond the precedents of Diocletian and Constantine. Like Napoleon, he keenly missed the support of legitimacy, having succeeded to a usurper; he had no prestige of presence or origin; consequently he resorted to an aweinspiring ritual and pageantry whenever he appeared in public or before foreign ambassadors. He encouraged the Oriental conception of royalty as divine, applied the term sacred to his person and his property, and required those who came into his presence to kneel and kiss the hem of his purple robe, or the toes of his buskined feet.* He had himself anointed and crowned by the patriarch of Constantinople, and wore a diadem of pearls. No government has ever made so much ado as the Byzantine to ensure popular reverence through ceremonial splendor. The policy was reasonably effective; there were many revolutions in Byzantine history, but these were mostly coups d’état of the palace personnel; the court was not awed by its own solemnity.

The most significant revolt of the reign came early (532), and nearly cost Justinian his life. The Greens and Blues—the factions into which the people of Constantinople divided according to the dress of their favorite jockeys—had brought their quarrels to the point of open violence; the streets of the capital had become unsafe, and the well-to-do had to dress like paupers to avoid the nocturnal knife. Finally the government pounced down upon both factions, arresting several protagonists. The factions thereupon united in an armed uprising against the government. Probably a number of senators joined in the revolt, and proletarian discontent strove to make it a revolution. Prisons were invaded, and their inmates freed; city police and officials were killed; fires were started that burned down the church of St. Sophia and part of the Emperor’s palace. The crowd cried out “Nika!” (victory)—and so gave a name to the revolt. Drunk with success, it demanded the dismissal of two unpopular, perhaps oppressive, members of Justinian’s council; and he complied. Emboldened, the rebels persuaded Hypatius, of the senatorial class, to accept the throne; against the pleading of his wife he accepted, and went amid the plaudits of the crowd to take the imperial seat at the Hippodrome games. Meanwhile Justinian hid in his palace, and meditated flight; the Empress Theodora dissuaded him, and called for active resistance. Belisarius, leader of the army, took the assignment, assembled a number of Goths from his troops, led them to the Hippodrome, slaughtered 30,000 of the populace, arrested Hypatius, and had him killed in jail. Justinian restored his dismissed officials, pardoned the conspiring senators, and restored to the children of Hypatius their confiscated property.⁶ For the next thirty years Justinian was secure, but only one person seems to have loved him.

II. THEODORA

In his book on Buildings Procopius described a statue of Justinian’s wife: “It is beautiful, but still inferior to the beauty of the Empress; for to express her loveliness in words, or to portray it as a statue, would be altogether impossible for a mere human being.”⁷ In all his writings except one this greatest of Byzantine historians has nothing but praise for Theodora. But in a book which he left unpublished during his lifetime, and therefore called Anecdota—“not given out”—Procopius unfolded so scandalous a tale of the Queen’s premarital life that its veracity has been debated for thirteen centuries. This “Secret History” is a brief of candid malice, completely one-sided, devoted to blackening the posthumous reputations of Justinian, Theodora, and Belisarius. Since Procopius is our chief authority for the period, and in his other works is apparently accurate and fair, it is impossible to reject the Anecdota as mere fabrication; we may only rate it the angry retaliation of a disappointed courtier. John of Ephesus, who knew the Empress well, and does not otherwise reproach her, calls her simply “Theodora the strumpet.”⁸ For the rest there is scant corroboration of Procopius’ charges in other contemporary historians. Many theologians denounced her heresies, but none of them mentions her depravity—an incredible generosity if her depravity was real. We may reasonably conclude that Theodora began as not quite a lady, and ended as every inch a queen.

She was, Procopius assures us, the daughter of a bear trainer, grew up in the odor of a circus, became an actress and a prostitute, shocked and delighted Constantinople with her lewd pantomimes, practiced abortion with repeated success, but gave birth to an illegitimate child; became the mistress of Hecebolus, a Syrian, was deserted by him, and was lost sight of for a time in Alexandria. She reappeared in Constantinople as a poor but honest woman, earning her living by spinning wool. Justinian fell in love with her, made her his mistress, then his wife, then his queen.⁹ We cannot now determine how much truth there is in this proemium; but if such preliminaries did not disturb an emperor, they should not long detain us. Shortly after their marriage Justinian was crowned in St. Sophia; Theodora was crowned Empress at his side; and “not even a priest,” says Procopius, “showed himself outraged.”¹⁰

From whatever she had been, Theodora became a matron whose imperial chastity no one impugned. She was avid of money and power, she sometimes gave way to an imperious temper, she occasionally intrigued to achieve ends opposed to Justinian’s. She slept much, indulged heartily in food and drink, loved luxury, jewelry, and display, spent many months of the year in her palaces on the shore; nevertheless Justinian remained always enamored of her, and bore with philosophic patience her interferences with his schemes. He had invested her uxoriously with a sovereignty theoretically equal to his own, and could not complain if she exercised her power. She took an active part in diplomacy and in ecclesiastical politics, made and unmade Popes and patriarchs, and deposed her enemies. Sometimes she countermanded her husband’s orders, often to the advantage of the state;¹¹ her intelligence was almost commensurate with her power. Procopius charges her with cruelty to her opponents, with dungeon imprisonments and a few murders; men who seriously offended her were likely to disappear without trace, as in the political morals of our century. But she knew mercy too. She protected for two years, by hiding him in her own apartments, the Patriarch Anthemius, who had been exiled by Justinian for heresy. Perhaps she was too lenient with the adulteries of Belisarius’ wife; but to balance this she built a pretty “Convent of Repentance” for reformed prostitutes. Some of the girls repented of their repentance, and threw themselves from the windows, literally bored to death.¹² She took a grandmotherly interest in the marriages of her friends, arranged many matches, and sometimes made marriage a condition of advancement at her court. As might have been expected, she became in old age a stern guardian of public morals.¹³

Finally she interested herself in theology, and debated with her husband the nature of Christ. Justinian labored to reunite the Eastern and the Western Church; unity of religion, he thought, was indispensable to the unity of the Empire. But Theodora could not understand the two natures in Christ, though she raised no difficulties about the three persons in God; she adopted the Monophysite doctrine, perceived that on this point the East would not yield to the West, and judged that the strength and fortune of the Empire lay in the rich provinces of Asia, Syria, and Egypt, rather than in Western provinces ruined by barbarism and war. She softened Justinian’s orthodox intolerance, protected heretics, challenged the papacy, secretly encouraged the rise of an independent Monophysite Church in the East; and on these issues she fought tenaciously and ruthlessly against emperor and pope.

III. BELISARIUS

Justinian can be forgiven his passion for unity; it is the eternal temptation of philosophers as well as of statesmen, and generalizations have sometimes cost more than war. To recapture Africa from the Vandals, Italy from the Ostrogoths, Spain from the Visigoths, Gaul from the Franks, Britain from the Saxons; to drive barbarism back to its lairs and restore Roman civilization to all its old expanse; to spread Roman law once more across the white man’s world from the Euphrates to Hadrian’s Wall: these were no ignoble ambitions, though they were destined to exhaust saviors and saved alike. For these high purposes Justinian ended the schism of the Eastern from the Western Church on papal terms, and dreamed of bringing Arians, Monophysites, and other heretics into one great spiritual fold. Not since Constantine had a European thought in such dimensions.

Justinian was favored with competent generals, and harassed by limited means. His people were unwilling to fight his wars, and unable to pay for them. He soon used up the 320,000 pounds of gold that Justin’s predecessors had left in the treasury; thereafter he was forced to taxes that alienated the citizens, and economies that hampered his generals. Universal military service had ceased a century before; now the imperial army was composed almost wholly of barbarian mercenaries from a hundred tribes and states. They lived by plunder, and dreamed of riches and rape; time and again they mutinied in the crisis of battle, or lost a victory by stopping to gather spoils. Nothing united or inspired them except regular pay and able generals.

Belisarius, like Justinian, came of Illyrian peasant stock, recalling those Balkan emperors—Aurelian, Probus, Diocletian—who had saved the Empire in the third century. No general since Caesar ever won so many victories with such limited resources of men and funds; few ever surpassed him in strategy or tactics, in popularity with his men and mercy to his foes; perhaps it merits note that the greatest generals—Alexander, Caesar, Belisarius, Saladin, Napoleon—found clemency a mighty engine of war. There was a strain of sensitivity and tenderness in Belisarius, as in those others, which could turn the soldier into a lover as soon as his bloody tasks were done. And as the Emperor doted on Theodora, so Belisarius adored Antonina, bore with melting fury her infidelities, and, for divers reasons, took her with him on his campaigns.

He won his first honors in war against Persia. After 150 years of peace between the empires, hostilities had been renewed in the old competition for control of the trade routes to Central Asia and India. Amid brilliant victories Belisarius was suddenly recalled to Constantinople; Justinian made peace with Persia (532) by paying Khosru Anushirvan 11,000 pounds of gold; and then sent Belisarius to win back Africa. He had concluded that he could never expect to make permanent conquests in the East: the population there would be hostile, the frontier difficult to defend. But in the West were nations accustomed for centuries to Roman rule, resenting their heretical barbarian masters, and promising co-operation in war as well as taxes in peace. And from Africa added grain would come to quiet the critical mouths of the capital.

Gaiseric had died (477) after a reign of thirty-nine years. Under his successors Vandal Africa had resumed most of its Roman ways. Latin was the official language, and poets wrote in it dead verse to honor forgotten kings. The Roman theater at Carthage was restored, Greek dramas were played again.¹⁴ The monuments of ancient art were respected, and splendid new buildings rose. Procopius pictures the ruling classes as civilized gentlemen touched with occasional barbarism, but mostly neglecting the arts of war, and decaying leisurely under the sun.¹⁵

In June, 533, five hundred transports and ninety-two warships gathered in the Bosporus, received the commands of the Emperor and the blessings of the patriarch, and sailed for Carthage. Procopius was on Belisarius’ staff, and wrote a vivid. account of the “Vandal War.” Landing in Africa with only 5000 cavalry, Belisarius swept through the improvised defenses of Carthage, and in a few months overthrew the Vandal power. Justinian too hastily recalled him for a triumph at Constantinople; the Moors, pouring down from the hills, attacked the Roman garrison; Belisarius hurried back just in time to quell a mutiny among the troops and lead them to victory. Carthaginian Africa thenceforth remained under Byzantine rule till the Arabs came.

Justinian’s crafty diplomacy had arranged an alliance with the Ostrogoths while Belisarius attacked Africa; now he lured the Franks into an alliance while he ordered Belisarius to conquer Ostrogothic Italy. Using Tunisia as a base, Belisarius without much difficulty took Sicily. In 536 he crossed to Italy, and captured Naples by having some of his soldiers creep through the aqueduct into the town. The Ostrogothic forces were meager and divided; the people of Rome hailed Belisarius as a liberator, the clergy welcomed him as a Trinitarian; he entered Rome unopposed. Theodahad had Amalasuntha killed; the Ostrogoths deposed Theodahad, and chose Witigis as king. Witigis raised an army of 150,000 men, and besieged Belisarius in Rome. Forced to economize food and water, and to discontinue their daily baths, the Romans began to grumble against Belisarius, who had only 5000 men in arms. He defended the city with skill and courage, and after a year’s effort Witigis returned to Ravenna. For three years Belisarius importuned Justinian for additional troops; they were sent, but under generals hostile to Belisarius. The Ostrogoths in Ravenna, besieged and starving, offered to surrender if Belisarius would become their king. He pretended to consent, took the city, and presented it to Justinian (540).

The Emperor was grateful and suspicious. Belisarius had rewarded himself well out of the spoils of victory; he had won the too-personal loyalty of his troops; he had been offered a kingdom; might he not aspire to seize the throne from the nephew of a usurper? Justinian recalled him, and noticed uneasily the splendor of the general’s retinue. The Byzantines, Procopius reports, “took delight in watching Belisarius as he came forth from his home each day. … For his progress resembled a crowded festival procession, since he was always escorted by a large number of Vandals, Goths, and Moors. Furthermore, he had a fine figure, and was tall and remarkably handsome. But his conduct was so meek, and his manners so affable, that he seemed like a very poor man, and one of no repute.”¹⁶

The commanders appointed to replace him in Italy neglected the discipline of their troops, quarreled with one another, and earned the contempt of the Ostrogoths. A Goth of energy, judgment, and courage was proclaimed king of the defeated people. Totila gathered desperate recruits from the barbarians wandering homeless in Italy, took Naples (543) and Tibur, and laid siege to Rome. He astonished all by his clemency and good faith; treated captives so well that they enlisted under his banner; kept so honorably the promises by which he had secured the surrender of Naples that men began to wonder who was the barbarian, and who the civilized Greek. The wives of some senators fell into his hands; he treated them with gallant courtesy, and set them free. He condemned one of his soldiers to death for violating a Roman girl. The barbarians in the Emperor’s service showed no such delicacy; un-paid by the nearly bankrupt Justinian, they ravaged the country till the population remembered with longing the order and justice of Theodoric’s rule.¹⁷

Belisarius was ordered to the rescue. Reaching Italy, he made his way alone through Totila’s lines into beleaguered Rome. He was too late; the Greek garrison was demoralized; its officers were incompetent cowards; traitors opened the gates, and Totila’s army, ten thousand strong, entered the capital (546). Belisarius, retreating, sent a message asking him not to destroy the historic city; Totila permitted plunder to his unpaid and hungry troops, but spared the people, and protected the women from soldierly ardor. He made the mistake of leaving Rome to besiege Ravenna; in his absence Belisarius recaptured the city; and when Totila returned, his second siege failed to dislodge the resourceful Greek. Justinian, thinking the West won, declared war on Persia, and called Belisarius to the East. Totila took Rome again (549), and Sicily, Corsica, Sardinia, almost the entire peninsula. At last Justinian gave to his eunuch general Narses “an exceedingly large sum of money,” and ordered him to raise a new army and drive the Goths from Italy. Narses accomplished his mission with skill and dispatch; Totila was defeated and was killed in flight; the surviving Goths were permitted to leave Italy safely, and after eighteen years the “Gothic War” came to an end (553).

Those years completed the ruin of Italy. Rome had been five times captured, thrice besieged, starved, looted; its population, once a million, was now reduced to 40,000,¹⁸ of whom nearly half were paupers maintained by papal alms. Milan had been destroyed, and all its inhabitants killed. Hundreds of towns and villages sank into insolvency under the exactions of rulers and the depredations of troops. Regions once tilled were abandoned, and the food supply fell; in Picenum alone, we are told, 50,000 died of starvation during these eighteen years.¹⁹ The aristocracy was shattered; so many of its members had been slain in battle, pillage, or flight that too few survived to continue the Senate of Rome; after 579 we hear of it no more.²⁰ The great aqueducts that Theodoric had repaired were broken and neglected, and again turned the Campagna into a vast malarial marsh, which remained till our time. The majestic baths, dependent upon the aqueducts, fell into disuse and decay. Hundreds of statues, surviving Alaric and Gaiseric, had been broken or melted down to provide projectiles and machines during siege. Only ruins bore witness to Rome’s ancient grandeur as capital of half the world. The Eastern emperor would now for a brief period rule Italy; but it was a costly and empty victory. Rome would not fully recover from that victory till the Renaissance.

IV. THE CODE OF JUSTINIAN

History rightly forgets Justinian’s wars, and remembers him for his laws. A century had elapsed since the publication of Theodosius’ Code; many of its regulations had been made obsolete by changing conditions; many new laws had been passed which lay in confusion on the statute books; and many contradictions in the laws hampered executives and courts. The influence of Christianity had modified legislation and interpretation. The civil laws of Rome often conflicted with the laws of the nations composing the Empire; many of the old enactments were ill adapted to the Hellenistic traditions of the East. The whole vast body of Roman law had become an empirical accumulation rather than a logical code.

Justinian’s unifying passion resented this chaos, as it chafed at the dismemberment of the Empire. In 528 he appointed ten jurists to systematize, clarify, and reform the laws. The most active and influential member of this commission was the quaestor Tribonian, who, despite venality and suspected atheism, remained to his death the chief inspirer, adviser, and executant of Justinian’s legislative plans. The first part of the task was accomplished with undue haste, and was issued in 529 as the Codex Constitutionum; it was declared to be the law of the Empire, and all preceding legislation was nullified except as re-enacted herein. The proemium struck a pretty note:

To the youth desirous of studying the law: The Imperial Majesty should be armed with law as well as glorified with arms, that there may be good government in times both of war and of peace; and that the ruler may … show himself as scrupulously regardful of justice as triumphant over his foes.²¹

The commissioners then proceeded to the second part of their assignment: to gather into a system those responso, or opinions of the great Roman jurists which still seemed worthy to have the force of law. The result was published as the Digesta or Pandectae (533); the opinions quoted, and the interpretations now given, were henceforth to be binding upon all judges; and all other opinions lost legal authority. Older collections of responsa ceased to be copied, and for the most part disappeared. What remains of them suggests that Justinian’s redactors omitted opinions favorable to freedom, and by impious fraud transformed some judgments of ancient jurists to better consonance with absolute rule.

While this major work was in process, Tribonian and two associates, finding the Codex too laborious a volume for students, issued an official handbook of civil law under the title of Institutiones (533). Essentially this reproduced, amended, and brought up to date the Commentaries of Gaius, who in the second century had with admirable skill and clarity summarized the civil law of his time. Meanwhile Justinian had been issuing new laws. In 534 Tribonian and four aides embodied these in a revised edition of the Codex; the earlier issue was deprived of authority, and was lost to history. After Justinian’s death his additional legislation was published as Novellae (sc. constitutiones)—i.e., new enactments. Whereas the previous publications had been in Latin, this was in Greek, and marked the end of Latin as the language of the law in the Byzantine Empire. All these publications came to be known as the Corpus iuris civilis, or Body of Civil Law, and were loosely referred to as the Code of Justinian.

This Code, like the Theodosian, enacted orthodox Christianity into law. It began by declaring for the Trinity, and anathematized Nestorius, Eutyches, and Apollinaris. It acknowledged the ecclesiastical leadership of the Roman Church, and ordered all Christian groups to submit to her authority. But ensuing chapters proclaimed the dominion of the emperor over the Church: all ecclesiastical, like all civil, law, was to emanate from the throne. The Code proceeded to make laws for metropolitans, bishops, abbots, and monks, and specified penalties for clerics who gambled, or attended the theater or the games.²² Manicheans or relapsed heretics were to be put to death; Donatists, Montanists, Monophysites, and other dissenters were to suffer confiscation of their goods, and were declared incompetent to buy or sell, to inherit or bequeath; they were excluded from public office, forbidden to meet, and disqualified from suing orthodox Christians for debt. A gentler enactment empowered bishops to visit prisons, and to protect prisoners from abuses of the law.

The Code replaced older distinctions of class. Freedmen were no longer treated as a separate group; they enjoyed at once, on their emancipation, all the privileges of freemen; they might rise to be senators or emperors. All freemen were divided into honestiores—men of honor or rank—and humiliores—commoners. A hierarchy of rank, which had developed among the honestiores since Diocletian, was sanctioned by the Code: patricii, illustres, spectabiles (hence our respectable), clarissimi, and gloriosi; there were many Oriental elements in this Roman law.

The Code showed some Christian or Stoic influence in its legislation on slavery. The rape, of a slave woman, as of a free woman, was to be punished with death. A slave might marry a free woman if his master consented. Justinian, like the Church, encouraged manumissions; but his law allowed a newborn child to be sold into slavery if its parents were desperate with poverty.²³ Certain passages of the Code legalized serfdom, and prepared for feudalism. A freeman who had cultivated a tract of land for thirty years was required, with his descendants, to remain forever attached to that piece of land;²⁴ the measure was explained as discouraging the desertion of the soil. A serf who ran away, or became a cleric without his lord’s consent, could be reclaimed like a runaway slave.

The status of woman was moderately improved by the Code. Her subjection to lifelong guardianship had been ended in the fourth century, and the old principle that inheritance could pass only through males had become obsolete; the Church, which often received legacies from women, did much to secure these reforms. Justinian sought to enforce the views of the Church on divorce, and forbade it except when one of the parties wished to enter a convent or monastery. But this was too extreme a departure from existing custom and law; large sections of the public protested that it would increase the number of poisonings. The later legislation of the Emperor listed a generous variety of grounds for divorce; and this, with some interruptions, remained the law of the Byzantine Empire till 1453.²⁵ Penalties imposed by Augustus upon celibacy and childlessness were removed in the Code. Constantine had made adultery a capital crime, though he had rarely enforced the decree; Justinian kept the death penalty for men, but reduced the penalty for the woman to immurement in a nunnery. A husband might with impunity kill the paramour of his wife if, after sending her three witnessed warnings, he found her in his own house, or in a tavern, conversing with the suspected man. Similarly severe penalties were decreed for intercourse with an unmarried woman or a widow, unless she was a concubine or a prostitute. Rape was punished with death and confiscation of property, and the proceeds were given to the injured woman. Justinian not only decreed death for homosexual acts, but often added torture, mutilation, and the public parading of the guilty persons before their execution. In this extreme legislation against sexual irregularities we feel the influence of a Christianity shocked into a ferocious puritanism by the sins of pagan civilization.

Justinian made a decisive change in the law of property. The ancient privilege of agnate relatives—relatives through the male line—to inherit an intestate property was abolished; such inheritance was now to descend to the cognate relatives in direct line—children, grandchildren, etc. Charitable gifts and bequests were encouraged by the Code. The property of the Church, whether in realty or movables, rents, serfs, or slaves, was declared inalienable; no member, and no number of members, of the clergy or the laity could give, sell, or bequeath anything belonging to the Church. These laws of Leo I and Anthemius, confirmed by the Code, became the legal basis of the Church’s growing wealth: secular property was dissipated, ecclesiastical property was accumulated, in the course of generations. The Church tried, and failed, to have interest forbidden. Defaulting debtors could be arrested, but were to be released on bail or on their oath to return for trial.

No one could be imprisoned except by order of a high magistrate; and there were strict limits to the time that might elapse between arrest and trial. Lawyers were so numerous that Justinian built for them a basilica whose size may be judged from its library of 150,000 volumes or rolls. Trial was to be held before a magistrate appointed by the emperor; but if both parties so wished, the case could be transferred to the bishop’s court. A copy of the Bible was placed before the judge in each trial; the attorneys were required to swear on it that they would do their best to defend their clients honorably, but would resign their case if they found it dishonest; plaintiff and defendant had also to swear on it to the justice of their cause. Penalties, though severe, were seldom mandatory; the judge might mitigate them for women, minors, and drunken offenders. Imprisonment was used as detention for trial, but seldom as a punishment. The Justinian Code retrogressed from the laws of Hadrian and Antoninus Pius by permitting mutilation as a penalty. Tax collectors falsifying returns, and persons copying Monophysite literature, could suffer the loss of a hand, on the theory that the offending member should pay for the crime. Amputation of nose or throat is frequently decreed in the Code; later Byzantine law added blinding, especially as a means for disqualifying heirs or aspirants to the throne. The death penalty was carried out on free persons by beheading, on some slaves by crucifixion. Sorcerers and deserters from the army were burned alive. A condemned citizen might appeal to a higher court, then to the Senate, finally to the emperor.

We can admire the Code of Justinian more readily as a whole than in its parts. It differs most from earlier codes by its rigid orthodoxy, its deeper obscurantism, its vengeful severity. An educated Roman would have found life more civilized under the Antonines than under Justinian. The Emperor could not escape his environment and his time; and in his ambition to unify everything he codified the superstition and barbarity, as well as the justice and charity, of his age. The Code was conservative, like everything Byzantine, and served as a strait jacket for a civilization that seemed destined never to die. It soon ceased to be obeyed except in a narrowing realm. The Eastern nationalist heretics whom it flayed opened their arms to the Moslems, and prospered better under the Koran than under the Code. Italy under the Lombards, Gaul under the Franks, England under the Anglo-Saxons, Spain under the Visigoths, ignored the edicts of Justinian. Nevertheless the Code for some generations gave order and security to a motley assemblage of peoples, and allowed, across the frontiers and along the streets of a dozen nations, freer and safer movement than the same regions enjoy today. It continued to the end the code of the Byzantine Empire; and five centuries after it disappeared in the West it was revived by the jurists of Bologna, accepted by emperors and popes, and entered like a scaffolding of order into the structure of many modern states.

V. THE IMPERIAL THEOLOGIAN

It remained only to unify belief, to weld the Church into a homogeneous instrument of rule. Probably Justinian’s piety was sincere, not merely political; he himself, as far as Theodora would permit, lived like a monk in his palace, fasting and praying, poring over theological tomes, and debating doctrinal niceties with professors, patriarchs, and popes. Procopius, with transparent concurrence, quotes a conspirator: “It ill becomes anyone who has even a little spirit in him to refuse to murder Justinian; nor should he entertain any fear of a man who always sits unguarded in some lobby to a late hour of the night, eagerly unrolling the Christian Scriptures in company with priests who are at the extremity of old age.”²⁶ Almost the first use that Justinian had made of his power as regent for Justin was to end the breach that had been widened between the Eastern and the Western Church by the Emperor Zeno’s Henoticon. By accepting the viewpoint of the papacy, Justinian won the support of the orthodox clergy in Italy against the Goths, and in the East against the Monophysites.

This sect, arguing passionately that there was but one nature in Christ, had become almost as numerous in Egypt as the Catholics. In Alexandria they were so advanced that they in turn could divide into orthodox and heterodox Monophysites; these factions fought in the streets, while their women joined in with missiles from the roofs. When the armed forces of the Emperor installed a Catholic bishop in the see of Athanasius, the congregation greeted his first sermon with a volley of stones, and was slaughtered in situ by the imperial soldiery. While Catholicism controlled the Alexandrian episcopacy, heresy spread throughout the countryside; the peasants ignored the decrees of the patriarch and the orders of the Emperor, and Egypt was half lost to the Empire a century before the Arabs came.

In this matter, as in many others, the persistent Theodora overcame the vacillating Justinian. She intrigued with Vigilius, a Roman deacon, to make him pope if he would offer concessions to the Monophysites. Pope Silverius was removed from Rome by Belisarius (537), and was exiled to the island of Palmaria, where he soon died from harsh treatment; and Vigilius was made Pope by the orders of the Emperor. Finally accepting Theodora’s view that Monophysitism could not be crushed, Justinian sought to appease its followers in a document of imperial theology known as the Three Chapters. He summoned Vigilius to Constantinople, and urged him to subscribe to this statement. Vigilius reluctantly consented, whereupon the African Catholic clergy excommunicated him (550); he withdrew his consent, was exiled by Justinian to a rock in the Proconnesus, again consented, obtained leave to return to Rome, but died on the way (555). Never had an emperor made so open an attempt to dominate the papacy. Justinian called an ecumenical council to meet at Constantinople (553); hardly any Western bishops attended; the council approved Justinian’s formulas, the Western Church rejected them, and Eastern and Western Christianity resumed their schism for a century.

In the end death won all arguments. Theodora’s passing in 548 was to Justinian the heaviest of many blows that broke down his courage, clarity, and strength. He was then sixty-five, weakened by asceticism and recurrent crises; he left the government to subordinates, neglected the defenses he had so labored to build, and abandoned himself to theology. A hundred disasters darkened the remaining seventeen years during which he outlived himself. Earthquakes were especially frequent in this reign; a dozen cities were almost wiped out by them; and their rehabilitation drained the Treasury. In 542 plague came; in 556 famine, in 558 plague again. In 559 the Kotrigur Huns crossed the Danube, plundered Moesia and Thrace, took thousands of captives, violated matrons, virgins, and nuns, threw to the dogs the infants born to women captives on the march, and advanced to the walls of Constantinople. The terrified Emperor appealed to the great general who had so often saved him. Belisarius was old and feeble; nevertheless he put on his armor, gathered 300 veterans who had fought with him in Italy, recruited a few hundred untrained men, and went out to meet 7000 Huns. He disposed his forces with his wonted foresight and skill, concealing 200 of his best soldiers in adjoining woods. When the Huns moved forward these men fell upon their flank, while Belisarius met the attack at the head of his little army. The barbarians turned and fled before a single Roman was mortally injured. The populace at the capital complained that Belisarius had not pursued the enemy and brought back the Hun leader as captive. The jealous Emperor listened to envious calumnies against his general, suspected him of conspiracy, and ordered him to dismiss his armed retainers. Belisarius died in 565, and Justinian confiscated half his property.

The Emperor outlived the general by eight months. In his final years his interest in theology had borne strange fruit: the defender of the faith had become a heretic. He announced that the body of Christ was incorruptible, and that Christ’s human nature had never been subject to any of the wants and indignities of mortal flesh. The clergy warned him that if he died in this error his soul would “be delivered to the flames, and burn there eternally.”²⁷ He died unrepentant (565), after a life of eighty-three years, and a reign of thirty-eight.

Justinian’s death was one more point at which antiquity might be said to end. He was a true Roman emperor, thinking in terms of all the Empire East and West, struggling to keep back the barbarians, and to bring again to the vast realm an orderly government of homogeneous laws. He had accomplished a good measure of this aim: Africa, Dalmatia, Italy, Corsica, Sardinia, Sicily, and part of Spain had been regained; the Persians had been driven out of Syria; the Empire had doubled its extent in his reign. Though his legislation was barbarously severe on heresy and sexual immorality, it represented, by its unity, lucidity, and scope, one of the peaks in the history of law. His administration was sullied with official corruption, extreme taxation, capricious pardons and punishments; but it was also distinguished by a painstaking organization of imperial economy and government; and it created a system of order which, though a stranger to freedom, held civilization together in a corner of Europe while the rest of the continent plunged into the Dark Ages. He left his name upon the history of industry and art; St. Sophia is also his monument. To orthodox contemporaries it must have seemed that once more the Empire had turned back the tide, and won a respite from death.

It was a pitifully brief respite. Justinian had left the treasury empty, as he had found it full; his intolerant laws and thieving taxgatherers had alienated nations as fast as his armies had conquered them; and those armies, decimated, scattered, and ill paid, could not long defend what they had so devastatingly won. Africa was soon abandoned to the Berbers; Syria, Palestine, Egypt, Africa, and Spain to the Arabs; Italy to the Lombards; within a century after Justinian’s death the Empire had lost more territory than he had gained. With proud hindsight we may see how much better it would have been to gather the rising nationalities and creeds into a federated union; to offer friendship to the Ostrogoths who had governed Italy comparatively well; and to serve as a protective medium through which the ancient culture might flow unstinted to the newborn states.

We need not accept Procopius’ estimate of Justinian; it was refuted by Procopius himself.²⁸ He was a great ruler, whose very faults sprang from the logic and sincerity of his creed: his persecutions from his certainty, his wars from his Roman spirit, his confiscations from his wars. We mourn the narrow violence of his methods, and applaud the grandeur of his aims. He and Belisarius, not Boniface and Aëtius, were the last of the Romans.

CHAPTER VI

Byzantine Civilization

326–565

I. WORK AND WEALTH

BYZANTINE economy was a modernistic mixture of private enterprise, state regulation, and nationalized industries. Peasant proprietorship was still, under Justinian, the agricultural rule; but estates were expanding, and many farmers were being forced into feudal subjection to great landowners by drought or flood, competition or incompetence, taxation or war. The mineral resources of the soil were owned by the state, but were mostly mined by private agencies on governmental lease. The mines of Greece were exhausted, but old and new veins were worked in Thrace, Pontus, and the Balkans. Most industrial labor was “free”—i.e., compelled only by a distaste for starvation. Direct slavery played a negligible role outside of domestic services and the textile industry; but in Syria, and probably in Egypt and North Africa, forced labor was used by the state to maintain the major irrigation canals.¹ The government produced in its own factories most of the goods required by the army, the bureaucracy, and the court.²

About the year 552 some Nestorian monks from Central Asia interested Justinian with an offer to provide the Empire with an independent source of silk. If we recall how many wars Greece and Rome had fought with Persia for control of the trade routes to China and India, and remark the name “silk route” given to the northern passes to the Far East, the name Serica (Silk-land) given by the Romans to China, and the name Serindia applied to the region between China and India, we shall understand why Justinian eagerly accepted the proposal. The monks went back to Central Asia and returned with the eggs of silkworms, and probably some seedlings of the mulberry tree.³ A small silk industry already existed in Greece, but it depended upon wild silkworms, feeding on oak, ash, or cypress leaves. Now silk became a major industry, especially in Syria and Greece; it developed to such an extent in the Peloponnesus as to give that peninsula the new name of Morea—land of the mulberry tree (morus alba).

In Constantinople the manufacture of certain silk fabrics and purple dyes was a state monopoly, and was carried on in workshops in or near the imperial palace.⁴ Expensive silks and dyed fabrics were permitted only to high officials of the government, and the most costly could be worn only by members of the imperial family. When clandestine private enterprise produced and sold similar stuffs to unprivileged persons, Justinian broke this “black market” by removing most of the restrictions on the use of luxurious silks and dyes; he flooded the shops with state textiles at prices that private competition could not meet; and when the competition had disappeared the government raised the prices.⁵ Following Diocletian’s example, Justinian sought to extend governmental control to all prices and wages. After the plague of 542 the labor supply fell, wages rose, and prices soared. Like the English Parliament of 1351 after the plague of 1348, Justinian sought to help employers and consumers by a price and wage decree:

We have learned that since the visitation of God traders, artisans, husbandmen, and sailors have yielded to a spirit of covetousness, and are demanding prices and wages two or three times as great as they formerly received. … We forbid all such to demand higher wages or prices than before. We also forbid contractors for buildings, or for agricultural or other work, to pay the workmen more than was customary in old days.⁶

We have no information as to the effect of this decree.

From Constantine to the latter part of Justinian’s reign domestic and foreign trade flourished in the Byzantine Empire. Roman roads and bridges were there kept in repair, and the creative lust for gain built maritime fleets that bound the capital with a hundred ports in East and West. From the fifth century to the fifteenth Constantinople remained the greatest market and shipping center in the world. Alexandria, which had held this supremacy from the third century B.C., now ranked in trade below Antioch.⁷ All Syria throve with commerce and industry; it lay between Persia and Constantinople, between Constantinople and Egypt; its merchants were shrewd and venturesome, and only the effervescent Greeks could rival them in the extent of their traffic and the subtlety of their ways; their spread throughout the Empire was a factor in that orientalization of manners and arts which marked Byzantine civilization.

As the old trade route from Syria to Central Asia lay through hostile Persia, Justinian sought a new route by establishing friendly relations with the Himyarites of southwestern Arabia and the kings of Ethiopia, who between them controlled the southern gates of the Red Sea. Through those straits and the Indian Ocean Byzantine merchantmen sailed to India; but Persian control of Indian ports wrung the same tolls from this trade as if it had passed through Iran. Defeated on this line, Justinian encouraged the development of harbors on the Black Sea; along these stopping points goods were shipped by water to Colchis, and thence by caravan to Sogdiana, where Chinese and Western merchants could meet and haggle without Persian scrutiny. The rising traffic on this northern route helped to raise Serindia to its medieval peak of wealth and art. Meanwhile Greek commerce maintained its ancient outlets in the West.

This active economy was supported by an imperial currency whose integrity gave it an almost global acceptance. Constantine had minted a new coin to replace Caesar’s aureus; this solidus or “bezant” contained 4.55 grams, or one sixth of a troy ounce of gold, and would be worth $5.83 in the United States of 1946. The metallic and economic deterioration of the solidus into the lowly sou illustrates the general rise of prices, and depreciation of currencies, through history, and suggests that thrift is a virtue which, like most others, must be practiced with discrimination. Banking was now highly developed. We may judge the prosperity of the Byzantine Empire at Justinian’s accession by his fixing of the maximum interest rate at four per cent on loans to peasants, six per cent on private loans secured by collateral, eight per cent on commercial loans, and twelve per cent on maritime investments.⁸ Nowhere else in the world of that time were interest rates so low.

The senatorial aristocracy through land ownership, and the mercantile magnates through far-flung ventures in which the profits were commensurate with the risks, enjoyed such wealth and luxury as only a few had ever known in Rome. The aristocracy of the East had better tastes than that of Rome in the days of Cicero or Juvenal; it did not gorge itself on exotic foods, had a lower rate of divorce, and showed considerable fidelity and industry in serving the state. Its extravagance lay chiefly in ornate dress, in robes of furry hems and dazzling tints, in silken tunics preciously dyed, threaded with gold, and illuminated with scenes from nature or history. Some men were “walking murals”; on the garments of one senator could be found the whole story of Christ.⁹ Underneath this social crust of gold was a middle class fretted with taxation, a plodding bureaucracy, a medley of meddlesome monks, a flotsam and jetsam of proletaires exploited by the price system and soothed by the dole.

Morals, sexual and commercial, were not appreciably different from those of other cultures at a like stage of economic development. Chrysostom condemned dancing as exciting passion, but Constantinople danced. The Church continued to refuse baptism to actors, but the Byzantine stage continued to display its suggestive pantomimes; people must be consoled for monogamy and prose. Procopius’ Secret History, never trustworthy, reports that “practically all women were corrupt” in his time.¹⁰ Contraceptives were a subject of assiduous study and research; Oribasius, the outstanding physician of the fourth century, gave them a chapter in his compendium of medicine; another medical writer, Aëtius, in the sixth century, recommended the use of vinegar or brine, or the practice of continence at the beginning and end of the menstrual period.¹¹ Justinian and Theodora sought to diminish prostitution by banishing procuresses and brothel keepers from Constantinople, with transient results. In general the status of woman was high; never had women been more unfettered in law and custom, or more influential in government.

II. SCIENCE AND PHILOSOPHY: 364–565

What, in this apparently religious society, was the fate of education, learning, literature, science, and philosophy?

Primary instruction continued in the hands of private teachers paid by the parents per pupil and term. Higher education, till Theodosius II, was provided both by lecturers operating under their own power, and through professois paid by city or state. Libanius complained that these were too poorly paid—that they longed through hunger to go to the baker, but refrained through fear of being asked to pay their debts.¹² However, we read of teachers like Eumenius, who received 600,000 sesterces ($30,000?) a year;¹³ in this, as in other fields, the best and the worst received too much, the rest too little. Julian, to propagate paganism, introduced state examinations and appointments for all university teachers.¹⁴ Theodosius II, for opposite reasons, made it a penal offense to give public instruction without a state license; and such licenses were soon confined to conformists with the orthodox creed.

The great universities of the East were at Alexandria, Athens, Constantinople, and Antioch, specializing respectively in medicine, philosophy, literature, and rhetoric. Oribasius of Pergamum (c. 325–403), physician to Julian, compiled a medical encyclopedia of seventy “books.” Aëtius of Amida, court physician under Justinian, wrote a similar survey, distinguished by the best ancient analysis of ailments of the eye, ear, nose, mouth, and teeth; with interesting chapters on goiter and hydrophobia, and surgical procedures ranging from tonsillectomy to hemorrhoids. Alexander of Tralles (c. 525–605) was the most original of these medical authors: he named various intestinal parasites, accurately described disorders of the digestive tract, and discussed with unprecedented thoroughness the diagnosis and treatment of pulmonary diseases. His textbook of internal pathology and therapy was translated into Syriac, Arabic, Hebrew, and Latin, and exercised in Christendom an influence only next to that of Hippocrates, Galen, and Soranus.¹⁵ According to Augustine the vivisection of human beings was practiced in the fifth century.¹⁶ Superstition encroached daily on medicine. Most physicians accepted astrology, and some advised different treatments according to the position of the planets.¹⁷ Aëtius recommended, for contraception, that the woman should suspend near her anus the tooth of a child;¹⁸ and Marcellus, in his De medicamentis (395), anticipated modern technique by urging the wearing of a rabbit’s foot.¹⁹ Mules fared better than men; the most scientific work of the period was the Digestorum artis mulomedicinae libri IV of Flavius Vegetius (383–450); this book almost founded veterinary science, and remained an authority till the Renaissance.

Chemistry and alchemy went hand in hand, with Alexandria as their center. The alchemists were generally sincere investigators; they employed experimental methods more faithfully than any other scientists of antiquity; they substantially advanced the chemistry of metals and alloys; and we cannot be sure that the future will not justify their aims. Astrology too had an honest base; nearly everybody took it for granted that the stars, as well as the sun and moon, affected terrestrial events. But upon these foundations quackery raised a weird ziggurat of magic, divination, and planetary abracadabra. Horoscopes were even more fashionable in medieval cities than in New York or Paris today. St. Augustine tells of two friends who noted carefully the position of the constellations at the birth of their domestic animals.²⁰ Much of the nonsense of Arabic astrology and alchemy was part of Islam’s Greek heritage.

The most interesting figure in the science of this age is that of the pagan mathematician and philosopher Hypatia. Her father Theon is the last man whose name is recorded as a professor at the Alexandrian Museum; he wrote a commentary on Ptolemy’s Syntaxis, and acknowledged the share of his daughter in its composition. Hypatia, says Suidas, wrote commentaries on Diophantus, on the Astronomical Canon of Ptolemy, and on the Conics of Apollonius of Perga.²¹ None of her works survives. From mathematics she passed to philosophy, built her system on the lines of Plato and Plotinus, and (according to the Christian historian Socrates) “far surpassed all the philosophers of her time.”²² Appointed to the chair of philosophy in the Museum, she drew to her lectures a large audience of varied and distant provenance. Some students fell in love with her, but she seems never to have married; Suidas would have us believe that she married, but remained a virgin nevertheless.²³ Suidas transmits another tale, perhaps invented by her enemies, that when one youth importuned her she impatiently raised her dress, and said to him: “This symbol of unclean generation is what you are in love with, and not anything beautiful.”²⁴ She was so fond of philosophy that she would stop in the streets and explain, to any who asked, difficult points in Plato or Aristotle. “Such was her self-possession and ease of manner,” says Socrates, “arising from the refinement and cultivation of her mind, that she not infrequently appeared before the city magistrates without ever losing in an assembly of men that dignified modesty of deportment for which she was conspicuous, and which gained for her universal respect and admiration.”

But the admiration was not quite universal. The Christians of Alexandria must have looked upon her askance, for she was not only a seductive unbeliever, but an intimate friend of Orestes, the pagan prefect of the city. When Archbishop Cyril instigated his monastic followers to expel the Jews from Alexandria, Orestes sent to Theodosius II an offensively impartial account of the incident. Some monks stoned the prefect; he had the leader of the mob arrested and tortured to death (415). Cyril’s supporters charged Hypatia with being the chief influence upon Orestes; she alone, they argued, prevented a reconciliation between the prefect and the Patriarch. One day a band of fanatics, led by a “reader” or minor clerk on Cyril’s staff, pulled her from her carriage, dragged her into a church, stripped her of her garments, battered her to death with tiles, tore her corpse to pieces, and burned the remains in a savage orgy (415).²⁵ “An act so inhuman,” says Socrates, “could not fail to bring the greatest opprobrium not only upon Cyril, but also upon the whole Alexandrian church.”²⁶ However, no personal punishment was exacted; the Emperor Theodosius II merely restricted the freedom of the monks to appear in public (Sept., 416), and excluded pagans from all public office (Dec., 416). Cyril’s victory was complete.

Pagan professors of philosophy, after the death of Hypatia, sought security in Athens, where non-Christian teaching was still relatively and innocuously free. Student life was still lively there, and enjoyed most of the consolations of higher education—fraternities, distinctive garbs, hazing, and a general hilarity.²⁷ The Stoic as well as the Epicurean School had now disappeared, but the Platonic Academy enjoyed a splendid decline under Themistius, Priscus, and Proclus. Themistius (fl. 380) was destined to influence Averroës and other medieval thinkers by his commentaries on Aristotle. Priscus was for a time the friend and adviser of Julian; he was arrested by Valens and Valentinian I on a charge of using magic to give them a fever; he returned to Athens, and taught there till his death at ninety in 395. Proclus (410–85), like a true Platonist, approached philosophy through mathematics. A man of scholastic patience, he collated the ideas of Greek philosophy into one system, and gave it a superficially scientific form. But he felt the mystic mood of Neoplatonism too; by fasting and purification, he thought, one might enter into communion with supernatural beings.²⁸ The schools of Athens had lost all vitality when Justinian closed them in 529. Their work lay in rehearsing again and again the theories of the ancient masters; they were oppressed and stifled by the magnitude of their heritage; their only deviations were into a mysticism that borrowed from the less orthodox moods of Christianity. Justinian closed the schools of the rhetoricians as well as of the philosophers, confiscated their property, and forbade any pagan to teach. Greek philosophy, after eleven centuries of history, had come to an end.

The passage from philosophy to religion, from Plato to Christ, stands out in certain strange Greek writings confidently ascribed by medieval thinkers to Dionysius “the Areopagite”—one of the Athenians who accepted the teaching of Paul. These works are chiefly four: On the Celestial Hierarchy, On the Ecclesiastical Hierarchy, On the Divine Names, and On Mystical Theology. We do not know by whom they were written, or when, or where; their contents indicate an origin between the fourth and sixth centuries; we only know that few books have more deeply influenced Christian theology. John Scotus Erigena translated and built on one of them, Albertus Magnus and Thomas Aquinas reverenced them, a hundred mystics—Jewish and Moslem as well as Christianfed on them, and medieval art and popular theology accepted them as an infallible guide to celestial beings and ranks. Their general purpose was to combine Neoplatonism with Christian cosmology. God, though incomprehensibly transcendent, is nevertheless immanent in all things as their source and life. Between God and man intervene three triads of supernatural beings: Seraphim, Cherubim, and Thrones; Dominations, Virtues, and Powers; Principalities, Archangels, and Angels. (The reader will recall how Dante ranged these nine groups around the throne of God, and how Milton wove some of their names into a sonorous line.) Creation, in these works, is by emanation: all things flow from God through these mediating angelic ranks; and then, by a reverse process, these nine orders of the celestial hierarchy lead men and all creation back to God.

III. LITERATURE: 364–565

In 425 Theodosius II, or his regents, reorganized higher education in Constantinople, and formally established a university of thirty-one teachers: one for philosophy, two for law, twenty-eight for Latin and Greek “grammar” and “rhetoric.” These last included the study of the two literatures; and the large number of teachers assigned to them suggests a lively interest in letters. One such professor, Priscian, composed, about 526, an immense Grammar of Latin and Greek, which became one of the most famous textbooks of the Middle Ages. The Eastern Church seems to have raised no objections at this time to the copying of the pagan classics;²⁹ though a few saints protested, the School of Constantinople transmitted faithfully, to the end of the Byzantine Empire, the masterpieces of antiquity. And, despite the rising cost of parchment, the flow of books was still abundant. About 450 Musaeus, of unknown provenance, composed his famous poem, Hero and Leander—how Leander anticipated Byron by swimming the Hellespont to reach his beloved Hero, how he died in the attempt, and how Hero, seeing him flung up dead at the foot of her tower,

from the sheer crag plunged in hurtling headlong fall

To find with her dead love a death among the waves.³⁰

It was the Christian gentlemen of the Byzantine court who composed, for the final installment of the Greek Anthology, graceful love poems in the ancient moods and modes, and in terms of the pagan gods. Here, from Agathias (c. 550), is a song that may have helped Ben Jonson to a masterpiece:

I love not wine; yet if thou’lt make

A sad man merry, sip first sup,

And when thou givest I’ll take the cup.

If thy lips touch it, for thy sake

No more may I be stiff and staid

And the luscious jug evade.

The cup conveys thy kiss to me,

And tells the joy it had of thee.³¹

The most important literary work of this age was done by the historians. Eunapius of Sardis composed a lost Universal History of the period from 270 to 400, making Justinian his hero, and twenty-three gossipy biographies of the later Sophists and Neoplatonists. Socrates, an orthodox Christian of Constantinople, wrote a History of the Church from 309 to 439; it is fairly accurate and generally fair, as we have seen in the case of Hypatia; but this Socrates fills his narrative with superstitions, legends, and miracles, and talks so frequently of himself as if he found it hard to distinguish between himself and the cosmos. He ends with a novel plea for peace among the sects: if peace comes, he thinks, historians will have nothing to write about, and that miserable tribe of tragedy-mongers will cease.³² Mostly copied from Socrates is the Ecclesiastical History of Sozomen, a convert from Palestine, and, like his model, a lawyer at the capital; apparently a legal training was no handicap to superstition. Zosimus of Constantinople composed, about 475, a History of the Roman Empire; he was a pagan, but did not yield to his Christian rivals in credulity and nonsense. Toward 525 Dionysius Exiguus—Dennis the Short—suggested a new method of dating events, from the supposed year of Christ’s birth. The proposal was not accepted by the Latin Church till the tenth century; and the Byzantines continued to the end to number their years from the creation of the world. It is discouraging to note how many things were known to the youth of our civilization, which are unknown to us today.

The one great historian of the period was Procopius. Born in Palestinian Caesarea (490), he studied law, came to Constantinople, and was appointed secretary and legal adviser to Belisarius. He accompanied the general on the Syrian, African, and Italian campaigns, and returned with him to the capital. In 550 he published his Books of the Wars. Knowing at first hand the merits of the general and the parsimony of the ruler, he made Belisarius a brilliant hero, and left Justinian in the shade. The book was received with applause by the public, with silence by the Emperor. Procopius now composed his Anecdota, or Secret History; but he kept it so successfully from publication or circulation that in 554 he was commissioned by Justinian to write an account of the buildings erected during the reign. Procopius issued De Aedifiais in 560, and so loaded it with praise for the Emperor that Justinian might well have suspected it of insincerity or irony. The Secret History was not given to the world until after Justinian—and perhaps Procopius—had died. It is a fascinating book, like any denunciation of our neighbors; but there is something unpleasant in literary attacks upon persons who can no longer speak in their own defense. An historian who strains his pen to prove a thesis may be trusted to distort the truth.

Procopius was occasionally inaccurate in matters beyond his own experience; he copied at times the manner and philosophy of Herodotus, at times the speeches and sieges of Thucydides; he shared the superstitions of his age, and darkened his pages with portents, oracles, miracles, and dreams. But where he wrote of what he had seen, his account has stood every test. His industry was courageous, his arrangement of materials is logical, his narrative is absorbing, his Greek is clear and direct, and almost classically pure.

Was he a Christian? Externally, yes; and yet at times he echoes the paganism of his models, the fatalism of the Stoa, the skepticism of the Academy. He speaks of Fortune’s

perverse nature and unaccountable will. But these things, I believe, have never been comprehensible to man, nor will they ever be. Nevertheless there is always much talk on these subjects, and opinions are always being bandied about … as each of us seeks comfort for his ignorance. … I consider it insane folly to investigate the nature of God. … I shall observe a discreet silence concerning these questions, with the sole object that old and venerable beliefs may not be discredited.³³

IV. BYZANTINE ART: 326–565

1. The Passage from Paganism

The pre-eminent achievements of Byzantine civilization were governmental administration and decorative art: a state that survived eleven centuries, a St. Sophia that stands today.

By Justinian’s time pagan art was finished, and half of its works had been mutilated or destroyed. Barbarian ravages, imperial robbery, and pious destruction had began a process of ruination and neglect that continued till Petrarch in the fourteenth century pled, so to speak, for the lives of the survivors. A factor in the devastation was the popular belief that the pagan gods were demons, and that the temples were their resorts; in any case, it was felt, the material could be put to better use in Christian churches or domestic walls. Pagans themselves often joined in the spoliation. Several Christian emperors, notably Honorius and Theodosius II, did their best to protect the old structures,³⁴ and enlightened clergymen preserved the Parthenon, the temple of Theseus, the Pantheon, and other structures by rededicating them as Christian shrines.

Christianity at first suspected art as a support of paganism, idolatry, and immorality; these nude statues hardly comported with esteem for virginity and celibacy. When the body seemed an instrument of Satan, and the monk replaced the athlete as ideal, the study of anatomy disappeared from art, leaving a sculpture and painting of gloomy faces and shapeless drapery. But when Christianity had triumphed, and great basilicas were needed to house its swelling congregations, the local and national traditions of art reasserted themselves, and architecture lifted itself out of the ruins. Moreover, these spacious edifices cried out for decoration; the worshipers needed statues of Christ and Mary to help the imagination, and pictures to tell to the simple letterless the story of their crucified God. Sculpture, mosaic, and painting were reborn.

In Rome the new art differed little from the old. Strength of construction, simplicity of form, columnar basilican styles, were carried down from paganism to Christianity. Near Nero’s Circus on the Vatican hill Constantine’s architects had designed the first St. Peter’s, with an awesome length of 380 feet and breadth of 212; for twelve centuries this remained the pontifical shrine of Latin Christendom, until Bramante tore it down to raise upon its site the still vaster St. Peter’s of today. The church that Constantine built for St. Paul Outside the Walls—San Paolo fuori le mura—on the reputed site of the Apostle’s martyrdom, was rebuilt by Valentinian II and Theodosius I on a scale quite as immense—400 by 200 feet.* Santa Costanza, raised by Constantine as a mausoleum for his sister Constantia, remains substantially as erected in 326–30. San Giovanni in Laterano, Santa Maria in Trastevere, San Lorenzo fuori le mura were rebuilt within a century after Constantine began them, and have since been many times repaired. Santa Maria Maggiore was adapted from a pagan temple in 432, and the nave remains essentially as then save for Renaissance decorations.

From that time to our own the basilican plan has been a favorite design for Christian churches; its modest cost, its majestic simplicity, its structural logic and sturdy strength have recommended it in every generation. But it did not lend itself readily to variation and development. European builders began to look about them for new ideas, and found them in the East—even at Spalato, the Adriatic outpost of the Orient. There on the Dalmatian coast Diocletian, at the opening of the fourth century, had given his artists free play to experiment in raising a palace for his retirement; and they accomplished a revolution in European architecture. Arches were there sprung directly from column capitals, with no intervening entablature; so at one stroke were prepared the Byzantine, Romanesque, and Gothic styles. And instead of figured friezes came, in this palace, a strange decoration of zigzag lines, offensive to the classic eye, but long familiar to the Orient. Spalato was the first sign that Europe was to be conquered not only by an Oriental religion, but, at least in the Byzantine world, by Oriental art.

2. The Byzantine Artist

Whence came to Constantinople that uniquely colorful, somberly brilliant art known as Byzantine? It is a question over which archaeologists have fought with almost the ferocity of Christian soldiers; and by and large the victory has gone to the East. As Syria and Asia Minor grew stronger with industry, and Rome weaker with invasion, the Hellenistic tide that had rushed in with Alexander ebbed back from Asia to Europe. From Sasanian Persia, from Nestorian Syria, from Coptic Egypt, Eastern art influences poured into Byzantium and reached to Italy, even to Gaul; and the Greek art of naturalistic representation gave place to an Oriental art of symbolic decoration. The East preferred color to line, the vault and dome to the timbered roof, rich ornament to stern simplicity, gorgeous silks to shapeless togas. Just as Diocletian and Constantine had adopted the forms of Persian monarchy, so the art of Constantinople looked less and less to the now barbarized West, increasingly to Asia Minor, Armenia, Persia, Syria, and Egypt. Perhaps the victory of Persian arms under Shapur II and Khosru Anushirvan quickened the westward march of Eastern motives and forms. Edessa and Nisibis were in this period flourishing centers of a Mesopotamian culture that mingled Iranian, Armenian, Cappadocian, and Syrian elements,³⁵ and transmitted them, through merchants, monks and artisans, to Antioch, Alexandria, Ephesus, Constantinople, at last to Ravenna and Rome. The old classic orders—Doric, Ionian, Corinthian—became almost meaningless in an architectural world of arches, vaults, pendentives, and domes.