Library Edition

The long-abandoned goal, which the following pages begin to address, has been taken up again at the request of a young English governess. She asked me to write some historical pieces that her students could benefit from; the historical documents provided by modern educational systems have only brought them struggle and sadness.

What else can be said about the book, if it ever becomes one, it must speak for itself: preface, I don’t want to write more than this: and even less so, because some parts of British history, currently being documented, require immediate, though brief, commentary.

I’ve heard that the Queen's Guards have gone to Ireland, playing "God Save the Queen." And being, as I've stated in some recent letters that have gotten quite a bit of attention, one of the most loyal Conservatives in England, I seriously question whether it’s appropriate for the Queen's Guards to be on this mission. In my Conservative view, the Guards should protect the Queen's throne and her life when they're threatened by either domestic or foreign enemies, but they shouldn't be a replacement for her ineffective police force when it comes to enforcing her laws at home.

And even less so, if the local laws they are sent to enforce, while playing "God Save the Queen," happen to be exactly the opposite of the law of God the Savior; and therefore, [Pg iv] such that, in the end, no number of Queens or Queen's men could carry it out. This is a question I've been trying to get the British public to think about for ten years—without much success so far; and I won’t add to my own lengthy thoughts on the subject right now. However, a book has just been published by a British officer who, if he hadn't been busy with other important duties, could have written all my books about landscapes and pictures, and he also happens to agree with me (God knows how few Englishmen I can say that about these days) on issues concerning the Queen's safety and the Nation's honor. I’ll share various excerpts from his book ("Far Out: Rovings Retold") in my upcoming notes, but for now, I'll leave you with the memorable words Colonel Butler quotes, spoken to the British Parliament by its last Conservative leader, who is also a British officer that served with honor and success.

The Duke of Wellington said: "It's already well known to you, my Lords, that of the troops our gracious Sovereign entrusted to my command at various times during the war—a war fought specifically to secure the happy institutions and independence of the country—at least half were Roman Catholics. My Lords, when I remind you of this fact, I’m sure no further praise is needed. You are all aware of how long and under what tough circumstances they kept the Empire afloat amidst the chaos that overthrew thrones and destroyed the institutions of every other people;—how they kept alive the only spark of freedom that remained in Europe.... My Lords, we primarily owe our proud dominance in our military history to the Irish Catholics, and I personally owe the honors you've graciously bestowed upon me to them.... We must admit, my Lords, that without Catholic blood and Catholic bravery, no victory could ever have been achieved, and even the greatest military talents might have been wasted." [Pg v] Let these noble words of justice serve as the first example to my young readers of what all history should be. They've been told, in the Laws of Fésole, that all great art is praise. So is all faithful history, and all high philosophy. For these three—art, history, and philosophy—are each just a part of the Heavenly Wisdom, which sees not as man sees, but with Eternal Charity; and because it does not rejoice in iniquity, therefore it rejoices in the truth.

For real knowledge is only about Virtues; it's Hecate who teaches about poisons and vices, not Athena. And among all forms of wisdom, the Politician's must be rooted in this divine Prudence; it's not always necessary for people to know the virtues of their friends or their leaders, since a friend will still show their true self, and a leader will still be useful. But, woe to the Nation that is too ruthless to value the virtues of its citizens and too timid to acknowledge those of its enemies!

The savvy English traveler, in this lucky time for him, knows that halfway between Boulogne and Paris, there’s a busy train station where his train, moving at a leisurely pace, jolts him with more than the usual bumps and rattles, typical of every major French gare, shaking the sleepy or distracted passenger awake to his surroundings.

He probably also remembers that at this stop in the middle of the journey, there is a well-equipped café where he has the benefit of "Dix minutes d'arrêt."

He isn't always fully aware that these ten minutes of being held are given to him just a short walk from the central square of a city that used to be the Venice of France.

Setting aside the lagoon islands, the French River-Queen was almost as large as Venice itself; and it was divided, not by the slow currents of ebbing and flowing tides, but by eleven beautiful trout streams, four or five of which are as big individually as our Surrey Wandle or Isaac Walton's Dove. These streams branch off from a strong current above the city and come together again after meandering through its streets. As they flow down to the sands of St. Valery, they are lined, except where the two Edwards crossed them the day before Crecy, with groves of aspen and glades of poplar, whose elegance and joy seem to emerge in every impressive avenue filled with the image of a just man’s life,—"Erit tanquam lignum quod plantatum est secus decursus aquarum."

But the Venice of Picardy got her name not just from the beauty of her rivers, but from what she produced. She was a worker, like the Adriatic princes, in gold and glass, stone, wood, and ivory; she was as skilled as an Egyptian in weaving fine linen; as delicate as the maidens of Judah in various colors of needlework. And from these creations, which she proudly showcased at home, she also sent gifts to foreign countries, and her reputation spread far and wide.

"An ordinance from the council on April 12th, 1566, shows that at this time, velvets of all colors for furniture were being made, along with large and small checked fabrics, and various crosshatch textiles, which were shipped to Germany, Spain, Turkey, and North Africa!" [1-1]

All-colored velvets, pearl-shimmering colombettes! (I wonder what they are?) and sent to compete with the colorful carpets of the Turks, and shine upon the decorative towers of Barbary! [1-2] Wasn't this a part of provincial Picard life that a curious English traveler should look into? Why does this fountain of rainbows suddenly appear here by the Somme; and why does a little Frankish girl call herself the sister of Venice, and the servant of Carthage and Tyre?

And if she can do it, why can't others from our northern villages? Has the discerning traveler noticed anything in the country or along its shores on his journey from the gate of Calais to the gare of Amiens that would be particularly beneficial for artistic design or business opportunities? He’s seen mile after mile of sandy dunes. We also have our sands by Severn, Lune, and Solway. He’s observed vast plains of useful and [Pg 3] pleasantly fragrant peat—something that’s also easily accessible for our Scottish and Irish industries. He’s seen many broad downlands and cliffs of the purest chalk; yet, across the way, perfide Albion also shines just as white beyond the blue. He’s encountered clear waters flowing from snowy rocks; but are ours at Croydon, Guildford, or Winchester any less bright? And still, we never hear of treasures being sent from Solway sands to Africa; nor do the builders in Romsey offer lessons in color to those in Granada. What could it be in the air or the earth—in the stars or sunlight—that ignites the passion and sharpens the gaze of the little white-capped Amienoise performer, so she feels she can compete with Penelope?

The smart English traveler obviously doesn’t have time to waste on these questions. But if he’s bought his ham sandwich and is ready for the “All aboard, gentlemen,” he might take a moment to listen to what someone hanging around the station, who isn't wasting time, can suggest as worthwhile to check out when his train pulls away.

He will first see, and surely with the respectful admiration that an Englishman is expected to show toward such things, the coal and carriage sheds of the station itself, stretching in their ashy and oily splendor for about a quarter of a mile out of town; and then, just as the train picks up speed, under a large chimney tower that he can’t quite see to the top of, but will feel engulfed by the shadow of its smoke, he might see, if he trusts his smart head out of the window and looks back, fifty or fifty-one (I’m not sure if I counted right) similar chimneys, all smoking in the same way, all with similar structures attached, rectangles of brown brick wall, with countless black square windows. But among these fifty tall smoking structures, he will notice one, slightly taller and more delicate, that doesn’t smoke; and among these fifty massive blank walls surrounding 'works'—which are surely producing valuable and honorable products for France and the world—he will see one wall [Pg 4] —not blank, but intricately designed by the hands of foolish men from long ago, meant to enclose or produce no profitable work whatsoever, but one—

"This is the work of God: that you should believe in the one He has sent!"

Leaving the smart traveler now to complete their pilgrimage to Paris—or wherever else God may lead them—I’ll imagine that a thoughtful Eton boy or two, or an insightful English girl, might want to quietly walk with me to this same viewpoint and reflect on what the unoccupied—shall we also say insignificant?—building and its stark minaret might signify.

Minaret is what I’ve named it, since I can’t think of a better English word. Flêche—meaning arrow—is its real name; disappearing into the sky, you can’t tell where it goes, just because it’s so delicate. Flameless—motionless—harmless—the fine arrow; unfeathered, unpoisoned, and unbarbed; aimless—shall we also say, whether you’re young or old, traveling or staying put? It, and the walls it rises from—what did they once signify? What meaning do they still hold for you, or for the people who live nearby, who never look up as they walk by?

Suppose we first try to understand how they ended up there.

At the birth of Christ, this entire hillside and the lush plain below, along with the golden fields above, were home to a people taught by the Druids. They were wild in their thoughts and ways but were under Roman rule and slowly grew used to hearing the names, and partly acknowledging the power, of Roman gods. For three hundred years after Christ's birth, they heard no name but that of the Roman God.

Three hundred years! and neither the apostles nor their successors had gone out into the world to preach the gospel to every living being. Here, on their marshy land, the wild people still relied on Pomona for apples, Silvanus for acorns, Ceres for bread, and Proserpina for rest. They hoped only for the seasonal blessings from the Gods of Harvest and did not fear any eternal wrath from the Queen of Death.

But finally, after three hundred years had passed, in the [Pg 5] year 301 AD, the Messenger of a new Life arrived at this hillside in Amiens, on the sixth day of the Ides of October.

His name, Firminius (I assume) in Latin, Firmin in French—so he’s remembered here in Picardy. Firmin, not Firminius; just like Denis, not Dionysius; coming from somewhere in space—no one says where exactly. But he was welcomed with surprise by the pagan Amienois, and he appeared to them—forty days—many days, as we can read—preaching successfully and baptizing even well-respected people: so many, in fact, that he was eventually reported to the Roman governor by the priests of Jupiter and Mercury for turning the world upside down. On the last day of the Forty—or of the many days implied by Forty—he was beheaded, as martyrs should be, and his work in the physical world came to an end.

The same old story, you say? That's fine; it'll be easier for you to remember. The people of Amiens remembered it so well that, twelve hundred years later, in the sixteenth century, they decided to carve and paint the four stone images Nos. 1, 2, 3, and 4 from our first set of photographs. (N. B.—This series isn't organized yet, but it's different from the one mentioned in Chapter IV. See Appendix II.). Scene 1: St. Firmin arriving; scene 2: St. Firmin preaching; scene 3: St. Firmin baptizing; and scene 4: St. Firmin beheaded, by an executioner with very red legs, and a dog that resembles the one in 'Faust,' about which we may say more soon.

Following the story of St. Firmin, as it was known in the past, his body was received and buried by a Roman senator, his disciple (sort of like a Joseph of Arimathea to St. Firmin), in the senator's own garden. He also built a small chapel over the grave. The senator's son constructed a church to replace the chapel, dedicated it to Our Lady of Martyrs, and established it as the first episcopal seat of the French nation. A very significant place for the French nation, right? One that deserves perhaps some kind of memory or monument—like a cross, a plaque, or something similar? So, where do you think this first cathedral of French Christianity was located, and what monument has it been honored with?

It stood where we are now, my friend, whoever you are; and the monument that honors it is this—chimney, whose banner of smoke casts a shadow over us—the newest creation of modern art in Amiens, the chimney of St. Acheul.

The first cathedral, as you can see, of the French nation; more precisely, the first seed of a cathedral for the French nation—who are not here yet; only this grave of a martyr is present, and this church of Our Lady of Martyrs, standing on the hillside, until the Roman power fades away.

Falling along with it and being trampled by brutal tribes, both the city and the shrine; the grave forgotten—when finally the Franks themselves come pouring in from the north, and their farthest wave, lapping along these hills of the Somme, is here halted, and the Frankish standard is planted, establishing the French kingdom.

Here is where their first capital was, here the first footprints of the Frank in his France! Think about it. All over the south are Gauls, Burgundians, and Bretons—graver nations with heavy hearts. At their farthest edge, here at last are the Franks, the source of all freedom for this Europe of ours. You've heard the term in England before, but there's no English word for it! We have our own word for honesty; but we must learn frankness from these people. In just a few centuries, all the western nations will come to be known by this name of Frank. Franks, from Paris in the future; but the French of Paris in the year 500 is an unknown language there, just like in Stratford-att-ye-Bowe. The French of Amiens represents the royal and courtly form of Christian speech, while Paris is still enveloped in Lutetian clay, likely to develop into tile-fields over time. Here, by the softly shimmering Somme, reign Clovis and his Clotilde. [Pg 7] And by St. Firmin's grave, another gentle evangelist speaks now, as the first Frank king's prayer to the King of kings is directed to Him, referred to only as "the God of Clotilde."

I need to ask for the reader's patience as I share a date or two, along with some serious facts—two—three—or more.

Clodion, the leader of the first Franks who permanently crossed the Rhine, battles his way through scattered Roman troops all the way to Amiens and captures it in 445. [1-4]

Two years later, at his death, the barely acknowledged throne is taken—perhaps unsurprisingly—by the tutor of his children, Merovée, whose dynasty is built on the defeat of Attila at Chalons.

He died in 457. His son Childeric, surrendering to his love for women and looked down upon by the Frank soldiers, is forced into exile, as the Franks prefer to live under Roman law rather than under a lowly leader of their own. He finds refuge at the court of the king of Thuringia and stays there. Before leaving, his chief officer in Amiens breaks a ring in half and gives him one half, telling him that when the other half is sent, he should come back.

And after many days, the half of the broken ring is sent, and he returns, and is accepted as king by his Franks.

The Thuringian queen follows him, (I can't find out if her husband is dead—let alone, if he is dead, how he died,) and offers herself to him as his wife.

"I've recognized your value, and I know you're very strong; I've decided to stay with you. If I had known, across the sea, anyone more useful than you, I would have tried to be with him."

He married her, and their son is Clovis.

A great story; how literally true it is doesn’t matter to us; the myth and its power clearly show the nature of the French kingdom and predict its future. Personal bravery, personal beauty, loyalty to [Pg 8] kings, love for women, and rejection of loveless marriage—take note of these truths, and recognize that the decline of the Franks will come from the corruption of these values, just as their strength was the source of their original glory.

Personal courage matters. Utilitas is the foundation of everything. Birth means nothing unless it comes with courage; the law of primogeniture doesn’t exist; and it seems, for now, that proper behavior is also missing! (But remember, we are all still pagans.)

Let’s sort out our dates and geography, at least, pulling them from the vast 'nowhere' of jumbled memories and putting them in order, so far.

457. Merovée dies. Childeric, who was helpful, adds his time in exile to his rule in Amiens, making him king for a total of twenty-four years, from 457 to 481. During his reign, Odoacer brings the Roman Empire to an end in Italy in 476.

481. Clovis is just fifteen when he takes over from his father as King of the Franks in Amiens. At this point, a remnant of Roman power is left isolated in central France, while four strong and somewhat wild nations surround this fading center: the Franks to the north, the Bretons to the west, the Burgundians to the east, and the Visigoths, the strongest and most gentle, to the south, from the Loire to the sea.

Sketch a map of France for yourself, as big as you want, like in Plate I., fig. 1, indicating only the paths of the five rivers: Somme, Seine, Loire, Saône, Rhône. Next, roughly divide it as shown in fig. 2: the Fleur-de-lysée part is Frank; diagonal shading from the upper left to the lower right is Breton; diagonal shading from the upper right to the lower left is Burgundian; and horizontal shading represents the Visigoth. I’m not sure how much these last ones spread across the Rhône into Provence, but I think it’s best to show Provence as filled with roses.

Now, under Clovis, the Franks fight three major battles. The first, with the Romans, near Soissons, which they win, becoming masters of France as far as the Loire. Copy the rough map fig. 2, and put the fleur-de-lys all over the middle of it, erasing the Romans (fig. 3). Clovis won this battle, I believe, before he married Clotilde. He wins his princess through it, but can’t get his beautiful vase to present to her. Keep that story clear in your mind, along with the battle of Soissons, as the moment mid-France was won for the French, marking the end of Roman power there, forever. Secondly, after he marries Clotilde, the fierce Germans attack him from the north, and he has to fight for his life and throne at Tolbiac. This is the battle where he prays to the God of Clotilde and defeats the Germans with His help. Following this, he is crowned in Rheims by St. Remy.

And now, with the new strength of his Christianity, his victories over Rome and Germany, his love for his queen, and his ambition for his people, he looks south at the vast Visigothic power, stretching between the Loire and the snow-capped mountains. Will Christ and the Franks not be stronger than the villainous Visigoths, who are also Arians? All his Franks share this belief. So he marches against the Visigoths, faces them and their leader Alaric at Poitiers, defeats Alaric and their Arianism, and leads his loyal Franks to the Pic du Midi.

And now you must redraw the map of France, placing the fleur-de-lys all over its central area from Calais to the Pyrenees: with only Brittany on the west, Burgundy on the east, and the white Provence rose beyond the Rhone. Now, poor little Amiens has become just a border town like our Durham, and the Somme a small border stream like our Tyne. The Loire and Seine are now the major French rivers, and people will be inclined to build cities along these, where the fertile plains, not of peat but of rich pastures, can lie under the protection of bold castles on the cliffs and moated towers on the islands. But now let’s take a closer look at what our changed symbols on the map might signify—five fleur-de-lys for a level bar.

They certainly don't mean that all the Goths are gone and that only Franks remain in France. The Franks haven't wiped out every Visigoth man, woman, and child from the Loire to the Garonne. In fact, where their own throne is still located by the Somme, the local people they found there still live there, although they are subdued. Whether Frank, Goth, or Roman, they may shift back and forth in pursuit or retreating troops, but the rural people whose homes they loot, whose farms they destroy, and over whose livelihoods they dominate must continue to work diligently, quietly, and without time for grief, plowing, sowing, and raising livestock!

Else how could Frank or Hun, Visigoth or Roman, survive for a month or battle for a day?

Whatever the names or behaviors of their masters, the ground workers will always be the same; the goatherd of the Pyrenees, the vine-dresser of Garonne, and the milkmaid of Picardy, no matter what lords you assign them, remain in their land forever, thriving like the trees in the field and enduring like the rocks in the desert. These individuals, the core and foundation of the nation, are divided not by royal families but by climate; they are strong in some places and vulnerable in others due to privileges that no invading tyrants can erase and flaws that no preaching hermit can correct. Now, let's take a moment away from our history and observe the lessons from the timeless earth and sky.

In the past, when traveling from Calais to Paris, there was about a half-hour ride on flat ground from the Calais gate to the long chalk hill, which needed to be climbed before reaching the first inn in the village of Marquise.

That chalk ridge is basically the front of France; that last flat area above it is pretty much the end of Flanders. South of it lies a region of chalk and fine limestone—(if you look closely, you might spot a huge quarry on the west side of the railway, halfway between Calais and Boulogne, where there used to be a lovely little rocky valley leading to lush lawns); this high, but not mountainous, limestone area sweeps around the chalk basin of Paris, reaching Caen on one side and Nancy on the other, stretching south to Bourges and Limousin. This limestone region, with its fresh, crisp air, fertile land, and quarryable hills above well-watered meadows, is the true heart of France. Here, you can clearly see their arts developed. Further south, they are Gascons, Limousins, Auvergnats, or the [Pg 11] types. To the west, there are the grim, granite-loving Bretons; to the east, the rugged Burgundians. Only here, on the chalk and delicate marble, between Amiens and Chartres in one direction, and Caen and Rheims in the other, do you find real France.

Of which, before we continue with the important history, I must ask the reader to think with me for a moment about how history, as it's often called, has mostly been written, and what details it typically includes.

Suppose the story of King Lear was real, and a modern historian was summarizing it in a textbook intended for students, claiming to include all the important facts in British history useful for British youth in competitive exams. The story would be told like this:—

"The reign of the last king of the seventy-ninth dynasty ended in a series of events that are painful to document in history. The frail old man wanted to split his kingdom into dowries for his three daughters; however, when he suggested this to them and found that the youngest responded with indifference and aloofness, he expelled her from his court and divided the kingdom between his two older children."

"The youngest found safety at the court of France, where the prince eventually married her. However, the two older daughters, having gained complete control, initially treated their father with disrespect and soon with contempt. Eventually denying him even the basic comforts he needed in his old age, the old king, in a fit of rage, left the palace, reportedly accompanied only by the court jester, and roamed, frantic and nearly naked, through the woods of Britain during the winter storms."

"Hearing about these events, his youngest daughter quickly gathered an army and invaded the territory of her ungrateful sisters to put her father back on the throne. However, she was confronted by a well-trained force led by her eldest sister's lover, Edmund, the illegitimate son of [Pg 12] the Earl of Gloucester, and was eventually defeated, imprisoned, and shortly afterward strangled on the orders of the adulterer. The old king died upon hearing the news of her death, and those involved in these crimes soon faced their own consequences. The two evil queens, both vying for the bastard's affection, ended up turning on each other; the one who had less favor with him poisoned the other and then took her own life. Edmund later met his end at the hands of his brother, the legitimate son of Gloucester, under whose rule, along with the Earl of Kent, the kingdom remained stable for several years."

Imagine this elegantly concise account of what the historian believed to be the facts, illustrated with stark black and white woodcuts depicting the blinding of Gloucester, Lear’s madness, Cordelia’s strangling, and Goneril’s suicide. This represents a form of popular history in the nineteenth century; which, as you may realize after some thought, is about as beneficial for young people (in terms of the overall tone and purity of their thoughts) as the Newgate Calendar would be. Moreover, it carries the significantly greater risk that, while the calendar of prison crimes might teach a thoughtful young person about the dangers of a low lifestyle and bad company, the history of royal crimes could undermine his respect for any sort of government and his faith in the very order of Providence.

Books with grander ambitions, written by bankers, politicians, or traditional clergymen, are certainly present; they illustrate that the advancement of civilization comes from the triumph of lending over religious bias, or from the establishment of the Parliamentary rights of Puddlecombe, or from the eradication of the misguided superstitions of the Papacy through the enlightening force of the Reformation. Lastly, you have the broadly philosophical histories, which argue that there's absolutely no evidence of any overarching divine guidance in human affairs; that all virtuous actions are driven by selfish motives; and that a scientifically informed selfishness, with proper communication systems and complete knowledge of all types of Bacteria, will ensure the future welfare of the upper classes and the dutiful acceptance of their roles by those below them.

Meantime, the two overlooked powers—the Providence of Heaven and the goodness of people—have controlled and continue to control the world, not without notice; and they are the only forces from which history offers any valuable insights. Beneath all sorrow lies the strength of virtue; above all destruction stands the restoring love of God. We must look to these alone; only in these can we comprehend the past and foresee the future, the fate of the ages.

I return to the story of Clovis, king now of all central France. Remember the year 500 as the rough date of his baptism in Rheims, and of St. Remy’s sermon to him, explaining the sufferings and sacrifice of Christ, until Clovis jumped from his throne, grabbed his spear, and shouted, "If I had been there with my brave Franks, I would have avenged His wrongs."

"There’s no doubt," continues the Cockney historian, "that Clovis's conversion was as much about strategy as it was about belief." However, the Cockney historian should probably stick to discussing the characters and beliefs of the curates who have recently been ordained in his trendy neighborhood, or the bishops who have recently preached to the residents of its industrial suburbs. Frankish kings were cut from a different cloth.

The Christianity of Clovis doesn’t really produce any of the results we’d expect from a modern convert. We don’t see him regretting any of his sins or deciding to live differently, even in the smallest way. He wasn’t struck with feelings of guilt at the battle of Tolbiac; nor, in asking for help from the God of Clotilde, did he express any intention of changing his character or abandoning his ambitions. After believing in his queen’s God, he only became more intense in what he already was, relying on that previously unknown God’s supernatural assistance. His natural gratitude to the Delivering Power and pride in its protection only made him fiercer as a soldier and deepened his political rivalries with the bitterness of religious indignation. There’s no more dangerous trap set by evil for human weakness than the belief that our enemies are also God’s enemies; it’s entirely possible that Clovis’s actions became more ruthless just as his faith became more genuine.

Had Clovis or Clotilde fully grasped the teachings of their Master, the history of France and Europe would be very different. What they could understand or were taught, they followed, and they were blessed for doing so. However, their story is intertwined with that of several other individuals, and we should now highlight a few important details that have been too easily overlooked.

If you take the street going straight south from under the apse of Amiens Cathedral, leaving the train station on your left, you'll arrive at the base of a gently sloping hill, about half a mile long—it's a nice, peaceful walk that leads to the highest point near Amiens. From there, looking back, you can see the Cathedral below us, except for the spire, as our elevated spot is level with its rooftop; and to the south stretches the flat land of France.

Somewhere around this spot, or along the line between it and St. Acheul, stood the ancient Roman gate of the Twins, featuring carvings of Romulus and Remus being nursed by the wolf. Out of that gate, on a bitter winter day, a hundred and seventy years ago when Clovis was baptized, a Roman soldier rode, wrapped in his cavalry cloak, on the causeway that was part of the great Roman road from Lyons to Boulogne.

And it's definitely worth your time on a chilly autumn or winter day when the east wind is blowing, to feel the impact of this place, remembering what happened here, significant to everyone, and useful, [Pg 15] in that winter of the year 332, when people were freezing to death in the streets of Amiens:—specifically, that the Roman horseman, just out of the city gate, encountered a naked beggar shivering from the cold; and realizing there was no other way to help him, he drew his sword, cut his own cloak in half, and gave him a portion of it.

No harmful gift, nor even overly generous: Sydney's offering of cold water needed more self-restraint; and I truly believe that many Christian kids today, dressed warmly and properly, would be more than willing to give the entire cloak off their own backs to someone in need, if their more sensible caregiver or mom allowed it. But this Roman soldier wasn’t a Christian, and his calm act of kindness was both simple and wise.

Nevertheless, that same night, he saw in a dream the Lord Jesus, who stood before him surrounded by angels, wearing the half of the cloak he had given to the beggar.

And Jesus said to the angels around Him, "Do you know who has dressed me this way? My servant Martin, even though he hasn't been baptized yet, has done this." After this vision, Martin quickly went to get baptized, at the age of twenty-three. [1-6]

Whether or not these things actually happened, and to what extent, dear reader, is not our concern. What truly matters, and will forever matter, is—the undeniable truth of the lesson being taught here and the real impact of St. Martin's life on the minds of Christians everywhere—this is, without a doubt, the responsibility of every rational person in any Christian society.

You need to understand, first and foremost, that St. Martin's defining quality is his calm and gentle kindness towards all beings. He isn't a saint who preaches—definitely not a persecuting one, and not even a worried one. We hear little about his prayers—and nothing about his desires. What he consistently does is simply the right thing at the right time; for him, doing what’s right and being kind are one and the same: an incredibly admirable saint, in my opinion.

Converted and baptized—and aware of having seen Christ—he still causes no trouble for his officers and doesn't try to convert anyone in his unit. "It's Christ's responsibility, after all! If He wants them, He can reveal Himself to them just like He did for me," seems to be his mindset during his early days after baptism. He stays in the army for seventeen years under those peaceful circumstances.

At the end of that time, thinking it might be a good idea to seek other opportunities, he asks Emperor Julian for his dismissal. Julian accuses Martin of cowardice, but Martin offers to lead his troops into battle unarmed, only carrying the sign of the cross. Julian takes him up on the offer and keeps him in custody until the battle. However, the day before the battle is scheduled, the barbarian enemy sends an envoy with offers of surrender and peace that cannot be declined.

The story isn’t often talked about: how true it is doesn’t really matter;—here is the lesson that shows how a Christian soldier should face his enemies. If John Bunyan's Mr. Great-heart had understood this, the Celestial gates would have opened by now for many pilgrims who have struggled to reach them with their own sharp swords.

But in a practical and effective way, the story really is true; because after a while, without any speeches, curses, or any kind of disturbance, we see the Roman Knight becoming the Bishop of Tours and having a positive influence on all of humanity, both then and later. And basically, the same story applies to his bishop's robe as it does to his knight's cloak—not to be dismissed just because it’s such a likely invention; it’s just as likely a deed.

While wearing his full robes to pray in church, accompanied by one of his deacons, he encountered a poorly-dressed person by the roadside. He immediately instructed his deacon to find some kind of coat or gown for the individual. [Pg 17] The deacon protested that he had no such clothing available, so St. Martin, with his usual calm demeanor, removed his own episcopal stole or whatever flowing garment it was, placed it on the shoulders of the needy person, and continued on to conduct the public service in his waistcoat or whatever medieval lower attire he had left.

But, as he stood at the altar, a globe of light appeared above his head; and when he raised his bare arms with the Host—the angels were seen around him, draping golden chains over them, and jewels that were not of the earth.

Incredible to you in the nature of things, wise reader, and too clearly a gloss of monkish folly on the older story?

Be that as it may, in this story of foolishness from monks, when truly understood, it would serve as a correction to every type of the church's arrogance and indulgence, which today have actually turned the worship of God and care for His people into a service for the clergy and the wealthy; transforming what used to be a garment of praise into something heavy and burdensome, cloaked in the flashy attire of a church masquerade.

But one more legend—and we have enough to reveal the origins of this saint's unique and widespread influence over Christianity.

"What set St. Martin apart was his calm, serious, and unwavering serenity; no one had ever seen him angry, sad, or joyful. His heart held nothing but devotion to God and compassion for others. The Devil, envious of his virtues, particularly loathed his immense charity, as it was the greatest threat to his own power. One day, the Devil mockingly scolded him for quickly welcoming back the fallen and repentant. But St. Martin replied with sorrow, saying, 'Oh, how miserable you are! If you could also stop tormenting and tempting suffering people, if you could also repent, you too would find mercy and forgiveness through Jesus Christ.'" [1-7]

In his gentleness was his strength; and the outcome of it is best to [Pg 18] be judged by comparing its reach with that of St. Firmin's work. The impatient missionary storms through the streets of Amiens—shouting, urging, convincing, baptizing—turns everything, as mentioned, upside down for forty days; then gets executed and is never mentioned again, out of Amiens. St. Martin doesn’t bother anyone, doesn’t waste energy on harsh sermons, understands, from Christ's first lesson to him, that people who haven’t been baptized can be just as good as those who have if their hearts are pure; he helps, forgives, and supports everyone equally, from the common person to the king; he is the patron of honest drinking; the stuffing of your Martinmas goose is sweet-smelling to him, and the last warm rays of the fading summer are sacred to him. And somehow—the idols shake before him near and far—the Pagan gods fade, his Christ becomes everyone’s Christ—his name is invoked over countless new shrines in all lands; high on the Roman hills, lowly in English fields;—St. Augustine baptized his first English converts in St. Martin's church at Canterbury; and the Charing Cross station itself has not yet completely erased from London minds his memory or his name.

That story about the Episcopal Robe is the last one concerning St. Martin that I’m willing to share. I think it’s better to assume it’s literally true rather than just a mere myth; although, as a myth, it certainly holds deep value and beauty. This final story I have to share, which I acknowledge you might be wiser to view as a fable rather than completely true, definitely comes from a kernel of fact (growing immensely) based on a visible and unforgettable instance of St. Martin's behavior in high society. And as a myth, it remains completely valuable and all-encompassing.

St. Martin, as the story goes, was having dinner one day at the most prestigious table in the world—specifically, with the Emperor and Empress of Germany! You don't need to ask which Emperor or which of the Emperor's wives! The Emperor of Germany symbolizes, in all ancient myths, the ultimate sacred authority of the State, just as the Pope represents the highest sacred authority of the Church. St. Martin was dining [Pg 19] while, as mentioned, the Emperor was, of course, sitting next to him on his left—Empress directly across from him on his right: everything was proper. St. Martin was thoroughly enjoying his meal and being quite sociable with the guests: definitely not the austere type of saint like John the Baptist. You also know that at Royal feasts during that time, people of much lower social status were allowed in the hall: they stood behind chairs, observing and listening to the proceedings while discreetly picking up crumbs and cleaning plates.

When dinner was a bit further along and it was time for wine, the Emperor poured himself a glass—poured the Empress's glass—poured St. Martin's—affectionately chatted with St. Martin. The equally loving, yet more genuinely believing, Empress looked across the table, humbly but also royally, expecting St. Martin, of course, to chat with her next. St. Martin looked around, first, deliberately; he noticed a scruffy and thirsty-looking beggar at his side, who had somehow managed to get his cup filled as well—by a charitable servant.

St. Martin ignores the Empress and hangs out with him!

For which charity—legendary if you prefer, but still a great example—he remains, as mentioned before, the supporter of good Christian drinkers to this day.

As the years passed, he seemed to realize that he had held the responsibilities of a bishop for long enough—that busy Tours needed a more active leader—and that he could now enjoy his life and rest where the vines grew and the larks sang. For his episcopal residence, he chose a small cave in the chalk cliffs by the river: he set everything up for sleeping and eating at little expense. Each night, the stream murmured to him, and day by day, the vine leaves provided shade; every day, the sun lowered itself closer to Heaven over the glowing water—there, where the peasant woman walks home between her baskets, the saw rests in the half-felled wood, and the village spire rises grey against the fading light, in Turner's 'Loireside.' [1-8]

All these things, while not completely without benefit, are mentioned for a specific reason: to help you understand the importance of what happened first during Clovis' march south against the Visigoths.

Having crossed the Loire at Tours, he moved through the lands of the Abbey of St. Martin, which he deemed sacred, and forbade his soldiers from taking anything except water and grass for their horses. His orders were so strict, and the obedience he demanded was so firm, that when a Frankish soldier took some hay belonging to a poor man without the owner's permission, joking that "it's just grass," he had the soldier executed, stating that "Victory cannot be expected if St. Martin is offended."

Now, pay attention, this crossing of the Loire at Tours is basically the definition of the true limits of the French kingdom, and the sign of its respected and stable power is "Respect for the poor!" Even a small blade of grass isn't to be taken from a poor person, under penalty of death. That's the decree of the Christian knight of the Roman armies; now exalted high with God. That's the decree of the first Christian king of the far-conquering Franks;—here baptized to God in the Jordan of his beautiful land, as he prepares to take possession of it.

How long will it take?

Until that same sign could be read backward from a corrupted throne;—until a message came saying the poor people of France had no bread to eat, and the response was "They can eat grass." Then—through St. Martin's neighborhood and St. Martin's gate—commands went out from the Poor Man's Knight against the King—which ended his feasting.

And remember this much about the influence St. Martin of Tours has had over French souls, both past and future.

The reader should note that essential notes for understanding the text will be provided, with numbered references under the text itself. In contrast, questions concerning differing authorities or quotes from supporting documents will have lettered references and will be grouped together at the end of each chapter. [A] One benefit of this method is that once the numbered notes are settled, if I see the need for further explanation while revising, I can add a letter referring to a final note without causing confusion with the existing types. The final notes will also be useful in summarizing the chapters or highlighting important points to remember. Right now, it's not crucial to recall that the first capture of Amiens was in 445 since that’s not when the Merovingian dynasty was founded; nor is it essential to remember that Merovæus took the throne in 447 and died ten years later. The key date to remember is 481, when Clovis himself ascended to the throne at the age of fifteen, and the three battles during Clovis' reign to note are Soissons, Tolbiac, and Poitiers—also remembering that this was the first of the three significant battles of Poitiers. We’ll have to find out later why the Poitiers area became so important as a battleground. In the next chapter, we’ll hear more about Queen Clotilde and her escape from Burgundy to join her Frankish lover; the story of the vase at Soissons is included in "The Pictorial History of France," but it will also be postponed, with any needed commentary, to the next chapter. I want the reader to end this first installment with a clear picture of two descriptions of the modern 'Frank' (using that term in its Saracen sense), distinct from the modern Saracen. The first description is by Colonel Butler, who is accurate and commendable, except for the implied historical extension of the contrast: the Saxon Alfred, the Teutonic under Charlemagne, and the Frank under St. Louis were just as devout as any Asian, albeit more practical. It's only the current mob of kingless miscreants in the West, who have sunk to the lowest levels through gambling, swindling, industrial excess, and gluttony, that have become the most despicable louts to ever sully the Earth with the bodies she has lent them.

"Among the characteristics of the English character revealed by the expansion of British rule in Asia, nothing stands out more than the difference between the religious inclinations of Eastern thinking and the fundamental lack of religion in the Anglo-Saxon mindset. Turks and Greeks, Buddhists and Armenians, Copts and Parsis all express their belief in a God in numerous aspects of their daily lives. In both their flaws and their strengths, the acknowledgment of a higher power is central."

"With Western culture, on the other hand, openly practicing belief in God can feel a bit shameful—something to hide. A procession of priests on the Strada Reale would probably make an average Briton look upon it with less tolerance than he would a Juggernaut festival in Orissa: but to both, he'd show the same skepticism towards their beliefs, the same idea that is no less firmly held even if rarely voiced: 'You pray; therefore, I don’t think much of you.' However, there's a deeper difference between the East and West that explains the modern Englishman’s reluctance to accept the religious mindset prevalent in the East. All Eastern cultures share this mindset. It's the one connection that unites their diverse races. Let’s illustrate what we mean. On an Austrian Lloyd's steamboat in the Levant, a traveler from Beyrout often observes groups of men gathered together on the quarter-deck. In the morning, missal books from the Greek Church will be laid along the ship’s railings, and a couple of Russian priests, coming from Jerusalem, will be busy saying mass. Nearby, a Turkish pilgrim returning from Mecca sits respectfully observing the scene. It’s prayer, and therefore holy in his eyes. Similarly, when evening comes and the Turk spreads his small carpet for sunset prayers towards Mecca, the Greek watches in silence, without a hint of scorn on his face because once again, it’s worship of the Creator by the created. They are both adhering to the first law of the East—prayer to God; and whether the sacred site is Jerusalem, Mecca, or Lhasa, the sanctity of worship surrounds the devotee and protects the pilgrim."

"Into this life comes the Englishman, often lacking any sense of sympathy for the prayers of other people or the beliefs of any religion; therefore, our control in the East has always relied, and will continue to rely, on the bayonet. We have never moved beyond the stage of conquest; we've never assimilated a people into our customs, nor have we even managed to civilize a single tribe across the vast expanse of our empire. It's interesting how often a well-meaning Brit will talk about a foreign church or temple as if it appeared to him like the City of London did to Blucher—as something to plunder. Another notion, that a priest is someone to hang, is also frequently seen in the British mindset. One time, when we were trying to understand the Greek issue, as it had come to the attention of a naval officer whose ship had been stationed in Greek and Adriatic waters during our occupation of Corfu and the other Ionian Islands, we could only gather from our informant that one morning before breakfast he had hanged seventeen priests."

The second passage I'm keeping in these notes for future reference is the incredibly beautiful one from a book that's filled with greatness—if you consider truth to have the power of action: Alphonse Karr's "Grains de Bon Sens." I can't praise either this one or his more recent "Bourdonnements" to my heart's content, simply because they are by a man who resonates with me deeply. He has been expressing in France, for many years, what I have also been saying in England, without either of us being aware of the other, and both of us in vain. (See pages 11 and 12 of "Bourdonnements.") The passage presented here is the sixty-third clause in "Grains de Bon Sens."

"All of this, sir, comes from the fact that there are no more beliefs—people no longer believe in anything."

"Ah! Saperlipopette, sir, you're telling me a good one! You say that no one believes in anything anymore! But never, at any time, has there been so much nonsense, blunders, lies, foolishness, and absurdity as there is today."

"D’abord, on croit à l'incrédulité— l'incrédulité est une croyance, une religion très exigeante, qui a ses dogmes, sa liturgie, ses pratiques, ses rites!.... son intolérance, ses superstitions. Nous avons des incrédules et des impies jésuites, et des incrédules et des impies jansénistes; des impies molinistes, et des impies quiétistes; des impies pratiquants, et non pratiquants; des impies indifférents et des impies fanatiques; des incrédules cagots et des impies hypocrites et tartuffes.—La religion de l'incrédulité ne se refuse même pas le luxe des hérésies."

"People no longer believe in the Bible, and that's fine with me, but they believe in the 'writings' of newspapers, they believe in the 'priesthood' of magazines and pieces of paper, and in their daily 'oracles.'"

"On believes in the 'baptism' of the correctional police and the Assize Court—those 'absent' in Nouméa and the 'brothers' from Switzerland, England, and Belgium are called 'martyrs' and 'confessors'—and when one talks about the 'martyrs of the Commune,' it doesn't refer to the murdered, but to the murderers."

"People are buried 'civilly,' no longer wanting prayers from the Church on their coffin, neither candles nor religious songs—but they want a procession carrying red immortelles behind the bier; they want a 'eulogy,' a 'sermon' from Victor Hugo, who has added this specialty to his other talents. Recently, while he was following a funeral as an admirer, a funeral director approached him, nudged him, and said with a smile, 'Aren't we going to get something from you today?'—And this sermon he reads or recites—or if he doesn’t think it appropriate to 'officiate' himself, if it’s just another dead person, he sends for Mr. Meurice or any other 'priest' or 'altar boy' of 'God'—If Mr. Hugo is unavailable and it’s an ordinary citizen, they settle for an impromptu homily delivered for the tenth time by any uncompromising deputy—and the Miserere is replaced by the shouts of 'Long live the Republic!' echoing through the cemetery."

"People no longer go to churches; instead, they hang out in bars and taverns. There, rituals take place, and the mysteries are celebrated; they sing the praises of an alleged sacred republic—one, indivisible, democratic, social, Athenian, uncompromising, despotic, invisible yet everywhere. They partake in communion in various forms; in the morning (matins), they 'kill the worm' with white wine,—there are later the evening prayers of absinthe, which one would be committing a sin to miss."

"People no longer believe in God, but they believe devoutly in Mr. Gambetta, in Messrs. Marcou, Naquet, Barodet, Tartempion, etc., and in a whole long list of saints and dii minores such as Goutte-Noire, Polosse, Boriasse, and Silibat, the hero from Lyon."

"People believe in the 'unchanging' nature of Mr. Thiers, who confidently said, 'I never change,' and who today is both the protector and the protected of those he spent part of his life shooting at, and whom he was still shooting at yesterday."

'We believe in the 'pure' republicanism of the lawyer from Cahors who has discarded all republican principles—who is both the protector and the protected of Mr. Thiers, who yesterday called him a 'crazy madman,' exiled and executed his friends.'

"Both, it's true, at the same time hypocritical protectors and deceived protégés."

"People no longer believe in ancient miracles, but they believe in new miracles."

"One believes in a republic without religious respect and almost fanatical adherence to the laws."

"On croit qu'on peut s'enrichir en restant imprévoyants, insouciants et paresseux, et autrement que par le travail et l'économie."

On thinks we're free when we blindly and stupidly obey two or three cliques.

"One thinks they are independent because they have killed or hunted a lion and replaced it with two dozen dyed yellow poodles."

"People think they've achieved 'universal suffrage' by voting with slogans that actually undermine the idea of universal suffrage—herded to the polls like a flock of sheep, with the difference that this doesn't provide any sustenance. Moreover, by this universal suffrage that we think we have but don’t really possess—it would mean believing that soldiers should command the general, horses should drive the coachman;—believing that two radishes are better than one truffle, two pebbles better than a diamond, two piles of manure better than a rose."

"One thinks we're in a Republic because a few half-whites are in the same positions, drawing the same paychecks, engaging in the same abuses as those who were overthrown for their benefit."

"One thinks of themselves as an oppressed, heroic people breaking their chains, but they are just a capricious servant who enjoys changing masters."

"One believes in the genius of sixth-rate lawyers, who have thrown themselves into politics and aspire to the despotic government of France only because they couldn't earn an honest living, without much effort, in the practice of a respectable profession, leading a modest life watered by pints."

"People think that misguided, fallen, broke men—dried fruit, etc.—who have only studied the 'four domino' and 'bezigue at fifteen hundred' wake up one morning—after a sleep weighed down by tobacco and beer—possessing the knowledge of politics and the art of war; and are ready to be dictators, generals, ministers, prefects, sub-prefects, etc. [Pg 25] "And the so-called conservatives themselves believe that France can recover and thrive as long as there is no justice done to this so-called universal suffrage, which is the opposite of universal suffrage."

"Beliefs have suffered the fate of that fable's snake—cut, chopped into pieces, each segment turning into a snake."

"Beliefs have turned into currency—into a coin of credulity."

"And to conclude this rather incomplete list of beliefs and credulities—you think that people believe in nothing!"

[Transcriber's Note: Actually, the author was a bit disorganized in how he labeled footnotes. From now on, all footnotes have been numbered and placed at the end of the chapters.]

1. Without shamefully relying on artificial memory tools—much less undervaluing the joy and strength of solid and intentional memory—my younger readers will find it very helpful to take note of any coincidences or number connections that can help fix what could be called Dates of Anchorage in their minds, around which other, less significant dates can drift at varying distances.

Thus, it will mainly be seen as a very simple and convenient way to arrange the years since Christ was born, by dividing them into groups of five centuries—that is, by the significant periods of the fifth, tenth, fifteenth, and, now quickly approaching us, twentieth centuries.

And this—initially appearing formal and mathematical—division will be found, as we apply it, to be remarkably highlighted by signs of significant change in the knowledge, disciplines, and morals of humanity.

2. It should also be noted that all dates in the fifth century start with the number 4 (401, 402, etc.); all dates in the tenth century start with the number 9 (901, 902, etc.); and all dates in the fifteenth century start with the number 14 (1401, 1402, etc.)

In our current area of study, we're focusing on the first of these notable centuries—the fifth—so I would like you to pay attention to two very interesting divisions.

All years in that century, we said, must start with the number 4.

If you divide it by two for the second figure, you get 42.

And if you double it for the second figure, you get 48.

Add 1 to each of these numbers for the third figure, and you get 421 and 481. Make sure to remember these two dates clearly and don't let them float around in your mind.

For the first, it’s the date of Venice’s birth and her dukedom (see 'St. Mark's Rest,' Part I., p. 30); and the second is the birth date of the French Venice and her kingdom, with Clovis being crowned in Amiens that year.

3. These are the significant Birthdays—Birthdates—in the fifth century, of Nations. We will count its Deathdays another time.

Since these two years are memorable not just for the dark realm of Rialto or the beautiful kingdom of France, but also because they mark the birth of a great Lady and an even greater Lord for all future Christendom—St. Genevieve and St. Benedict.

Genevieve, the 'white wave' (Laughing water)—the purest of all the girls named after sea foam or the gentle flow of a stream, untouched,—not the complicated and chaotic Aphrodite, but the Leuchothea of Ulysses, the guiding wave of salvation.

White wave on the blue—whether it's a clear lake or a sunny sea—(thereafter the colors of France, a blue field with white lilies), she always represents purity, radiating the vibrant energy of a whole soul and life—(so different from the quieter and more confined innocence of St. Agnes)—and all the stories of sorrow tied to the trials or failures of noble womanhood are linked to her name; Ginevra in Italian, transitioning into Shakespeare's Imogen; and Guinevere, the rushing wave of the British mountain streams, which your modern sentimental poets lament about, mournfully pointless;—but none tell you, that I've heard, about the triumph and strength of this white wave of France.

4. She was a shepherd girl—a little thing, barefoot and with no hat—just like the wild and innocent ones you might see today, cared for even less than their sheep, running over many hills in France and Italy. So small—only seven years old when we first hear about her: [Pg 28] "Seven times one is seven, (I’m older, believe me, linnet, linnet [2-1])," and all around her—fierce as demons and wild as the winds of the sky—the roar of the Gothic armies echoes over the ruins of the world.

5. Two leagues from Paris, (Roman Paris, about to fade away along with Rome itself,) the little girl takes care of her flock, not her own or her father's flock, like David; she's the hired help of a wealthier farmer from Nanterre. Who can tell me anything about Nanterre?—which of our travelers in this all-seeing, all-knowing age has thought to visit whatever site might be there? I don't even know which side of Paris it’s on, [2-2] or where beneath the heaps of railway ashes and iron one might imagine the sheep paths and blooming fields of fairy St. Phyllis. There were some left, even in my time, between Paris and St. Denis, (see the prettiest chapter in all the "Mysteries of Paris," where Fleur de Marie runs wild in them for the first time), but now, I suppose, St. Phyllis's homeland has been completely turned into forts and ramparts, (profitable and blessed by all the saints, as these have shown themselves to be!) or else is covered with factories and bars. She was seven years old when, on his way to England from Auxerre, St. Germain spent a night in her village, and among the children who accompanied him kindly in the morning, he noticed this one—wider-eyed in awe than the others; he drew her to him, asked her questions, and received sweet answers: that she wished to be Christ's servant. And he hung a small copper coin, marked with a cross, around her neck. From that point on, Genevieve saw herself as "separated from the world."

6. It didn’t end up that way, though. Quite the opposite. You should think of her as the first of Parisians. Queen of Vanity Fair, that was meant to be, calmly poor St. Phyllis, with her copper cross hanging around her neck! More than Nitocris was to Egypt, more than Semiramis to Nineveh, more than Zenobia to the city of palms—this seven-year-old shepherd girl became for Paris and all of France. You haven’t heard of her like this?—No: how could you?—because she didn’t lead armies, but held them back, and all her strength was in peace.

7. There are, however, about twenty-seven or twenty-eight biographies of her, I think; into the details of which I cannot dive, nor is it necessary, as none have successfully created a clear picture of her for the modern French or English reader. This leaves our own limited insights and imagination to gather and shape her sanctity into a comprehensible, though I don't claim it to be a credible, form; for there’s no doubt about her existence—the being is as real as Joan of Arc, and far more powerful;—she is set apart, just like St. Martin is, by his patience, from overly provocative church leaders—by her quiet strength, from the pitiful throng of female martyr saints.

There are thousands of religious girls who have never made it into any calendars, but have spent and exhausted their lives—God knows why, because we can't; but here's one, at least, who neither punishes herself to the point of martyrdom, nor worries herself sick, but becomes a stronghold for the community and a builder of shelters for them every day.

8. The first thing you need to know about her is that she is a true native Gaul. She isn't coming as a missionary from Hungary, Illyria, Egypt, or some unknown place; she grows in Nanterre, like a daisy in the morning dew, the first "Reine Blanche" of Gaul.

I haven't used the ugly word 'Gaul' before, and we need to be clear about what it means right away, even if it takes a long explanation.

9. Throughout the years of Rome's rising power, the people called anyone living north of the sources of the Tiber a Gaul. If you're looking for more detail than that general statement, you can check out the article "Gallia" in Smith's dictionary, which has seventy-one columns [Pg 30] of small print, containing as much as three of my pages each; and it tells you at the end that "though long, it is not complete." However, you can still gather from it, with careful reading, as much as I've told you above.

But by the second century AD, and even more clearly in the fifth century—the period we're focusing on—the wild tribes opposing Rome, some of which were partially conquered or kept at a distance by her, had divided into two distinct groups, each belonging to different latitudes. One group was settled in the pleasant temperate zone of Europe—England with its western mountains, the healthy limestone plateaus and granite mountains of France, the wooded hills and winding valleys of Germany, from the Tyrol to the Hartz, and the vast enclosed basin and branching valleys of the Carpathians. Think of these four regions simply as 'Britain,' 'Gaul,' 'Germany,' and 'Dacia.'

10. North of these rough but resilient communities, with their fields and orchards, peaceful herds, makeshift homes, and some moral values and memories that aren’t disgraceful, lived—rather drifted and trembled—a broken chain of darker tribes, mostly pirates and predators, essentially nomadic; homeless by necessity, unable to find rest or comfort in the land or the harsh sky: desperately wandering along the barren sands and soaked marshes of the flat area stretching from the Rhine's mouth to the Vistula's, and beyond the Vistula, no one really knows where, nor does anyone need to know. Barren sands and unstable bogs made up their existence, locked in ice and cast in shadow for many tough days of the harsh year: shallow ponds and muddy patches and meandering slow streams, the black decay of neglected forests, barely livable and never lovable; to this day, the interior lands have changed little for the better— [2-3]—and their inhabitants have now fallen into even harsher times.

11. In the fifth century, they had herds of cattle [2-4] to drive and slaughter, unprotected hunting grounds full of game and wild deer, along with tameable reindeer even as far south as that; spirited hogs, good for practicing fighting like in Meleager's time, and later for bacon; countless furry creatures, all useful for meat or fur. Fish from the endless sea breaking their bark-fiber nets; countless birds flying in the sky, for their flint-tipped arrows; bred horses for their own riding; ships of considerable size, of all kinds, flat-bottomed for the muddy waters, and keeled and decked for the strong Elbe river and turbulent Baltic on one side, and for the mountain-cutting Danube and the black lake of Colchos to the south.

12. They were, on the surface, and in every felt way, the living forces of the world during that long hour of transformation. Everything else that was once terrifying had turned into mere ritual, foolishness, or disgrace: the Roman armies, just a chaotic machine of soldiers, quickly falling apart, with every weapon turned against itself; the Roman citizens, a mix of slaves, slave owners, and prostitutes; the East, separated from Europe by the weakness of the Greeks. These starving troops from the Black forests and White seas, themselves a mix of wolves and driftwood (just as we once called ourselves Lion-hearts and Oak-hearts), were as merciless as a pack of dogs, as resilient as wild birch trees and pines. For five more centuries, you will hear little about anyone else: Visigoths to the west of the Vistula; Ostrogoths to the east; shining little Holy Island (Heligoland), our own Saxons, and Hamlet the Dane, along with his rival, the sledding Pole on the ice—all of them south of the Baltic; and continuously pouring across the Baltic, with its mountain-powered strength, Scandinavia, until eventually it rules everything for a time, and the Norman name stands for undeniable power, from the North Cape to Jerusalem.

13. This is the visible world history, the only accepted version for the next five centuries. Yet the true history lies beneath it all. The wandering armies are, at their core, just living storms—hail, thunder, and fire across the earth. But the Suffering Life, the deep-rooted essence of human beings, growing in eternal kindness, no matter how wasted, forgotten, or damaged—it itself neither deteriorates, wanders, nor destroys, but remains undefeated by grief or death. It became the foundation of all love that would eventually emerge; providing mortality with whatever hope, joy, or creativity it could embrace; and—if there is immortality—bringing from the grave to the Church its nurturing Saints, and to Heaven its supportive Angels.

14. No historian ever pays any attention to this lowly, voiceless, harmless, endlessly submissive, and incredibly useful group of beings, except when they are taken advantage of or killed. I can't provide you with a description, or share any of its sounds or cries. I can only show you the undeniable reality of its unrecognized past and how everything we've considered or been told is based on the deeper truths of its history, which have been overlooked and untold.

15. The core of this innocent and unstoppable peasant life, as I've mentioned before, is found in the fertile and temperate regions of (mostly) mountainous Europe—stretching from Land's End in Cornwall to the mouth of the Danube. Even in the times we're discussing, it was rich with native passion, generosity, and intelligence that could achieve anything. Dacia gave Rome its last four great Emperors, Britain contributed the first acts and the final legends of her chivalry to Christianity, Germany provided all of manhood with the truth and vigor of the Frank, and Gaul offered all of womanhood the patience and strength of St. Genevieve.

16. The truth, and the passion, of the French—I have to stress this—because my younger readers might think that the French are more polite than honest. If you look into it, you'll find that only Truth can be refined: and that everything we appreciate as beautiful, subtle, or creative in the manners, the language, or the architecture of the French comes from a genuine honesty in their character, which you will soon sense in the people themselves if you care for them: if you understand their flaws correctly, their very Revolution was a rebellion against falsehoods; and against the betrayal of Love. No people had ever remained so loyal for no reason.

17. They'd probably prefer to forget that they were originally Germans; however, how they left Germany behind and adopted a new name is the first interesting thing we need to closely examine about them.

"The most rational critics," says Mr. Gibbon in his tenth chapter, "think that around the year 240" (let's think for our convenience, around the year 250, halfway to the end of the fifth century, where we are—ten years more or less, in cases of 'thinking around,' don’t really matter, but having a rough date will be useful here.)

'About' CE 250, then, "a new alliance was formed, called the Franks, by the original inhabitants of the lower Rhine and the Weser."

18. My impression of the old inhabitants of the lower Rhine and the Weser is that they were mostly fish, along with some basic frogs and ducks; however, Mr. Gibbon's note on the passage tells us that the new confederation was made up of human beings, as listed in the following items.

I believe it will be easier for you to keep your minds at ease if you forget rather than remember, but if you’d like to read, or re-read, (or even better, have someone like Miss Isabella Wardour read it to you) the story of Martin Waldeck in the 'Antiquary,' you’ll get a clear idea of the main character of "the Principality of Waldeck" tied closely to that significant German word; 'woody'—or 'woodish,' I suppose?—which describes rocky areas and young forests; along with a healthy appreciation for Scott’s instinctive depth in naming things.

19. But for our current purpose, we also need to seriously refer back to our maps and keep things within clear limits of space.

All the maps of Germany that I have the privilege of owning spread out, just north of Frankfurt, like a stained glass window shattered by Puritan spite, and pieced back together by clever church wardens, but with every piece upside down;—this unusual glasswork claiming to show the sixty, seventy, eighty, or ninety dukedoms, marquisates, counties, baronies, electorates, and so on, into which hereditary Alemannia fractured in that area. But beneath the splotchy colors, and through the jumbled and chaotic letters of confused titles—along with a tangled mess of black railroads crisscrossing everything, the chains not linking but bustling with legs like centipedes—a solid morning’s effort with a good magnifying glass lets one roughly trace the course of the Weser and the names of certain towns near its sources, which are rightly significant.

20. If you don't have a morning to spare or good eyesight to waste, here's a necessary summary for you: from the [Pg 35] Drachenfels and its six neighboring peaks, extending to the north, there's a scattered collection of twisted and mysterious rock formations, jutting out ominously over valleys lined with bushes, filled with either rushing or melodious streams. The cliffs, in ancient times, were mostly home to castles for vaguely Christian purposes; the valleys echoed with woodcutters or were dug into by miners and were secretly inhabited deeper underground by gnomes, while above, they'd be inhabited by forest spirits and other creatures. The whole area, connecting peak to peak and valley to valley, stretches about a hundred and fifty miles (with some gaps) from the Dragon mountain above the Rhine to the Rosin mountain, ‘Hartz,’ shadowy and still south of the riding grounds of the unmistakably present Black Brunswickers; deeply shadowed in ancient times by the ‘Hercynian’ forest, which transformed or merged into the Hartz or Rosin forest, haunted by mysteriously visible foresters of at least a resinous, if not sulfurous, nature.

21. About one hundred and fifty miles east to west, and roughly half that north to south—around a thousand square miles total—of mineral-rich, coniferous, and mystical mountains, fluid and changing for us in both medieval and recent times, with the most essential oil of turpentine and the myrrh or frankincense of mood and imagination that can be produced in Germany; especially if we consider how the more refined uses of rosin, crucial for the violin bow, have evolved from the time of St. Elizabeth of Marburg to that of St. Mephistopheles of Weimar.

22. As far as I know, this group of rugged cliffs and valleys doesn't have a common name as a collection of hills; and it’s really difficult to see how it branches out on any maps I can find. But we can easily and helpfully remember that it's all north of Maine—it starts at the Drachenfels on one end and extends out toward the morning light with a curved drop, all the way to the Hartz, (Brocken summit, 3700 feet above sea level, with nothing taller): with one notable gap for the Weser River, which we'll discuss shortly.

23. From now on, we will refer to this as the chain, or group, of the [Pg 36] Enchanted mountains; and this way, it will be easier for us to connect with the Giant mountains, Riesen-Gebirge, whenever we want to; but these are much taller, more imposing, and not ready to be explored yet. The closer ones, which our path goes through, might be better described as the Goblin mountains; however, that wouldn’t really honor St. Elizabeth, or the countless lovely ladies of the towers, and princesses of the parks and valleys, who have made German domestic life beautiful and admirable, and have guided their gently flowing and clear lives down the ages, until enchantment perhaps becomes too established in the Almanach de Gotha.

We will henceforth call them the Enchanted Mountains, not the Goblin; also recognizing gratefully that the spirits of the rocks have much more of the nature of fairy healers than of gnomes: each—using a sensitive hazel wand instead of a blunt rod—beckoning from sparkly caves, sparkling springs, kindly salty and warm.

24. At the very center of this Enchanted chain, then—(and the most beneficial, if you use it and guide it properly, of all the Brunnen there)—sprang the fountain of the earliest Frank race; "in the principality of Waldeck,"—you can't trace their current to any further source; there it emerges from the ground.

'Frankenberg' (Burg), on the right bank of the Eder, nineteen miles north of Marburg, can be clearly found on map No. 18 of Black's General Atlas. It features the group of surrounding enchanted mountains, and the valley of the Eder stream, which the village higher up the dell still refers to as "Engel-Bach," or "Angel Brook," joining the Fulda just above Cassel. These locations are presented in a way that attentive observers can easily understand. I would struggle with the names if I were trying to create a woodcut; however, a few careful pen strokes or spontaneous touches of your own would give you a clear depiction of the actual sources of the Weser, along with the notable towns on or just south of them, across the slope of the watershed towards the Maine. Frankenberg and Waldeck on the Eder, Fulda and Cassel on the Fulda, and Eisenach on the Werra, which flows into the Weser after taking the Fulda as its bride, similar to how the Tees meets the Greta, further beyond Eisenach, under the Wartzburg (which you may have heard of as a castle used for Christian missions and Bible Society purposes). The town streets below are hard paved with basalt—its name, Iron-ach, reflecting the Thuringian armories of ancient times—and it is still bustling with mills producing various goods.

25. The rocks all along the Rhine are bursts of basalt mixed with sandstone, and a couple of coal seams to the north that, fortunately, aren’t worth the effort to mine. In Frankenberg, there’s even a gold mine, but luckily it’s low on ore. However, wood and iron are always available with some effort, and there’s plenty of natural wealth above ground—game, grains, fruit, flax, wine, wool, and hemp! Monastic care is evident in the homes of Fulda and Walter, which I see marked by a cross, built by a devout Walter, Knight of Meiningen, on the Bottom water, referring to water that has finally found its way down: just like "Boden-See," of Rhine that has flowed down from Via Mala.

26. Now that you've cleared the springs of the Weser from the rock; and essentially gathered up the reins of your river, you can easily map out the course of its further stream, which flows almost straight north toward the North Sea. Make sure to mark it clearly on your sketched map of Europe, right next to the Vistula border, leaving out the Elbe for now. At this point, you can consider the entire area between the Weser and the Vistula (north of the mountains) as untamed and wild (Saxon or Goth); however, if you trace the origins of the Franks at Waldeck, you'll see them gradually, but swiftly, filling the region between the Weser and the mouths of the Rhine, transitioning from the turbulence of the mountains to the calmer lands of the Netherlands, where their wandering forest and pastoral lifestyle eventually have to conform to muddy agriculture, and amidst the somber sea mist, they forget the sunshine on their basalt cliffs.

27. So, we should also take a moment to gather our thoughts and, before anything else, see what we can learn from the name Frank. Gibbon tells us, in his most pleasing style of calm moral authority, “The love of liberty was the driving force for these [Pg 38] Germans. They deserved, they claimed, and they upheld the honorable title of Franks, or Freemen.” However, he doesn't clarify which language of the time—Chaucian, Sicambrian, Chamavian, or Cattian—ever used 'Frank' to mean Free; nor can I determine what language it originally came from. I suspect that Miss Yonge ('History of Christian Names,' Articles on Frey and Frank) identifies the true origin in what she describes as the High German "Frang," meaning Free Lord. Not in any way a Free Commoner or anything similar! But rather a person whose very nature and name suggested the existence of a significant number of others around him and beneath him who were definitely not 'Frang' or Frangs. His title is one of the highest one could hold; confirmed in the end by the respect that comes with age added to that of bravery, leading to the title of Seigneur or Monseigneur, which is still not completely transformed into the last casual form of it, 'Mossoo,' fully understood as a term for a republican!

28. So, when you think about it, the quality of Frankness only gently touches on the meaning of 'Libre,' but with all its sharpness, it decisively and timelessly signifies Brave, strong, and honest, above others. [2-6] The old woodland tribe were never 'free' in a wolfish sense, but in a very human way [Pg 39] Frank, open, meaning what they said, and standing by it once they expressed it. Quick and clear in word and action, utterly fearless and always restless;—but neither idly lawless nor weakly extravagant, in deed or word. Their frankness, if you interpret it as a scholar and a Christian, and not like a modern half-educated, half-brained skeptic who knows no language of the world except its slang, is actually opposed, not to Servitude,—but to Shyness! [2-7] To this day, the hallmark of the sweetest and most French of French character is that it creates simply perfect Servants. Tirelessly protective in friendship, skillfully generous, and subtly mentoring; the most devoted of valets,—the most charming and capable of aides. But they are never shy around you! Even if you are the Duke or Duchess of Montaltissimo, you won’t find them intimidated by your status. They will speak 'up' to you whenever they feel like it.

29. Best of servants: best of subjects, too, when they have an [Pg 40] equally straightforward King, or Count, or Captal to lead them; we'll see enough proof of this in due time;—but, for now, note this further: whatever vague hint of the thing they later called Liberty may be suggested by the Frank name, you must immediately, now and always in the future, be careful not to confuse their Liberties with their Activities. The attitude of the army towards its leader is one question—whether either the leader or the army can stay calm for six months is another, and a completely different one. They have to be fighting someone or going somewhere; otherwise, their lives feel worthless to them. The energy and restless movement, which at its core isn’t about war or plundering but simply about a change of place or mood—tense and tense;—which never needs to display its spurs on the plate, but keeps them always polished and ready, would rather ride on an empty stomach than sit down to a feast—this childlike fear of being left idle and constant need for something to do should be observed by us with a mix of fascination and concern for all its sometimes glorious, but too often unfortunate or disastrous effects on the nation itself as well as its neighbors.

30. This activity, which we beef-loving folks, before modern science taught us that we were no better than baboons, used to rudely compare to the more lively monkeys, really impressed the Dutch when the water-loving Franks first began to manage their marshes. The earliest heraldry we see representing the Frankish power seems to be based on a Dutch attempt to humorously portray it. “For,” says a clever historian, Monsieur André Favine—’a Parisian and Advocate in the High Court of the French Parliament in 1620’—“the people who lived along the River Sala, called ‘Salts’ by the Germans, were referred to by the Romans as ‘Franci Salici’ upon their arrival in Dutch territories” (hence ‘Salique’ law to come, as you can see) “and shortened to ‘Salii,’ as if from the verb ‘salire,’ meaning ‘to leap’—(and in [Pg 41] the future, also to dance— in an extraordinary way) “to be quick and nimble of foot, to leap and jump well, a crucial quality for those living in watery and marshy areas. So, while the French people living along the Rhine River were called ‘Nageurs,’ or Swimmers, those from the marshes were called ‘Saulteurs,’ or Leapers, thus giving the French a nickname that reflected both their natural tendencies and their surroundings; to this day, their enemies still call them French Toads (or Frogs, more accurately), which gave rise to the tale that their ancient kings carried such creatures in their coats of arms.”

31. Without getting into whether it's a fable or not, you can easily recall the term 'Salian' used for these people who jump ditches and swim across rivers (which means, as mentioned earlier, that the entire length of the Rhine needs to be reinforced against them). This term actually originates from 'saline,' so we might wisely think of these sparkling Franks as 'Young Salts,' similar to how we refer to our seasoned sailors as 'old Salts.' However, the Romans soon changed it, likely out of respect for their martial spirit and energy, to 'Salii'—jumping, [2-8]—similar to their own armed war priests. And we now take a slight further step to think of them as first [Pg 42] Salient, like a pointed promontory, aimed towards the France we recognize; and always, in bright bursts of character, a prominent or outgoing nation; lending to us English—this small point of heraldry we can immediately acknowledge—their 'Leopard,' not as a spotted or marred creature, but as one that inevitably springs forward, for our own royal and noble shields.

Thus much about their 'Salian' nickname may be enough; however, we are still no closer to understanding the Frankish one, and will have to be satisfied for now with that uncertainty. We should, however, note two concepts that later became associated with the name, which are very important for our description.

32. "The French poet in the first book of his Franciades" (Mons. Favine says; but I don’t know which poet, nor can I ask) "encounters" (in the sense of quarters, or depicts as a herald) some fables about the name of the French, derived from the combination of two Gaulish words joined together, Phere-Encos which means 'Bear-Lance,' (—we might translate it as Shake-Lance,) a lighter weapon than the spear that starts to tremble in the hand of its knights—and Fere-encos then quickly shifting on the tongue to Francos;"—a derivation not to be accepted, but the idea of the weapon very carefully,—along with this following—that "among the arms of the ancient French, besides the Lance, was the Battle-Axe, which they called Anchon, and even now, in many provinces of France, it is still referred to as an Achon, which they used in war by throwing it from a distance when engaging with the enemy, just to reveal the man and to split his shield. Because this Achon was thrown with such force that it would split the shield and force the owner to lower his arm, and being thus revealed, as naked or unarmed; it created an opportunity for a quicker surprise of him. It seems that this weapon was specific to the French soldier, whether on foot or mounted. For this reason, they called it Franciscus. Francisca, securis oblonga, quam Franci librabant in Hostes. For the horseman, in addition to his shield and Francisca (weapons common, as we have said, to the [Pg 43] foot soldier), also had the Lance, which when broken, and serving no further purpose, he would grab his Francisca, as we learn the use of that weapon in the Archbishop of Tours, his second book, and twenty-seventh chapter."

33. It's satisfying to see how respectfully the French knights received the lessons from the Archbishop of Tours, and it's interesting to note their preference for using the Francisca—a trend that lasted not just through Cœur de Lion's time but even up until the Battle of Poitiers. In the final struggle at the Poitiers gate, "There, King John performed remarkable feats of arms with his own hand, wielding a war axe with which he defended himself and fought—if a quarter of his men had been like him, the day would have gone differently for them." Even more striking is the fight Froissart describes just before, between Sire de Verclef (from Severn) and the Picard squire Jean de Helennes: when the Englishman loses his sword, he dismounts to retrieve it, and Helennes throws his own at him with such precision and force "that it struck the Englishman in the thighs, so much so that the sword drove in and pierced him completely, right up to the handle."

On this, the knight gives himself up, and the squire bandages his wound and cares for him, staying for fifteen days 'for his sake' at Chasteleraut, while his life was at risk; and then carrying him in a litter all the way to his own castle in Picardy. However, his ransom is 6000 nobles—I guess that's about 25,000 pounds in today's money; and you can take note of one of the clearest signs that the days of chivalry are fading, how "that squire became a knight, for the great profit he received from the Lord of Verclef."

I happily return to the beginning of chivalry, when, with each passing hour and year, men were becoming kinder and wiser; even amidst their worst cruelty and mistakes, you can see their inherent noble qualities asserting themselves as their primary motivation and being open to further development.

34. So far, we've only caught a glimpse of a Salian Frank through his two main weapons—the outline of him, [Pg 44] is starting to take shape in the mist of the Brocken, holding the lance lightly and transitioning into a javelin—but the axe, his tool as a woodworker, is heavy. For practical reasons, due to the scarcity of iron, it’s the most preferred weapon, delivering the hardest blow with the least amount of metal and the roughest craftsmanship. Gibbon also mentions a 'heavy' sword hanging from a 'wide' belt: but Gibbon's descriptions are often exaggerated, and the sword worn on a belt, whatever its size, was likely intended for the leaders only; the belt itself, made of gold, symbolized the distinction of the Roman Counts and was probably adopted by the Frank leaders, later taking on the mythical significance of the Pauline girdle of Truth—and ultimately becoming the main symbol of Belted Knighthood.

35. The Shield was round, used like a Highlander's target:—armor was likely just tough-tanned leather or carefully woven hemp. "Their close clothing," says Mr. Gibbon, "accurately represented the shape of their limbs," but 'clothing' is just a fancy term for 'nobody knows what.' He gives a clearer picture of their appearance. "The tall stature of the Franks, and their blue eyes, indicated a Germanic ancestry; the fierce warriors were trained from a young age to run, leap, swim, throw the javelin and battle-axe with precise aim, to charge fearlessly against a stronger enemy, and to uphold the unbeatable legacy of their ancestors in life or death" (vi. 95). For the first time, in 358, shaken by Emperor Julian's victory at Strasburg and surrounded by him near the Meuse, a group of six hundred Franks "ignored the old law that required them to conquer or die." "Even though they were strongly driven by the temptations of plunder, they claimed to have a selfless love of war, which they saw as the highest honor and joy of human existence; their minds and bodies were so toughened by constant activity that, as an orator vividly put it, the snows of winter were as enjoyable to them as the flowers of spring" (iii. 220).

36. These mental and physical qualities, or toughened traits, were likely common among the military ranks of the nation. However, we soon learn, with surprise, about such a remarkably 'free' people that only the King and royal family were allowed to style their hair as they pleased. The kings wore their hair in flowing curls on the back and shoulders, while the queens had their hair cascading down to their feet. In contrast, the rest of the nation were "required, either by law or custom, to shave the back of their heads, to comb their short hair forward over their foreheads, and to settle for the addition of two small sideburns."

37. Moustaches—Mr. Gibbon likely means this; I also assume that the nobles and noble ladies could wear their hair in styles that suited them. However, we are again surprised by revealing information about the democratic institutions of the Franks when we learn that "different trades, agricultural work, and the arts of hunting and fishing were performed by lower-class hands for the benefit of the Sovereign."

'Servile' and 'Emolument,' although they initially sound quite terrible and unjust, are just Miltonic-Gibbonian phrases reflecting the fact that the Frankish Kings had farmers in their fields, hired weavers and blacksmiths to create their clothes and weapons, hunted with hunters, and trained with falconers. They were, in some ways, as harsh as an English Master of Hounds might be. "The mansion of the long-haired Kings was surrounded by suitable yards and stables for poultry and livestock; the garden was filled with practical vegetables; the storage areas were stocked with grain and wine for either sale or personal use; and the entire operation was run according to the strictest principles of household management."

38. I have gathered these imperfect and sometimes inconsistent observations about the appearance and character of the Franks from Mr. Gibbon's casual mentions of them over a period of more than two centuries. The last excerpt he quoted states that "one hundred and sixty of these rural palaces were [Pg 46] scattered throughout the provinces of their kingdom," without specifying which kingdom or when, but I believe this should be seen as reflective of the overall style and system of their monarchy after Clovis's victories. From the very first mention of him, the Frank, when examined closely, is always portrayed as an extremely clever, well-meaning, and hardworking individual. While eager to acquire more, he is also thoughtfully conservative and constructive, embodying an element of order and clarity that will one day culminate in the aisles of Amiens. If the inhabitants had been as genuine as their builders, many of these things would have remained unbreakable and enduring for a long time to come.

39. But for now, we need to go back a bit; I’ve recently noticed with regret that while rereading some of my books for a new edition, whenever I promise careful consideration of a specific point in the next chapter, that chapter never actually addresses the promised point. Instead, it tends to focus intensely on some opposing or unrelated topic. I find this approach to be excellent for maintaining impartiality and a broad perspective; however, I can imagine it must be quite disappointing for the average reader (assuming I engage enough to disappoint anyone), and it could even reinforce some of the misleading and ridiculous claims made by critics about my inconsistency, indecisiveness, and tendency to let my principles or opinions be swayed by external factors. Therefore, in these historical sketches, I intend to pay attention and hopefully correct this issue of breaking promises, and at whatever cost to my varied expressive style, I aim to share what the reader rightfully expects to hear in each chapter.

40. I briefly mentioned, in my opening chapter, the story of the vase of Soissons. You can find it (and it’s pretty much the only information available about the personal life or character [Pg 47] of the first Louis) in any basic popular history of France, often with some simplistic morals added in. If I had the time to trace it back to its original sources, it might present a different perspective. But I’m sharing it as you can find it anywhere—just asking you to think about whether, even as it's presented, it might convey a somewhat different lesson.

41. So, the story goes that after the battle of Soissons, while dividing the Roman or Gallic spoils, the king wanted a beautifully crafted silver vase for—well, I was about to say 'himself'—and in my last chapter did mistakenly suggest he wanted it for his better half, his Queen. But that wasn’t the case; he wanted it to return it to St. Remy, so it could stay among the sacred treasures of Rheims. This is the first point that popular histories tend to overlook, which one of his warriors, demanding an equal share of the loot, also chose to ignore. The King requested the vase in addition to his own share, and while the Frank knights obeyed their king as their leader, they had no intention of letting him take what more recent kings refer to as 'royalties'—taxes on everything they handle. One of these Frank knights or Counts—who was a bit more direct than the rest—and as skeptical of St. Remy's sainthood as a Protestant Bishop or Positivist Philosopher—decided to challenge the King's and the Church's claim, similar to a Liberal opposition in the House of Commons; he argued so confidently, bolstered by the public sentiment of the fifth century, that when the king insisted on his request, the fearless soldier smashed the vase to pieces with his war-axe, shouting, "You shall have no more than your fair share."

42. This is the first clear statement of French 'Liberty, Brotherhood, and Equality,' backed then, as it is now, by the destruction, which is the only way "free" individuals can act on the art they cannot create.

The king didn't keep arguing. Cowards might think he hesitated out of fear, and malicious people might think he hesitated out of spite. He definitely paused in anger; however, anger knows how to wait, and it can burn even hotter while waiting, which is one of the main reasons Christians are told not to let the sun set on their anger. A principle that Christians today are more than willing to follow as long as someone else has been wronged; in fact, the hard part is usually getting them to recognize the wrongdoing even as the sun rises on their anger. [2-9]

43. The sequel is truly shocking—to today’s perspective. I'm sharing it in the, if not refined, at least somewhat polished language of the Pictorial History.

"About a year later, while reviewing his troops, he approached the man who had damaged the vase, and examining his arms, complained that they were in poor condition!" (Italics mine) "and threw them" (What? shield and sword?) to the ground. The soldier bent down to pick them up; and at that moment, the King struck him on the head with his battle-axe, shouting, 'This is what you did to the vase at Soissons.' The modern historian reflects that "this—as evidence of the state of the Franks and the bonds that held them together—gives the impression of a gang of robbers and their leader." Which is, indeed, as far as I can look into and understand the nature of things, the main idea to consider regarding most of the royal and military organizations in this world, right up to our own day; and, (unless it happens to be the Afghans and Zulus who are taking our lands in England—instead of us taking theirs in their respective countries.) But regarding the manner of this act of military execution, I must leave it to the reader to ponder whether it is less royal or more savage to hit an uncivil soldier on the head with your own battle-axe, than, for example, to strike someone like Sir Thomas More on the neck with an executioner’s blade—using the mechanisms of National Law, and the gracefully intertwined involvement of a polite group of noblemen and bishops.

44. Much darker things need to be revealed about him than this, as his proud life comes to an end—things that, if any of us could truly see through the darkness, you would hear about in all their honesty. But we can never really know the truth of Sin; it has a way of deceiving both the Sinner on one side and the Judge on the other. It’s a devilish thing—betraying us whether we give in to it or condemn it: Here’s Gibbon’s sarcasm—if that interests you; but I first gather from the tangled paragraphs leading to it, the sentences of praise, which are more generous than what the Sage of Lausanne usually gives to any hero who has acknowledged the influence of Christianity.

45. "Clovis, when he was only fifteen years old, inherited the leadership of the Salian tribe following his father's death. His kingdom was limited to the island of the Batavians, along with the old dioceses of Tournay and Arras; at his baptism, he had no more than five thousand warriors. The related tribes of the Franks settled along the Scheldt, Meuse, Moselle, and Rhine were ruled by their own independent kings from the Merovingian lineage, who were both allies and sometimes enemies of the Salic Prince. When he first went to war, he had no gold or silver in his treasury, nor wine and grain in his stores; but he followed the example of Cæsar, who had gained wealth through conquest in the same land and paid soldiers with the spoils of battle. The wild spirit of the Barbarians learned to recognize the benefits of organized discipline. During the annual review in March, their weapons were thoroughly checked, and when they passed through peaceful lands, they were forbidden to touch a single blade of grass. Clovis's justice was strict; careless or disobedient soldiers faced immediate execution. It’s unnecessary to praise a Frank's bravery, but Clovis's courage was combined with cool-headed and skillful wisdom. In all his dealings with people, he weighed the factors of interest, passion, and public opinion; his actions were sometimes shaped by the bloodthirsty habits of the Germans, and at other times softened by the gentler ways of Rome and Christianity."

46. "But the brutal conqueror of Gaul couldn’t truly understand the evidence for a religion that relies on rigorous historical research and philosophical theology. He was even less capable of experiencing the gentle influence of the Gospel, which convinces and purifies the heart of a true believer. His ambitious rule was a constant breach of moral and Christian responsibilities: his hands were bloodied, both in times of peace and war; and as soon as Clovis wrapped up a synod of the Gallican Church, he calmly murdered all the princes of the Merovingian lineage."

47. It’s too true; but let’s break it down. First of all, we need to know how many 'all' the princes were. Secondly, we should note that if Clovis had even slightly "searched the Scriptures" as presented to the Western world by St. Jerome, he likely, as a soldier-king, considered more about the mission of Joshua and Jehu than the patience of Christ, whose sufferings he viewed more as something to avenge rather than imitate. The question of whether other Kings of the Franks would succeed him or, out of envy for his expanded kingdom, attack and dethrone him easily shifted in his mind from a personal threat to the risk of the entire nation returning to idolatry. Lastly, his faith in the Divine protection of his cause had been shaken by his defeat before Aries by the Ostrogoths; and the Frank leopard hadn’t completely changed his spots to give an enemy the chance for a first strike.

48. Finally, and beyond all these personal issues, the types of cruelty and subtlety—the former, note, arising largely from a [Pg 51] disdain for pain that was seen as a mark of honor for both their women and men—are in these brutal societies all rooted in their love of glory in war. This can only be understood by comparing what remains of the same mindset among the higher castes of the North American Indians. Before clearly tracing the actual events of Clovis's reign to their conclusion, the reader should familiarize themselves with this list of the key figures in this great Drama, reflecting on the significance of each name, both in terms of its likely impact on the mind of its bearer and in its prophetic expression of their actions and the repercussions for future generations.

49. I will now track the path of Clovis' reign and actions through their light and shadow. [Pg 52] CE 481. He was crowned at just fifteen years old. Five years later, he challenges the Roman governor Syagrius, who controls the areas of Rheims and Soissons, “with the spirit and almost the language of chivalry.” “He commanded his opponent to prepare a battlefield for him”—refer to Gibbon's note and reference, chap. xxxviii. (6, 297). The Benedictine abbey of Nogent was later built on this site, indicated by a circle of pagan graves. “Clovis granted the nearby lands of Leuilly and Coucy to the church of Rheims.” [2-11]

CE 485. The Battle of Soissons. Not dated by Gibbon: the later death of Syagrius at the court of (the younger) Alaric was in 486—consider 485 as the year of the battle.

50. CE 493. I can’t find any details about the relationship between Clovis and the King of Burgundy, Clotilde’s uncle, before his engagement to the orphan princess. According to common history, her uncle had killed both her father and mother and forced her sister to become a nun—no reasons or sources are provided. Clotilde was pursued on her way to France, and the litter she was traveling in was captured, along with part of her dowry. [Pg 53] However, the princess herself got on a horse and rode ahead into France, "telling her attendants to set fire to everything related to her uncle and his subjects that they came across on the way."

51. This fact isn’t usually recorded among the sayings or actions of the Saints: but the punishment of kings by taking away the property of their subjects is a well-known tactic in modern Christian warfare, so we can’t let our anger toward Clotilde burn too fiercely; she was pushed by grief and rage. We don’t count the years of her youth; Clovis was already twenty-seven, and for three years he held on to the faith of his ancestral religion despite all the influence of his queen.

52. CE 496. In the opening chapter, I didn’t emphasize enough the significance of the battle of Tolbiac, thinking of it as just forcing the Alemanni to cross the Rhine again and solidifying Frankish power on its western bank. However, much broader outcomes are hinted at in the brief sentence with which Gibbon wraps up his account of the battle. "After the conquest of the western provinces, the Franks alone kept their historical territories beyond the Rhine. They gradually conquered and civilized the depleted lands all the way to the Elbe and the Bohemian mountains; and the peace of Europe was ensured by Germany's compliance."

53. In the south, Theodoric had already "put down his sword in the pride of victory and the strength of his youth—and his further reign of thirty-three years was dedicated to the responsibilities of civil governance." Even when his son-in-law, Alaric, was killed by Clovis in the battle of Poitiers, Theodoric chose to curb Frankish power at Arles, rather than chase further victories, and to safeguard his young grandchild, while also addressing some issues in the civil administration of Spain. Thus, the healing rule of the great Goth was established from Sicily to the Danube—and from Sirmium to the Atlantic Ocean.

54. So, by the end of the fifth century, Europe was divided simply by its watersheds, with two Christian kings ruling—one in the north and one in the south—both possessing beneficial and healthy power. The mightiest and most worthy king was married to the youngest sister of the other king: a saintly queen in the north and a devoted and earnest Catholic woman, a queen mother in the south. This is a significant moment in the Earth's history—something to reflect on, oh fast-moving reader, if you ever manage, out of the crowd of livestock crossing the Rhine or Adige, to find a moment to walk calmly out of the south gate of Cologne or across Fra Giocondo's bridge at Verona—and, while pausing, gaze through the clear air across the battlefield of Tolbiac to the blue Drachenfels, or across the plain of St. Ambrogio to the mountains of Garda. For it was here—if you think carefully—that the two pivotal battles of the Christian world were fought. Constantine’s battle only changed the form and fading color of the crumbling walls of Rome; but the Frank and Gothic races, through conquering and ruling, laid the foundations of the arts and established the laws that would bring joy and virtue to all of future Europe. It’s beautiful to see how, even so early, the Feudal chivalry relied for its existence on the nobleness of its women. There was no vision seen or claimed at Tolbiac. The King prayed simply to the God of Clotilde. On the morning of the battle of Verona, Theodoric visited the tent of his mother and sister, "and [Pg 55] requested that on the most celebrated festival of his life, they would dress him in the fine garments they had crafted with their own hands."

55. But there was another influence over Clovis—one greater than his queen's. When his kingdom first expanded to the Loire, the shepherdess of Nanterre was already elderly—neither a torch-bearing warrior like Clotilde nor a noble leader like Jeanne, but wise and humble, now "filling more and more with crystal light." Clovis's father had known her; he himself became her friend, and when he left Paris for the campaign at Poitiers, he vowed that if he was victorious, he would build a Christian church on the hills of Seine. He returned triumphant, and with St. Genevieve by his side, stood on the site of the ruined Roman baths, just above the "Isle" of Paris, to fulfill his vow and to outline the foundations of the first major church of Frankish Christendom.

The King swung his battle-axe with all his strength and threw it.

Measuring with its flight too, the location of his own grave, and Clotilde's, and St. Genevieve's.

There they rested, and rested—together in spirit. "The entire hill still bears the name of the patroness of Paris; a little obscure street has kept the name of the Conquering King."

The three chapters [2-13] of "Our Fathers have told us," now presented to the public, are sufficient to demonstrate the intended nature and direction of the work. Unlike my usual practice, I’m now inviting subscriptions because the extent to which I can enhance its value with visual illustrations will significantly rely on the known number of its supporters.

I don’t see, given my current health, any reason to fear losing more overall strength, whether in creativity or productivity, than what is just a natural limit to an old man's passion. Still, I have enough enthusiasm left to assure my readers that I won’t give up on a goal I’ve held for twenty years.

The work, if I manage to finish it, will have ten sections, each focusing on a specific part of Christian history, and coming together towards the end to show the strength of the Church in the Thirteenth Century.

The next chapter, which I hope to release shortly after Christmas, completes the first part, describing the early Frank power and its ultimate achievement in the Cathedral of Amiens.

The second part, "Ponte della Pietra," will, I hope, do more for Theodoric and Verona than I've been able to do for Clovis and the first capital of France.

The third, "Ara Celi," will explore the roots of Papal power.

The fourth, "Ponte-a-Mare," and fifth, "Ponte Vecchio," will only with great difficulty gather into a short summary what I have of the scattered information I have about Pisa and Florence.

The sixth, "Valle Crucis," will focus on the monastic architecture of England and Wales.

The seventh, "The Springs of Eure," will be entirely dedicated to the cathedral of Chartres.

The eighth, "Domrémy," connects to Rouen and the architectural schools it represents.

The ninth, "The Bay of Uri," to the pastoral styles of Catholicism, extending to our present day. [Pg 57] And the tenth, "The Bells of Cluse," to the pastoral Protestantism of Savoy, Geneva, and the Scottish Border.

Each part will have just four sections; and one of them, the fourth, will typically describe a significant city or cathedral, the result and leftover of the religious power discussed in the earlier chapters.

One example will be provided with each chapter, [2-14] and drawings created for others will be immediately placed in the Sheffield museum for public reference, and engraved as I find support or opportunities to include them in the finished work.

As in Chapter IV of this first part, a smaller version of the descriptive chapters will usually be printed in a condensed form for travelers and non-subscribers; however, I plan for this work to be available only to subscribers.

1. Recently, it has often been stated as a new discovery that humans are shaped by their circumstances. This idea has been highlighted in hopes, which some find appealing, of finally explaining our existence through random events like splashes in mud or gusts of wind. However, the more crucial point—that human nature is not limited, like a mosquito's, to the marsh's mists, nor confined, like a mole's, to the darkness of its burrow, but is equipped with the ability to understand and the drive to choose the conditions that will allow it to reach its fullest potential—is frequently overlooked by philosophers. They suggest, as an ideal fulfillment of human existence, a life filled with scientific discussions in a cellar lit by electric lights, warmed by heating tubes, drained by hidden rivers, and fed, by the efforts of less educated but better-off cultures, with beef extract and preserved crocodile.

2. From these scientific ideas of a Paradise in underground spaces, untouched in its chemical qualities by the fear of God or hopes for the future, I wonder how much the modern reader might comfortably step back for a moment to think about people who, in their darkest and most foolish times, worked hard to turn the desert into the Lord's garden and through their love sought to be worthy of living with Him forever. Yet, it has only been through such labor and hope that human happiness, skill, or virtue have been possible up until now: and even on the brink of the new era, and the promised land rich in the blessings of iron, steam, and fire, there are still some of us, here and there, who might pause in respectful remembrance to look back at that Sinai wilderness where our ancestors worshipped and died.

3. So, for now, let’s assume that the main streets of Manchester, the area right around the Bank in London, and the Bourse and Boulevards of Paris are already part of the future kingdom of Heaven, when Earth will be entirely like a Bourse and Boulevard—the world our ancestors spoke of, which was divided for them, as you already know, mainly by climate, race, and time; and the 'circumstances' under which a person's soul was given to him need to be considered under these three categories:—What climate is he in? What race is he? What time is it?

He can only be what these circumstances allow. With reference to these, he is to be heard;—understood, if possible;—judged, first by our love—by our compassion, if he needs it—by our humility, ultimately and always.

4. To achieve this, it's clear that we need accurate maps of the world to start with, and honest maps of our own hearts to finish with; neither of these maps is easy to create at any time, and maybe least of all right now—when the main purpose of a map is to show hotels and railroads; and humility is considered the most unpleasant and lowest of the Seven Deadly Sins.

5. So, at the beginning of Sir Edward Creasy's History of England, there's a map that claims to show the territories owned by the British Nation—highlighting the very wise and polite actions of Mr. Fox towards a Frenchman in Napoleon's entourage, as he "stepped up to a large and clear globe, wrapped his arms around it, covering both oceans and both Indies," and remarked, in this striking pose, that "as long as there are Englishmen, they cover the entire world and embrace it within the reach of their power."

6. Fired up by Mr. Fox's enthusiasm—something Sir Edward, who is usually not very passionate, rarely exhibits—he goes on to tell us that "our island home is the favorite [Pg 60] place of freedom, empire, and glory," without considering how long the nations over which our freedom rules, and whose shame is our glory, will put up with this arrangement of the world and its affairs; or whether they are even currently convinced of their low status in it based on his way of portraying it.

Since the map is based on Mercator's projection, it shows British territories in North America as being twice the size of the States and much larger than all of South America combined. The bright red used to color our land makes it hard for the casual reader not to get the impression of a widespread sense of freedom and glory across those areas. Therefore, they are unlikely to question such impressive outcomes by looking into the specifics of our governance in any particular location—like Ireland, the Hebrides, or at the Cape.

7. In the final chapter of the first volume of 'The Laws of Fésole,' I’ve outlined the mathematical principles for accurately creating maps; principles that my young readers should understand for several reasons. The main one being that you can't flatten an orange's skin without breaking it, and if you draw countries on the unbroken skin, you shouldn’t stretch them later to fill in the gaps.

The British pride in wealth, which happily indulges in affordable versions of Walter Scott and Shakespeare, can definitely, in its future greatness, also have access to affordable universes that spin conveniently on their axes. So, I’ll assume that my readers can look at a globe while I discuss the world, and at a scaled-down map when I talk about a country.

8. If my reader can do this now—or at least look at a well-drawn double-circle map of the globe with converging lines of longitude—I urge him to notice that, even though the old way of dividing the world into four parts has nearly faded away due to [Pg 61] migration and the Atlantic cable, the important historical question about the Earth is not about how it is split by various land and water features here and there; instead, it's about how it's divided into zones all around by the unyielding laws of light and air. It often doesn't matter much whether someone is American or African, European or Asian. But it is extremely significant to know if someone is Brazilian or Patagonian, Japanese or Samoyede.

9. In the last chapter, I asked the reader to firmly grasp the idea of the major climate divide that separated the nomadic peoples of Norway and Siberia from the settled nations of Britain, Gaul, Germany, and Dacia.

Fasten that division clearly in your mind by roughly sketching the paths of the two rivers, often overlooked by regular geographers but incredibly significant in human history: the Vistula and the Dniester.

10. They start about thirty miles apart, [3-1] and each runs, not counting twists and turns, a clear three hundred miles—the Vistula to the northeast, the Dniester to the southwest: together they cut through Europe right at its broadest point, and if you take a deeper look, they separate the proper Europe—Europa's own, and Jove's—from the vast Siberian wilderness, both Cis-Ural and Trans-Ural; the unimaginable chaotic space, endlessly occupied by Scythians, Tartars, Huns, Cossacks, Bears, Ermines, and Mammoths, each with different layers of toughness, frost in their minds, and misery of dwelling—or non-dwelling. Nobody's history worth telling involves them; the force of Scandinavia never came through Finland but always sailed or paddled across the Baltic or down the rocky western coast; and the ice pressure from Siberia and Russia merely pushes the truly significant races into tighter groups, making them more intense and urgent in their explorations. But it was through those [Pg 62] exploring groups, of true European origin, that our own history was shaped forever; and so, these two defining and protective rivers should be marked on your map of Europe very clearly: the Vistula, with Warsaw halfway along it and flowing into the Baltic; the Dniester, flowing into the Black Sea, each of them running almost straight, about the same distance as from Edinburgh to London, with bends, [3-2] the Vistula being six hundred miles, and the Dniester five—count them together for a thousand miles of moat between Europe and the Desert, stretching from Danzig to Odessa.

11. Now that you've separated your view of Europe into this manageable and understandable area, the next step is to define the boundaries that separate the four Gothic countries—Britain, Gaul, Germany, and Dacia—from the four Classic countries—Spain, Italy, Greece, and Lydia.

There isn't a widely accepted opposite term to 'Gothic' other than 'Classic,' and I'm okay with using it for the sake of clarity and a broader understanding, even though its exact meaning isn't fully defined at the moment. Just familiarize yourself with the geography, and the terminology will fall into place over time.

12. So, you've got the sea between Britain and Spain, the Pyrenees between France and Spain, the Alps between Germany and Italy, and the Danube between Dacia and Greece. You should think of everything south of the Danube as Greek, influenced by Athens on one side and Byzantium on the other. Then, across the Aegean, there’s the large area wrongly called Asia Minor (we could just as easily call Greece Europe Minor, or Cornwall England Minor), but it’s better remembered as 'Lydia,' the land that inspires passion and tempts with wealth; the place that introduced the Lydian musical measure and softened the Greek language into Ionic; the origin of the ancient story of Troy and, in Christian history, the rise, [Pg 63] and the decline, of the Seven Churches.

13. On the opposite side of these four countries to the south, but separated from them by either the sea or desert, are four more that are just as easy to remember—Morocco, Libya, Egypt, and Arabia.

Morocco, mainly made up of the Atlas mountain range and its surrounding coasts, can best be understood as encompassing modern-day Morocco and Algeria, with the Canary Islands as a related group of islands.

Libya will also cover modern-day Tunis and Tripoli. It starts in the west with St. Augustine's town of Hippo, and its coast has settlements from Tyre and Greece, splitting it into the two regions of Carthage and Cyrene. Egypt, the land of the River, and Arabia, the land of no River, should be seen as the two significant southern powers with distinct religions.

14. So, you easily and clearly remember twelve countries, each uniquely shaped by natural laws, forming three zones from north to south, all healthy for living—those in the northernmost zone, trained to handle the cold; those in the central zone, developed by the pleasant warmth of both summer and winter; and those in the southern zone, accustomed to enduring the heat. Here they are in a table,

you have the foundation of all useful secular history laid out in the simplest terms; and then, as the source of inspiration for all these nations, with the strength that every soul possessing it has regarded as sacred and otherworldly, you must finally picture clearly the small hilly region of the Holy Land, flanked by Philistia and Syria, both acting as punishing forces; but Syria, in the beginning, was itself the origin of the chosen people—“A Syrian ready to perish was my father”—and the Syrian Rachel is always considered the true mother of Israel.

15. And remember, in all your future studies of the relationships between these countries, you must never let the temporary changes in political boundaries upset you. It doesn’t matter who governs a country, what it’s officially named, or how it’s divided; the mountains and seas create lasting barriers, and the clouds and stars impose eternal laws. The people born on that land are its true citizens, no matter how often they are conquered, exiled, or enslaved. A stranger cannot claim to be its king, and an invader cannot truly own it; even though just laws, upheld by either the people or their conquerors, always aim to bring about justice, nothing is truly beneficial to any race or group of people except the spirit within their hearts, ignited by the love for their homeland.

16. When I say that an invader can't truly own a country, I'm referring to invasions like those of the Vandals in Libya or our own in India, where the conquering group doesn't settle permanently. You shouldn't call Libya Vandalia or India England just because these places are temporarily ruled by Vandals and the English; the same goes for Italy as Gothland under the Ostrogoths, or England as Denmark under Canute. A nation’s character changes as it fades due to invasion or corruption, but if it ever revives into a new identity, that identity must be shaped by the land and climate of the country itself. Of the twelve country names listed in order, only one will change as we progress in history—Gaul will properly become France when the Franks become its permanent inhabitants. The other eleven names will remain the same until the end.

17. With just a bit more patience, if we look to the far East, we'll have laid the groundwork for all the geography we need. Just as the northern kingdoms are separated from the Scythian desert by the Vistula, the southern ones are separated from the so-called 'Oriental' dynasties by the Euphrates; which, “partly submerged under the Persian Gulf, extends from the shores of Beloochistan and Oman to the mountains of Armenia, creating a large hot-air funnel, [Pg 65] the base" (or mouth) "of which is at the tropics, while its tip reaches thirty-seven degrees of northern latitude. This is why the Semoom itself (the specific and gaseous Semoom) occasionally visits Mosoul and Djezeerat Omer, while the thermometer in Baghdad can reach levels in summer that would astonish even an old Indian." [3-3]

18. This valley once made up the kingdom of Assyria, much like the valley of the Nile created Egypt. In the text we’re looking at, we’re not concerned with its people, who were just an enemy force of oppression to the Jews, as unyielding as the clay of their walls or the stones of their statues; and after Christ was born, the swampy valley became just a battleground between the West and the East. Beyond the major river, Persia, India, and China form the southern 'Orient.' Persia is best understood as extending from the Persian Gulf to the mountain ranges that border and supply the Indus; it represents the true driving force of the East during the days of Marathon, but it does not impact Christian history except through Arabia. As for the northern Asian tribes—Median, Bactrian, Parthian, and Scythian—who later became Turks and Tartars, we don’t need to pay attention to them until they invade our own historical lands.

19. Using the terms 'Gothic' and 'Classic' to broadly distinguish the northern and central areas of our territory, we can also conveniently use the word 'Arab' [3-4] for the entire southern region. The influence of Egypt starts to fade shortly after the fourth century, while that of Arabia, strong from the start, [Pg 66] grows into an empire by the sixth century, an empire whose conclusion we have yet to witness. You can rightly understand the religious principle that underpins that empire by remembering that while the Jews lost their prophetic power by engaging in usury worldwide, the Arabs returned to the simplicity of initial prophecy at the well of Hagar. They are not against Christianity; rather, they stand against the faults or foolishness of Christians. They still maintain their faith in the one God who spoke to their father Abraham, and are His children in that simplicity, much more truly than the nominal Christians who lived, and continue to live, only to argue loudly in councils or in chaotic schisms over the relationships of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost.

20. Trusting that my reader will keep in mind the idea of the three zones—Gothic, Classic, and Arab—each divided into four countries, easily recognizable throughout all periods of distant or recent history; I must further simplify the concept of the Roman Empire (see note to last paragraph) regarding how it impacts them. Its nominal size, temporary conquests, civil strife, or internal flaws are hardly significant historically; the true Empire exists mainly as a representation of just law, military order, and technological advancements to untrained societies, and as a transformation of Greek philosophy into a more focused and manageable framework for them. The Classic zone, from start to finish of its clear authority, consists of these two elements—Greek creativity and Roman structure: the divisions or disruptions of the third and fourth centuries are simply the natural manifestations of their differences when the political system, which had previously hidden them, was tested by Christianity. It's often overlooked by typical historians that, in the wars between the last Romans and the Goths, the prominent Gothic leaders were all Christians; and the vibrant and straightforward way this emerging faith developed in their minds is a far more crucial topic of study than the unavoidable conflicts that followed Diocletian's withdrawal or the chaotic divisions and scandals of Constantine's indulgent court. I am [Pg 67] obliged, however, to point out the circumstances surrounding the last arbitrary dissolutions of the empire, so they can clarify, rather than obscure, the arrangement of the nations I want you to remember.

21. In the middle of the fourth century, politically, what Gibbon refers to as "the final division of the Eastern and Western Empires" really just means that Emperor Valentinian, though hesitantly, gave in to the belief that the Empire was too large for one person to manage. He made his brother a co-emperor and split their focus between the east and the west. He assigned his brother Valens the vague title of "Prefect of the East, from the lower Danube to the borders of Persia," while he kept for himself the "military prefectures of Illyricum, Italy, and Gaul, from the farthest point of Greece to the Caledonian wall, and from there to the foot of Mount Atlas." In simpler terms, Valentinian oversaw all of Roman Europe and Africa while leaving Lydia and the Caucasus to his brother. Lydia and the Caucasus never really formed an Eastern Empire; they were simply territories that were useful for collecting taxes during peacetime but could become a threat during wartime. From the seventh century before Christ to the seventh after Christ, there was only one Roman Empire, which represented the influence of great figures like Cincinnatus and Agricola; it fades away as the spirit and character of these figures fade. The nominal size or prestige of the Empire at any moment was just a reflection of the flames of an altar fed by noble souls. There's no clear date for when it divided or when it was destroyed. Whether Dacian Probus or Noric Odoacer occupied its throne, what really matters is the strength of its living principle—still influential in art, law, and thought patterns across Europe up to the twelfth [Pg 68] century; dominant in language and example among educated people even today.

22. In Valentinian's breakdown, let's take note of Gibbon's definition (I'm assuming it's his, not the Emperor's) of the European Roman Empire being divided into Illyricum, Italy, and Gaul. As I mentioned before, you should consider everything south of the Danube as Greek. The two main regions just south of the river are Upper and Lower Mœsia, which include the northern slopes of the Thracian mountains leading down to the river, along with the plains between the two. This area is significant for creating the Mœso-Gothic alphabet, where "the Greek is by far the principal element, [3-5] providing sixteen letters out of the twenty-four." The Gothic invasion during Valens' reign marks the first time a Teutonic nation establishes itself within the empire's borders, but this only brings them more directly under its spiritual influence. Their bishop, Ulphilas, uses this Mœsian alphabet, which is two-thirds Greek, for his Bible translation, and it spreads widely through that translation until the Gothic race eventually fades or gets absorbed.

23. South of the Thracian mountains lies Thrace itself, alongside the regions somewhat confusingly known as Dalmatia and Illyria, which make up the Adriatic coast and extend inward and eastward to the mountain watershed. I've never been able to get a clear understanding of the true nature of the people in these areas at any specific time; however, they can all be grouped together as northern Greek, with varying degrees of Greek heritage and dialect depending on how close they are to Greece itself. Yet, they neither share her philosophy nor adhere to her discipline. Overall, it's much more accurate to refer to these Illyrian, Mœsian, and Macedonian regions as Greek rather than following Gibbon or Valentinian in labeling Greece and Macedonia as entirely Illyrian. [3-6]

24. In the same grand or poetic overview, we see England grouped with France under the label Gaul, and separated by the "Caledonian wall." However, in our own classification, Caledonia, Hibernia, and Wales are viewed from the start as integral parts of Britain, [3-7] and the connection to the continent is understood to be established by the settlement of Britons in Brittany, and not at all by Roman control beyond the Humber.

25. So, looking again at our list of countries and noting that the British Isles, although mostly situated much farther north than the rest of the northern zone, enjoy a similar climate due to the Gulf Stream;—at the time when our history of Christianity starts, the Gothic zone is still unconverted and hasn't even heard of the new faith yet. The Classic zone is increasingly aware of it, debating it, and trying to suppress it—and your Arab zone, the source and sustenance of it, wraps around the Holy Land with its warmth, nurturing there—embers of phoenix fire across the earth,—the hope of Resurrection.

26. What would have happened to Christianity if it had only been preached orally, without the support of its poetic literature, is a topic for thought-provoking speculation—if a historian's role was to ponder instead of just report. The strength of the Christian faith, however, has always been based on the written prophecies and histories found in the Bible, and on the interpretations of their meanings derived more from the example than from the teachings of the great monastic orders. St. Jerome made the poetry and history of the Syrian Testaments accessible, while the value and effectiveness of monastic life are mostly captured in the rule of St. Benedict. Understanding how the work of these two individuals relates to the overall structure of the Church is the first step in understanding its ongoing history.

Gibbon's thirty-seventh chapter claims to provide a history of the 'Institution of the Monastic Life' in the third century. However, the monastic life was established a bit earlier, and by various prophets and kings. By Jacob, when he used a stone for his pillow; by Moses, when he stepped aside to witness the burning bush; by David, before he left "those few sheep in the wilderness"; and by the prophet who "was in the deserts until the time of his showing to Israel." Its primary "institution" for Europe was Numa's, with the Vestal Virgins and the College of Augurs, which was based on the originally Etruscan and later Roman idea of a pure life dedicated to the service of God, and of practical wisdom relying on His guidance. [3-8]

The way the monastic spirit developed in later times was influenced much more by the corruption of the common world, which it had to escape in either outrage or fear, than by any change triggered by Christianity in the concept of human virtue and happiness.

27. "Egypt" (Mr. Gibbon starts to explain the new Institution!), "the fertile source of superstition, provided the first example of monastic life." Egypt had her superstitions, just like other countries; however, she was so little the source of superstition that maybe no culture among the imaginative societies of the world has been as weak in spreading its beliefs as hers. She never managed to convince even her closest neighbors to worship cats or cobras alongside her; and I believe I am the only recent scholar maintaining Herodotus' claim about her impact on the early theology of Greece. But that impact, if it existed, was more about shaping ideas than practices: in no case, and in no place, was Egypt the source of Superstition: while she undeniably was, for all people and at all times, the source of Geometry, Astronomy, Architecture, and Chivalry. She was, in its material and technical aspects, the leader in Literature, teaching writers who previously could only write on wax and wood how to create paper and engrave porphyry. She was the first to explain the law of Judgment after Death for Sin. She was the guardian of Moses; and the Hostess of Christ.

28. It makes sense that in such a country, followers of any new spiritual idea would test it more thoroughly than was possible among uneducated warriors or in the troubled wilderness of the North. However, it's a careless mistake to link the later influence of religious communities to the solitary struggles of Egyptian monks. The hermits of the first three centuries fade away like feverish ghosts once the rational, compassionate, and industrious laws of Christian societies are set in place; and the obvious rewards of heavenly solitude are given only to those who seek the desert for its healing.

29. "The clearly recognizable rewards," I say again, with careful emphasis. No one has the ability to estimate, much less the right to judge, the outcomes of a life devoted to self-denial until they’ve had the courage to try it themselves, at least for a while. However, I believe that [Pg 72] no reasonable person would want to, and no honest person would dare to deny, the benefits they occasionally experience both mentally and physically during times of unexpected deprivation from luxury or exposure to danger. The extreme vanity of the modern Englishman, who momentarily presents himself as a hermit on the peak of a Horn or an Aiguille, and his rare admission of enjoying the solitude of the rocky landscape, which he still somewhat mitigates by bringing along his pocket newspaper, only to joyfully escape back to the nearest restaurant, should make us less contemptuous of the pride and more understanding of the passion of the mountain hermits in Arabia and Palestine who sentenced themselves to lives of isolation and suffering, comforted only by supernatural visions or heavenly hopes. It's important to remember that phases of mental illness are often the inevitable result of intense and independent emotions of any kind when reading the legends of the wilderness; however, neither doctors nor ethicists have yet tried to differentiate between the morbid states of the mind [3-9] that are extremes of noble passion and those that are punishments for ambition, greed, or lust.

30. Putting aside all questions like this for now, my younger readers should simply recognize that throughout the entire fourth century, countless devoted individuals lived lives of extreme suffering and poverty in their pursuit of a deeper understanding of God's nature and will. We don't clearly know what they endured or what insights they gained. We can't measure how their examples affected the less dedicated Christian community; only God knows how far their prayers for it were heard, or whether they were accepted. The only thing we can observe with respect is that among all their number, none seemed to have regretted their chosen way of life; none died from despair or suicide; their self-imposed suffering was never aimed at hastening the lives they either tainted or purified; and the times of dreaming or meditating, whether on a mountain or in a cave, rarely seemed to drag as heavily as the moments we spend without vision or reflection, just waiting on the platform or in the tunnel.

31. But regardless of any claims made after careful and honest examination of the mistakes or merits of living as an anchorite, it would be unfair to think of Jerome as the one who brought this way of life to Western Europe. He experienced it himself as a stage of spiritual growth; however, he embodies not the troubled inactivity of a hermit, but the passionate commitment of a caring teacher and pastor. His heart is always filled with admiration and hope—staying as intense as a child's and just as loving. The differences in Protestant critiques that have muddled or hidden his true character can be pieced together into a clearer image of who he really was once we understand the simplicity of his faith and empathize a bit with the eager compassion that can easily turn into outrage, yet is never held back by strategy.

32. The little trust that can be placed in modern interpretations of him, as they currently exist, can be demonstrated by comparing the two excerpts where Milman has differently speculated about the main principles of his [Pg 74] political actions. "Jerome started (!) and finished his career as a monk in Palestine; he gained, he aimed for, no position of importance in the Church. Though he was made a presbyter against his will, he avoided the episcopal position that was imposed on his notable peers." ('History of Christianity,' Book III.)

"Jerome secretly hoped, even if it wasn't his main goal, to succeed Damasus as Bishop of Rome. Can the rejection of someone so clearly unqualified for the role—due to his violent temper, disrespectful behavior toward his opponents, complete lack of self-control, and almost unmatched ability to instigate hatred—be credited to the wise and instinctive insight of Rome?" ('History of Latin Christianity,' Book I., chap. ii.)

33. You might notice, as a typical trait in the "clever wisdom" of the Protestant clerical mindset, that it instinctively assumes the desire for power and status is not only universal in the Priesthood but also always purely selfish at its core. The notion that power could be sought for its potential for benevolent use, as far as I can recall, doesn’t appear even once in the writings of any recent ecclesiastical historian. As we reflect on past eras, we will, with the reader's agreement, very calmly dismiss all accounts of "hopes kept secret” and pay little attention to the reasons behind medieval actions that may seem logical to the rationalist or plausible to the politician. [3-10] We focus solely on what these unique and unusual [Pg 75] Christians of the past actually said and definitely did.

34. Jerome's life definitely didn't "begin as a monk of Palestine." Dean Milman hasn't clarified how any man's life could start that way; however, Jerome's childhood was far from being reclusive or overly religious. He was born to wealthy parents living on their own estate, in a town called Stridon in North Illyria, which may now be called Strigi, near Aquileia. It was in a Venetian climate, definitely within sight of the Alps and the sea. He had a brother and sister, a kind grandfather, and a difficult private tutor, and he was still a young scholar studying grammar when Julian died in 363.

35. An eighteen-year-old, well-versed in all the traditional schools; but, far from being a monk, he wasn’t even a Christian yet—and he wasn’t inclined toward the stricter aspects of Roman life! He looked back with disdain at the glories, whether worldly or sacred, that surrounded him during his college days in the capital city.

For the "power and grandeur of Paganism were still centered in Rome; the gods of the ancient religion found their last stronghold in the capital of the empire. To outsiders, Rome still looked like a Pagan city. It had one hundred and fifty-two temples and one hundred and eighty smaller chapels or shrines, still dedicated to their guardian deities and used for public worship. Christianity had not even attempted to take over those few buildings that might serve its purpose, let alone had the power to destroy them. The religious buildings were protected by the city prefect, who was usually Pagan; in any case, he would not allow any disruption of public peace or damage to public property. Above all, the Capitol still towered with its untouchable and awe-inspiring majesty, featuring fifty temples or shrines dedicated to the most sacred names in the religious and civil history of Rome: those of Jupiter, Mars, Janus, Romulus, Caesar, and Victory. A few years after Theodosius took power in the Eastern Empire, sacrifices were still performed as national ceremonies at public expense,—the pontiffs made their offerings in the name of all humanity. The Pagan orator confidently claimed that the Emperor would not risk the safety of the empire by abolishing them. The Emperor still held the title and symbols of the Supreme Pontiff; the Consuls, before they assumed their roles, ascended the Capitol; religious processions moved down the crowded streets, and people flocked to the festivals and theaters that were still part of Pagan worship." [3-11]

36. Here, Jerome must have heard about what all the Christian groups viewed as God's judgment against their main enemy—the death of Emperor Julian. But I can't trace his exact thoughts and won't speculate on them until the moment his life changed at his baptism. The honesty that underpins his character has given us one statement of his regarding that change, which is worth more than many ordinary confessions. "I left not only my parents and relatives but the familiar luxuries of a comfortable life." These words illuminate what seems to our less brave nature an exaggerated interpretation of Christ's words to early converts—"Anyone who loves their father or mother more than me is not worthy of me." We often leave behind either parent for far lesser reasons, without recognizing the need for any greater sacrifice. We would understand more about ourselves and Christianity if we faced the more profound challenges that St. Jerome encountered. I find scattered hints of disdain among his biographers because he couldn't give up one indulgence—that of scholarship; and the typical mockery of monastic ignorance and laziness is in his case redirected to the weakness of a pilgrim who carried his library in his bag. It raises an interesting question (setting aside the modern idea of Providence), whether without this old man's literary passion—which was partly a flaw—the Bible would ever have become Europe's library.

37. For that, you see, is the true meaning, at its core, of the word Bible. Not just a book; but 'Bibliotheca,' a Treasury of Books: and it is, I emphasize, a curious question, how far, if Jerome, at the very moment when Rome, his protector, lost her material power, had not made her language the voice of Hebrew prophecy, a literature of their own, and a faith unburdened by the fears of the Mosaic law, might have developed in the hearts of the Goth, the Frank, and the Saxon, under Theodoric, Clovis, and Alfred.

38. Fate had other plans, and Jerome was such a passive player in her game that he started studying Hebrew purely as a discipline, without any real understanding of the task ahead of him, and even less awareness of its potential impact. I could happily believe that the words of Christ, "If they hear not Moses and the Prophets, neither will they be persuaded though one rose from the dead," had lingered in the mind of the recluse until he decided that the voices of timeless wisdom should be made heard by churches everywhere. But as far as we know, there was no desire or hope to elevate the quiet instincts of his natural diligence; and partly as a scholar's exercise, partly as an old man's pastime, the rigidness of the Latin language was softened, like Venetian glass, by the shifting influence of Hebrew thought, and the "Book of Books" took on a lasting form that would serve as the ever-expanding interpretation for the art of future Western nations.

39. In this matter, you need to understand that the key point is not about translating the Hebrew and Greek Scriptures into an easier, more common language, but about presenting them to the Church as a shared authority. Early Gentile Christians naturally tended to exaggerate or distort the teachings of the Apostle to the Gentiles through oral tradition, to the point where their release from the constraints of Jewish law turned into doubts about its divine inspiration. After the fall of Jerusalem, this even led to a terrifying prohibition against observing the law. So, just a few years after the remnant of exiled Jews in Pella chose the Gentile Marcus as their Bishop and were allowed to return to the Ælia Capitolina, built by Hadrian on Mount Zion, "it became a matter of doubt and controversy whether a person who genuinely recognized Jesus as the Messiah, but still followed the law of Moses, could have any hope of salvation!" [3-12] While, conversely, the most educated and wealthy Christians, known collectively as "the knowing" (Gnostic), more subtly undermined the authority of the Evangelists by splitting into over fifty distinct sects during the third century, producing numerous narratives that reshaped the actions and teachings of Christ and His Apostles to fit their own beliefs. [3-13]

40. It would be a challenging and not very rewarding task to figure out how much the agreement of the whole Church and how much Jerome's actions and authority played a role in establishing the canons of the Mosaic and Apostolic Scriptures, which have remained in harmonious existence since. All the young reader needs to know is that when Jerome passed away in Bethlehem, this significant task was practically complete: the collection of historical and instructional books that make up our current Bible (including the Apocrypha) were recognized within and above the emerging thoughts of the greatest human races on Earth as a direct message from their Creator, containing everything they needed to understand about His intentions for them, and guiding, or advising, with divine authority and infallible wisdom, all that was best for them to pursue and desire.

41. It’s only for those who have sincerely followed the law to [Pg 79] determine how much the hope offered to them by the law-giver has been fulfilled. The worst "children of disobedience" are those who pick and choose what parts of the Word they like and reject what they dislike: this stubbornness isn’t always conscious, as many of the Church's sins have stemmed from zeal that, in its passionate focus on easily understood parts of Scripture, overlooked a thorough study and ultimately compromised the balance of the whole. The forms and ways that self-will distort the Scriptures to one’s downfall are for the guardians of conscience to investigate, not for us. The history we must learn should be completely free of such arguments, and the impact of the Bible should be observed solely in those who receive the Word with joy and follow it genuinely.

42. However, there's always been a greater challenge in examining the power of the Bible than just distinguishing between honest and dishonest readers. To truly engage with Christianity's impact on people's souls, we need to look at it through three different aspects: first, the power of the Cross and the concept of salvation on the heart; second, the influence of the Jewish and Greek Scriptures on the mind; and third, the effect of the teachings and examples set by the living church leaders on morals. When we compare people as they are now to how they could have been, we should consider these three questions separately: first, what would Europe’s attitude have been without the compassion and effort associated with 'bearing the cross'? Second, how would Europe’s intellect have developed without Biblical literature? And finally, what would the social structure of Europe look like without its church hierarchy?

43. You see, I have linked the words 'charity' and 'labor' with the overall concept of 'bearing the cross.' "If anyone wants to follow me, let them deny themselves (for charity) and take up their cross (of pain) and follow me."

The idea has been exactly reversed by modern Protestantism, which sees the cross not as a tool for execution but as a [Pg 80] raft that will carry it and all its valuable properties, [3-14] into Paradise.

44. Therefore, only in times when people accepted the Cross with courage, approached the Scriptures with honesty, and listened to their Pastors in faith, can the true word of God and the shining sword of the Spirit be recognized in the heart and hands of Christianity. The impact of Biblical poetry and legends on its intellect must be traced further, through declining eras, and in open fields—resulting in 'Paradise Lost' for us, just like the 'Divina Commedia'; Goethe's 'Faust' and Byron's 'Cain,' just like the 'Imitatio Christi.'

45. To truly grasp the impact of the Bible on humanity, a scholar must be able to read its interpretations that emerged in the great arts of Europe at their peak. Across Christendom, depending on its artistic capability, a series of Biblical illustrations were created over time; starting with small illustrations in manuscripts, growing into life-sized sculptures, and culminating in the mastery of realistic painting. These teachings and messages from the Church, conveyed through art, are not only a crucial part of the general Apostolic Acts of Christianity, but studying them is essential for Biblical scholarship. No one can fully understand the Bible until they have also learned to interpret these national commentaries on it and recognized their collective significance. The Protestant reader, who often thinks of himself as independent in his thoughts and private in his study of Scripture, is typically reliant on the nearest preacher with a pleasant voice and clever ideas; he gratefully and often reverently accepts whatever interpretations of texts the charming voice or quick wit suggests. Meanwhile, he remains completely unaware of, and if left to his own devices, usually undermines as [Pg 81] harmful, the well-considered interpretations of Scripture that have been accepted by the entire Christian Church for a thousand years, and which have been elevated by the skilled craftsmanship and inspired imagination of the greatest minds ever confined in human form.

46. There are few early Church fathers whose commentaries on the Bible or personal interpretations of its gospel haven't been, much to the delight of the Church's opponents, embroiled in controversy, or weakened and disrupted by conflicting heresies. In contrast, the scriptural teachings through the work of artists like Orcagna, Giotto, Angelico, Luca della Robbia, and Luini are completely free from any corrupting influence of fleeting emotions; their patience, humility, and calmness are immune to errors caused by fear or anger. They can express everything they want without causing offense; they are united by tradition in a brotherhood that portrays undistorted doctrines through unchanging depictions; and the nature of their work demands a careful and orderly approach that results in the clearest expression and most sincere use of all intellectual capabilities.

47. I can immediately, without going back to this question, show the difference in dignity and safety between the mental activities of literature and art by mentioning a passage that beautifully highlights St. Jerome’s sweetness and simplicity, even though it’s quoted in a context that doesn’t aim to highlight those qualities. This is found in the charming letter from Queen Sophie Charlotte (the mother of Frederick the Great) to the Jesuit Vota, which is partially provided by Carlyle in his first volume, ch. iv.

"'How can St. Jerome, for instance, be essential to Scripture?' she suggests; citing this remarkable acknowledgment from Jerome about how he wrote his books—especially in that one, Commentary on the Galatians, where he calls out both Peter and Paul for being insincere and even hypocritical. The great St. Augustine has been blaming him for this unfortunate truth, (says her Majesty, referencing chapter and verse,) and Jerome responds, 'I followed the commentaries of Origen, of'—five or six different people, who mostly turned out to be heretics long before Jerome finished dealing with them. 'And to tell you the honest truth,' Jerome continues, 'I read all of that, and after stuffing my head with a lot of information, I called for my scribe and dictated to him, at times my own thoughts, at times those of others, without really remembering the order, nor sometimes the words, nor even the meaning!' In another part of the book, (further along [3-15]) he says, 'I don’t write myself; I have a scribe, and I dictate to him whatever comes to mind. If I want to think a bit more or say something better, he frowns, and his whole expression makes it clear that he can’t stand to wait.' Here is a venerable old man whom it isn’t safe to rely on for interpreting the Scriptures—her Majesty thinks, but doesn’t say—leaving Father Vota to his thoughts." Alas, no, Queen Sophie, neither old St. Jerome nor any other human being’s words or mind can be fully trusted in that role; only the Eternal Wisdom, the Power of God, and the Wisdom of God can. Yet you can see that your old interpreter is completely open, innocent, and sincere; and that, through someone like him—whether forgetful of his source or rushed by his scribe—it’s very likely you may hear what Heaven knows is best for you, and extremely unlikely you would come to any harm—while a careful and clever master of literary skill, hesitant about his doubts and skillful in his words, might present you with a host of biases or errors in an appealing manner, or even embed them in you dangerously, even though you would not be at all obliged to trust in his inspiration.

48. The only real confidence and safety we can have in these matters come from our genuine desire to be guided correctly and our willingness to simply follow the guidance provided. However, our understanding and reasoning about inspiration have been confused by our tendency, first, to falsely—or at least unnecessarily—differentiate between the inspiration of words and actions; and second, by attributing inspired strength or wisdom to certain people or writers only, rather than to the entire community of believers, as long as they partake in the Grace of Christ, the Love of God, and the Fellowship of the Holy Spirit. The extent to which each Christian receives or rejects the various gifts expressed in that general blessing determines whether they enter or are excluded from the inheritance of the saints. To the same extent that one denies Christ, offends the Father, and grieves the Holy Spirit, they become uninspired or unholy—and to the extent that they trust Christ, obey the Father, and align with the Spirit, they become inspired in their feelings, actions, words, and reception of words, based on their individual abilities. They do not gain higher abilities or new roles but are empowered to use their natural talents effectively in the right context. A child is inspired as a child, a young woman as a young woman; the weak are inspired even in their weakness, and the wise only during their moments of wisdom.

That is the basically proven theory of the inspiration of all genuine members of the Church; its truth can only be recognized through testing it out: but I believe there's no record of anyone trying it and saying it was useless. [3-16] [Pg 84]

49. Beyond this idea of overall inspiration, there is the concept of a specific call and command, which involves direct dictation of actions to take or words to say. I won’t go into an analysis of the evidence for such distinct influence right now; the Church Fathers did not claim this for themselves or even for all the Sacred writers, but only assigned it to particular passages that were dictated at specific times for special situations. There’s no way to attach the idea of infallible truth to any form of human language, including these exceptional passages. However, it is clearly true for the entire collection of them as we have it and read—each of us as it might be expressed in our own language—that, despite being intertwined with mysteries we don’t need to unravel or challenges we should not arrogantly seek to solve, it contains straightforward teachings for people of all spiritual levels and life situations. If they truly and wholeheartedly follow these teachings, they will find happiness and innocence to the fullest extent of their nature and will be capable of overcoming all challenges, whether from temptation or suffering.

50. Truly, the Psalter, which served as the Church's main book for many years, contains within its first half the essence of personal and social wisdom. [Pg 85] The 1st, 8th, 12th, 14th, 15th, 19th, 23rd, and 24th psalms, when understood and believed, provide all the personal guidance one needs; the 48th, 72nd, and 75th contain the principles and prophecies for all just governance; and every genuine breakthrough in natural science is foreshadowed in the 104th.

51. For the contents of the entire volume, think about what other collection of historical and educational literature has a comparable range. There are—

I. The stories of the Fall and the Flood, the greatest human traditions based on a real fear of sin.

II. The story of the Patriarchs, the true significance of which is evident today in the political landscapes of the Jewish and Arab peoples.

III. The story of Moses and its impact on the moral laws of all civilized societies.

IV. The story of the Kings—essentially the story of all kingship, in David, and of all wisdom, in Solomon: reaching its peak in the Psalms and Proverbs, with the even more direct and practical insights of Ecclesiasticus and the Son of Sirach.

V. The story of the Prophets—essentially that of the deepest mystery, tragedy, and lasting destiny of national existence.

VI. The story of Jesus.

VII. The moral teachings of St. John and his final Revelation of its completion.

Think about whether you can find a table of contents like that in anything else—I don’t just mean a 'book' but all of 'literature.' Consider, as much as any of us—whether we’re critics or supporters of the faith—can separate our thinking from the moral sentiments shaped by the Bible, what literature could possibly replace it or serve its purpose, even if every library in the world had stayed intact and every teacher's wisest words had been recorded?

52. I don’t dismiss secular literature. On the contrary, I believe that no interpretations of Greek religion have ever been as heartfelt, and none of Roman religion as respectful, as those found at the core of my art teachings and throughout all of my work. However, it was the Bible that taught me the [Pg 86] symbols of Homer and the beliefs of Horace; the obligation I felt in my youth to read every word of the gospels and prophecies as if they were written by God instilled in me a sense of reverence that made many passages of secular writers, which might seem trivial to someone without faith, profoundly serious to me. How much my mind has been hindered by life's challenges and sorrows—or how much my understanding falls short of what I could have known if I had walked more faithfully in the light I had—is beyond my estimation. But since I never wrote for my own enjoyment or self-promotion, I have been safeguarded, as those who write for themselves often will not be, from making mistakes that could harm others. The fragmented expressions of emotion or statements of doctrine that I have been able to share over time will now, to a careful reader, reveal themselves as part of a cohesive system for interpreting Sacred literature—both classic and Christian—allowing them to empathize fairly with the beliefs of open and generous souls from every era and every corner of the world.

53. There is a Sacred classic literature that runs parallel to that of the Hebrews, blending in the symbolic legends of medieval Christianity. This is illustrated in a moving and powerful way by the unique yet similar influence of Virgil on Dante and Bishop Gawaine Douglas. In earlier times, every teacher trained in the Eastern schools inevitably built upon the wisdom of Greek mythology; thus, the tale of the Nemean Lion, with Athena's help in overcoming it, is the true foundation of the legend of St. Jerome's companion, who was conquered by the healing gentleness of the Spirit of Life.

54. I only refer to it as a legend. Whether Heracles ever defeated or St. Jerome ever cared for the wild or injured creature doesn't matter to us when understanding what the Greeks intended with their vase illustrations of the great contest, or what Christian painters meant by their persistent emphasis on the loyalty of the Lion-friend. Earlier traditions—like the story of Samson, the disobedient prophet, David's first inspired victory, and finally the miracle performed in defense of the [Pg 87] the most favored and faithful of the greater prophets—always run parallel in symbolism with the Dorian fable. However, the legend of St. Jerome picks up the prophecy of the Millennium and predicts, along with the Cumæan Sibyl and Isaiah, a day when the Fear of Man will be a blessing rather than an enemy to lesser beings—when they will not harm or destroy on the holy Mountain, and the Peace of the Earth will be as far removed from its current sorrow as the vibrant universe is from the emerging desert, where the depths were once home to dragons and its mountains, domes of fire.

Of that day, no one knows; but the Kingdom of God has already come to those who have tamed their own lower instincts and have learned to appreciate what is beautiful and human in the wandering children of the clouds and fields.

Avallon, August 28, 1882.

1. It's a well-known privilege of a custodian who loves their cathedral to belittle all the other cathedrals in their country that are similar and all the buildings in the world that are different. But I love too many cathedrals—though I've never had the pleasure of being the custodian of even one—to allow myself the easy and faithful use of that privilege. I need to be upfront about my honesty and judgment right from the start by admitting that the cathedral of Amiens has nothing to brag about when it comes to towers—that its central spire is just the cute whim of a village carpenter—that the entire structure is less dignified than Chartres, less sublime than Beauvais, less decorative than Rheims, and less lovely in terms of figure-sculpture than Bourges. It has nothing like the clever shaping and molding of the arcades of Salisbury—nothing of the power of Durham; no intricate inlaying like Florence, no vibrant mythic fantasy like Verona. And yet, despite being overshadowed or outshone in all these ways, the cathedral of Amiens deserves the name given to it by M. Viollet le Duc—

2. Of Gothic, remember; Gothic free from Roman influence and Arabian elements; Gothic pure, authoritative, unmatched, and beyond reproach—its basic principles of structure being once understood and accepted. [Pg 89] No well-educated traveler these days is unaware of what is commonly and rightly referred to as "purity of style" in the artistic methods practiced by civilized nations; and few do not recognize the unique goals and character of Gothic. The aim of a skilled Gothic builder was to construct, using the local stone available, a building as tall and as spacious as possible, with measurable and visible safety, in a timely manner, and without excessive or burdensome human labor.

He didn’t want to drain the pride of a single city or the resources of a kingdom; he built for Amiens using the strength and funds of Amiens; with chalk from the cliffs of the Somme, [4-2] and under the guidance of two successive bishops, one of whom oversaw the building's foundation, and the other thanked for its completion. His goal, as a designer, shared with all the sacred builders of his time in the North, was to let in as much light as possible without compromising comfort; to create a structure that was clearly impressive, yet not odd or confusing; and to enhance the understood design with enough decoration for its beauty, avoiding wasteful spending and ostentatious displays of skill; and finally, to make the external carvings on its walls and gates a clear expression and summary of the religion that would allow for meaningful worship within those gates, to the Lord whose presence was in His[Pg 90] Holy Temple, and whose throne was in Heaven.

3. It's not easy for someone living in today's mix of bad buildings and poor living conditions, kept in check by police, which we call a town—where the widest streets are used to promote vice and the narrow ones hide misery—to understand how a townsfolk in the Christian ages felt about his cathedral. For him, the straightforwardly believed idea, "Where two or three are gathered in My name, there am I in the midst of them," was expanded into a broader promise for many honest and hardworking people gathered in His name—"They shall be my people and I will be their God." This belief was deepened by a local and heartfelt faith that Christ, being a Jew among Jews and a Galilean among Galileans, was also close to any group of His followers—even the poorest ones—as if He belonged to their community; and that their own "Beau Christ d'Amiens" was as much a fellow countryman as if He had been born to a Picard maiden.

4. It's important to remember—and this is a theological point that significantly influenced the architectural development of the northern basilicas—that the part of the building where the Divine presence was believed to be constant, similar to the Jewish Holy of Holies, was only the enclosed choir. In front of this, the aisles and transepts could function as the King's Hall of Justice, resembling the presence-chamber of Christ. The high altar was always protected from the surrounding eastern aisles by a beautifully crafted screen, while from those aisles branched a series of radiating chapels or cells, each dedicated to a different saint. This idea of Christ's company with His saints (with the Virgin's chapel being the most significant) was the foundation of the entire apse's layout, supported and divided by buttresses and piers. The architectural design can only be truly appreciated in harmony with the spiritual vision from which it emerged. We often talk weakly about symbols and types: in ancient Christian architecture, every element is literal: the cathedral is the House of God for its builders; it is surrounded, like an earthly king's, with smaller quarters for servants. The stunning carvings on the exterior walls and the interior wood of the choir, which an English rector might instinctively view as created for the glory of the canons, were actually the Amienois carpenter's way of making his Master-carpenter comfortable, [4-3]—and also a way to showcase his own inherent and unmatched skills as a carpenter, before God and man.

5. Whatever you want to see or have to miss at Amiens, if the heavy responsibilities of your life and the unavoidable need to move quickly have given you even just a quarter of an hour—not rushed—for checking out the capital of Picardy, devote it entirely to the cathedral choir. You can find aisles and porches, lancet windows and roses elsewhere, but this kind of woodwork is unique. It’s late—fully developed flamboyant style just after the fifteenth century—and has a mix of Flemish solidity and French flair; however, wood-carving has been the pride of Picardy since ancient times, and as far as I know, there’s nothing else as beautifully crafted from the great trees of the world.

Sweet and fresh wood it is: oak, crafted and selected for such work, as sound now as it was four hundred years ago. Under the carver's hand, it seems to cut like clay, to fold like silk, to grow like living branches, to leap like living flame. Canopy on top of canopy, peak on top of peak—it shoots and twists into an enchanted glade, intertwined, everlasting, fuller of leaves than any forest, [Pg 92] and richer in stories than any book. [4-4]

6. I've never been able to decide what the best way is to approach the cathedral for the first time. If you have plenty of time, the weather is nice, and you're up for a one-hour walk, the best thing to do is stroll down the main street of the old town, cross the river, and head out to the chalk hill out of which the citadel is half quarried—half walled;—then walk to the top and look down into the citadel's dry 'ditch,'—or, more accurately, the dry valley of death, which is about as deep as a glen in Derbyshire (or, to be more precise, the upper part of the 'Happy Valley' at Oxford, above Lower Hincksey). From there, you can see the cathedral and the rising slopes of the city, giving you a true sense of the height and relation of the tower and town. On your way back, find your way to the Mount Zion of it through any narrow side streets and random bridges you can find—the more winding and gritty the streets, the better. Whether you arrive at the west front or the apse first, you’ll think they're worth all the effort it took to get there.

7. But if the day is gloomy, which can happen sometimes, even in France these days—or if you can't or don't want to walk, which might also happen, despite all our sports and lawn tennis—or if you really have to go to Paris this afternoon and plan to see as much as you can in just an hour or two—then, assuming that, despite these limitations, you are still a pleasant kind of person who cares a bit about how you approach a lovely sight, I think the best way is to stroll from the Hotel de France or the Place de Perigord, up the Street of Three Pebbles, toward the train station—taking a moment as you go to lift your spirits and picking up some candies or tarts for the kids at one of the delightful pastry shops on the left. Just past them, ask for directions to the theater; and further along, you’ll find, also on the left, three open arches through which you can turn, passing the Palais de Justice, and head straight up to the south transept, which really has something to delight everyone. It’s simple and austere at the bottom, and elegantly designed with delicate tracery and spires at the top, yet it feels cohesive—although it isn't—and everyone must appreciate the slender and transparent detailing of the spire above, which seems to lean into the west wind—though it doesn’t—at least, that leaning is a long-standing habit that has gradually developed into a graceful surrender over the past three hundred years. And as you reach the porch, everyone has to like the charming French Madonna in the center, with her head tilted a bit and her halo also askew, resembling a fashionable hat. She is, in fact, a Madonna in decline, despite all her prettiness and her [Pg 95] lively, flirtatious smile; and she doesn’t really belong there, for this is St. Honoré's porch, not hers; and the stern, gray figure of St. Honoré once stood there to greet you—he’s been moved now to the north porch, where no one ever goes in. This change happened long ago, in the fourteenth century, when people began to find Christianity too somber and created a more cheerful faith for France, wanting vivacious, lively Madonnas everywhere—while letting their own dark-eyed Joan of Arc be burned as a witch. And from then on, everything continued merrily along, straightforward, 'ça allait, ça ira,' leading right up to the most cheerful days of the guillotine.

But they could still carve in the fourteenth century, and the Madonna with her hawthorn-blossom lintel is worth checking out—especially the field above, with sculptures that are more delicate and peaceful, telling St. Honoré's own story, which isn't talked about much anymore in his Parisian neighborhood.

8. I won’t take up your time telling St. Honoré's story—(I’m more than happy to leave you a bit curious about it, if that’s possible) [4-6] —because you’re probably eager to go into the church; and you can't enter it any better than through this door. Most notable cathedrals have a similar effect when you enter through the west door, but I don’t know any others that reveal their grandeur as much from the south interior transept. The opposite rose window is stunningly intricate in its design and beautiful in its light. The columns of the transept aisles create amazing groupings with those of the choir and nave; plus, the apse looks taller as it opens up to you when you move from the transept into the mid-nave, compared to seeing it directly from the west end of the nave, where it might seem like the nave is narrow instead of the apse being high. So, if you let me guide you, go in through this south transept door, and drop a coin into every beggar’s box that asks for one there—it's not your concern if they should be there or if they deserve it—just make sure you feel you can give it; and give it kindly, not like it’s burning your fingers. Once you’re inside, let whatever first impression or view you like catch your eye—promise the custodian you’ll come back to properly see it; (but make sure you keep that promise); and in these first fifteen minutes, look only at what catches your fancy—but at least, as I mentioned, see the apse from the mid-nave, and all the parts of the building from its center. Then you’ll understand when you go outside again what the architect was aiming for, and what his buttresses and tracery signify. The outside of a French cathedral, aside from its sculpture, should always be thought of as the back side of the fabric, showing how the threads weave the pattern on the inside. And if you’re not in awe of that choir and its surrounding circle of light when you gaze up at it from the center, you really don't need to travel any further in search of cathedrals; waiting rooms at any station are better suited for you—but if it amazes and delights you at first, then, the more you learn about it, the more it will astonish you. It’s impossible for imagination and mathematics together to create anything nobler or more powerful than that procession of windows made from glass and stone—nor anything that looks taller, with such a sensible and careful measure of actual height.

9. From the sidewalk to the top of its arch is just 132 French feet—around 150 English. Just think—if you've been to Switzerland—the Staubbach Falls are nine hundred! And the cliffs at Dover, right at the end of the Marine Parade, are twice as high; yet the little Londoners strolling to military polka on the pavement below probably think they're about as tall as it. With their small homes and cramped living spaces around it, they’ve managed to make it look no bigger than a decent-sized limekiln. Still, it’s twice the height of Amiens’ apse!—and it takes solid construction, with only bits of chalk you can dig up near the Somme, to build something that tall and make it last for six hundred years.

10. It takes good construction, I’d say, and you could even claim the best—that has ever existed or is likely to exist for many days to come, on the stable and fruitful earth, where you could depend on a pillar standing strong, once it’s properly set; and where groves of aspen, apple orchards, and clusters of vines represented what could be beautifully made sacred in the durability of sculpted stone. From the raw stone upright in the Druid's Bethel, to this Lord's House and the blue-stained glass gate to Heaven, you have the full journey and pinnacle of the Northern Religious Builder's passion and skill.

11. But, keep in mind—and seriously—that this apse of Amiens is not only the best, but the very first thing done perfectly in its style by Northern Christianity. In pages 323 and 327 of the sixth volume of M. Viollet le Duc, you will find the complete history of the development of these traceries through which the eastern light shines on you as you stand, originating from the less perfect and tentative forms of Rheims: and so brief was the peak of absolute rightness that here, from the nave to the transept—built only ten years later—there is a slight change, not towards decline, but to a somewhat unnecessary precision. Where decline begins, you cannot, among the beautiful fantasies that followed, exactly identify—but clearly, and without a doubt, we know that this apse of Amiens is the first truly perfect work,—also akin to the Parthenon in that sense—of Gothic Architecture.

12. Who built it, shall we ask? God and Man—is the first and most truthful answer. The stars in their courses built it, along with the Nations. Greek Athena works here—and Roman Father Jove, and Guardian Mars. The Gaul works here, as does the Frank: knightly Norman,—powerful Ostrogoth,—and the worn anchorite of Idumea.

The guy who actually built it hardly cared to tell anyone he did; nor do the historians brag about him. You can find all sorts of coats of arms from rogues and slackers in what they call their 'history': but this is probably the first time you've ever read the name Robert of Luzarches. I say he 'hardly cared'—we're not sure he cared [Pg 98] at all. He never signed his name, as far as I know. You might find some recent initials carved by English tourists wanting to be remembered, scattered here and there around the building, but Robert the builder—or at least the master builder, didn’t carve his name into any of it. Only after his death, when the headstone was brought out amid cheers, was this following inscription written, noting everyone who contributed to the work, in the center of the labyrinth then embedded in the pavement of the nave. You should read it smoothly: it was written in cheerful rhyme for you by pure French joy, nothing at all like that of the Théâtre de Folies.

13. I’ve written the numbers in words; otherwise the meter wouldn’t make sense: they were actually in figures like this, "II C. and XX,” "XIII C. minus XII.” I’m quoting from M. l'Abbé Rozé's amazing little book, "Visite à la Cathédrale d'Amiens,"—Sup. Lib. de Mgr l'Evêque d'Amiens, 1877,—which every appreciative traveler should get, as I’m just going to take bits from it here and there. I only wish there had been a translation of the legend to take, too, because there are a couple of points, both in thought and timeline, in it that I would have liked the Abbé’s take on. [Pg 99] The main message of the rhyme, however, seems to be, line for line, as follows:—

In this legend, while you stand where it was once written (it was taken away—to make the old pavement nicer—back in the year, I regret to say, of my first visit to the Continent, 1825, when I hadn’t yet focused on Ecclesiastical Architecture), these details stand out—if you still have a little patience.

14. 'The work'—i.e., the Work of Amiens in particular, her cathedral, was in decay, falling to ruin, for the—I can't quite pinpoint—fourth, fifth, or what time,—in the year 1220. It was incredibly challenging for little Amiens to get this project completed, as the Devil was working hard against her. She built her first Bishop's church (barely more than St. Firmin's tomb chapel) around the year 350, just outside the train station on the road to Paris; [4-7] then, after being nearly destroyed herself, chapel and all, during the Frank invasion, and after recovering and converting her Franks, she built another, properly named cathedral, where this one now stands, under Bishop St. Save (St. Sauve, or Salve). But [Pg 100] even this proper cathedral was only made of wood, and the Normans burned it down in 881. It was rebuilt and lasted for 200 years; however, it was largely destroyed by lightning in 1019. Rebuilt again, it and the town were partially burned together by lightning in 1107,—my source states calmly, "un incendie provoqué par la même cause détruisit la ville, et une partie de la cathédrale." The 'partie' being rebuilt once more, the whole was again reduced to ashes, "réduite en cendre par le feu de ciel en 1218, ainsi que tous les titres, les martyrologies, les calendriers, et les Archives de l'Evêché et du Chapitre."

15. It was the fifth cathedral, I count, then, that lay in 'ashes,' according to Mons. Gilbert—in ruins for sure—falling apart;—and a ruin of a very discouraging completeness it would have been, to less lively townspeople—in 1218. But it was more of an inspiring completeness to Bishop Everard and his people—the ground well cleared for them, so to speak: and lightning (feu de l'enfer, not du ciel, recognized as a diabolical plague, like in Egypt) was to be challenged to hell. They only took two years, you see, to regroup; and to work they went, in 1220, along with their bishop, their king, and their Robert of Luzarches. And this, that covers you, was what their hands found to do with their strength.

16. Their king was 'à-donc,' 'at that time,' Louis VIII., who is also referred to as the son of Philip of August, or Philip the Wise, because his father wasn't dead in 1220; he must have handed over the practical kingdom to his son, just as his own father had done for him; the old and wise king retiring to his room, and from there quietly guiding his son's hands, very gloriously, yet for three years.

But, further—and this is the point where I really wanted the Abbé's opinion—Louis VIII. died from fever at Montpensier in 1226. The main effort in building the cathedral, as well as the main honor of its service, belonged to Saint Louis for forty-four years. And the inscription [Pg 101] was placed "at this point" by the last architect, six years after St. Louis's death. Why is it that the great and holy king is not mentioned?

17. I must not waste time in guessing answers to the questions that every step here will raise from the damaged shrine. But this is a very serious one; and we must hold it in our hearts until we may perhaps find a clue to it. One thing we are sure of—at least the proper honor—both from the sons of Kings and the sons of Craftsmen—is always given to their fathers; and it seems that the main honor here goes to Philip the Wise. From his house, not of parliament but of peace, came, in the years when this temple was first being built, a notable decree of peace-making: "That it should be illegal for anyone to seek revenge for an insult or injury until forty days after the offense, and then only with the approval of the Bishop of the Diocese." This was perhaps a smarter attempt to end the Feudal system in its Saxon form, [4-8] than any of our recent attempts to end it in the Norman way.

18. "At this point." The point, specifically, of the labyrinth embedded in the cathedral floor; a well-known symbol of many things to the people, who understood that the ground beneath their feet was sacred, just like the roof above them. Primarily, for them, it represented the noble struggle of human life—confined, with narrow walls, filled with endless darknesses and the "inextricabilis error" on either side—and at its core, the harsh nature that needed to be overcome.

19. This meaning, from the proudest heroic and purest legislative days of Greece, has always held significance for everyone familiar with her traditions: to the craftsmen's schools, the symbol also represented their craft's nobility and a direct lineage from the divine earthly skill of Dædalus, the builder of the labyrinth and the first sculptor of imagery [Pg 102] pathetic [4-9] with human life and death.

20. One of the most beautiful signs of the power of true Christian-Catholic faith is its ongoing recognition of the brotherhood—and even more, the fatherhood—of the older nations that never saw Christ but were filled with the Spirit of God and followed His unwritten law to the best of their knowledge. The pure charity and humility of this attitude are reflected in all Christian art, depending on its strength and racial purity; but are best fully seen and interpreted by the three great Christian-Heathen poets, Dante, Douglas of Dunkeld, [4-10] and George Chapman. The prayer with which the latter concludes his life's work is, to the best of my knowledge, the most perfect and profound expression of Natural Religion found in literature; and if you can, please pray it here—standing in the spot where the builder once chronicled the history of the Parthenon of Christianity.

21. "I pray to You, Lord, the Father, and the Guide of our reason, that we remember the greatness with which You have graced us; and that You would always be at our right and left, [4-11] in the workings of our own wills: that we may be freed from the corruption of the body and the desires of the animal, and that we may conquer and govern them; and use them, as it is right for humans to do, as tools. And then, may You be in fellowship with us for the careful correction of our reasoning, and for its union through the light of truth with what truly exists. [Pg 103] "And finally, I ask You, the Savior, to completely remove the darkness from the eyes of our souls, so that we may clearly recognize who should be regarded as God, and who as mortal. Amen." [4-12]

22. After saying this prayer, or at least reading it with genuine intent (if you can’t do that, there’s no hope for you to enjoy any significant human creations, whether it’s poetry, painting, or sculpture), we can walk a bit further west down the nave. There, in the center, just a few yards from the end, you’ll find two flat stones (the custodian will point them out to you), one set a bit further back than the other. These stones cover the graves of the two great bishops, whose life force contributed, along with the builder's, to create this temple. Their actual graves haven’t been disturbed; however, the tombs built over them, which have been moved once or twice, are now positioned on your right and left as you look back toward the apse, beneath the third arch between the nave and the aisles.

23. Both are made of bronze, cast in one go—and with exceptional, in some ways unmatched, skill in the art of casting.

"Masterpieces of cast iron—completely melted down in one go and beautifully done." [4-13] There are only two other tombs like this left in France, those of the children of St. Louis. All the others of their kind—and there were many in every major cathedral in France—were first removed from their graves to erase the memory of France's dead; and then melted down into coins to buy gunpowder and absinthe for the living—by the Progressive Mind of Civilization in its early rush of enthusiasm and new ideas, from 1789 to 1800.

The children's tombs, one on each side of the altar of St. Denis, are much smaller than these, though crafted more beautifully. These beside you are the only two Bronze tombs of her Men of the great ages, still remaining in France!

24. These are the burial sites of the leaders of her community, who created the first flawless temple for her God. Bishop Everard's tomb is on your right and has this inscription engraved around its edge: [4-14]—

English, at its best during the Elizabethan era, is a more noble language than Latin ever was; its strength lies in its color and tone, not in what could be called a metallic or crystal-clear precision. And it’s impossible to translate the last line of this inscription with as few English words. First, note that the Bishop's friends and enemies are referred to in terms of words, not actions; because the inflated, mocking, or flattering words of people are truly what the humble must learn to endure and embrace—it's the actions that kings and knights are meant to handle. However, Bishops often took action themselves; in actual battles, they were allowed to strike with a mace, but not with a sword or lance—meaning they were not to "shed blood"! It was thought that a person could always recover from a blow from a mace; (which, of course, would largely depend on the Bishop’s intent behind it). The Battle of Bouvines, one of the most significant battles in medieval history, was won against the English and also against German forces, under their Emperor Otho, by two French bishops (Senlis and Bayeux)—who both led the French King’s forces and directed its charges. Our Earl of Salisbury surrendered directly to the Bishop of Bayeux.

25. Note further that one of the deadliest and most toxic aspects of harmful words, or more accurately, blasphemy, has developed in modern times through the impact of what is sometimes innocently meant and enjoyed as 'slang.' There are two types of slang at its core: one is 'Thieves' Latin'—the unique language of criminals used for secrecy; the other might be termed Louts' Latin!—the demeaning or insulting words created by unscrupulous individuals to bring good things, in their own views, down to their level or below it. The most damaging aspect of this kind of blasphemy is that it often makes it impossible to use straightforward language without a degrading or ridiculous connotation: thus I could not conclude my translation of this epitaph, as the old Latin scholar could, with the precisely accurate phrase "to the proud, a file"—due to the misuse of the word in lower English, while still smartly retaining the thirteenth-century concept. However, the exact meaning of the symbol here refers to the work of jewelers, filing down facets. A proud person is often also a precious one: and may shine brighter on the surface, revealing the purity of their inner self, through good filing.

26. Overall, the main responsibility of a Bishop is summed up in these six Latin lines,—au mieux mieux—starting with his pastoral role—Feed my sheep—qui pavit populum. And rest assured, good reader, these ages could never have explained what a Bishop's, or anyone else's, duty was unless each person in their role had both done it well—and witnessed it being done well. The tomb of Bishop Geoffroy is on your left, and its inscription is:

And now at last—this respect acknowledged and thanks given—we will turn away from these tombs and exit through one of the western doors—allowing us to gradually see the enormity of the three porches and the ideas etched into them.

27. I won't tell you today about the disgrace or change that has come upon them—except for the 'immeasurable' loss of the great old [Pg 107] foundation steps, wide and open from side to side for everyone who came; unbordered, unbroken, warmed all day by the setting sun, lit only by the moon and stars at night; steep and numerous as they went down the hillside—gradually fewer, finally wide and sparse as they reached the level—and worn smooth by the feet of travelers, for six hundred years. I saw them once, and twice—such things can never be seen again.

Not much of the original masonry is left on the west front itself, but in the porches, nearly everything remains—except for the actual exterior facing, with its rose molding, of which only a few flowers have survived here and there. [4-15] However, the sculpture has been carefully and respectfully maintained and restored in its place—some pedestals or niches have been restored with clay; others that you see white and rough are completely re-carved. Still, the overall impression you get from the whole work reflects what the builder intended; and I will explain the order of its theology without further remarks on its deterioration.

28. When you look at any cathedral, it's a good idea to figure out your directions right from the start. Remember that as you enter, you're facing and moving east. If the cathedral has three entrance porches, the one on your left is the northern entrance and the one on your right is the southern. In all my future writings on architecture, I will stick to the straightforward rule of always calling the door of the north transept the north door, and the same for the west front, referring to the northern door, and so on for their counterparts. This will ultimately save a lot of printing and reduce confusion because a Gothic cathedral typically has these five main entrances, which can be easily identified if you pay attention, labeled as the Central door (or porch), the Northern door, the Southern door, the North door, and the South door.

But when we talk about the terms right and left, we should always think of them as if we're going out of the cathedral or walking down the main aisle—the entire north side and aisles of the building being its right side, and the south side being its left. These terms are used correctly and officially only when they refer to either the image of Christ in the apse or on the rood, or to the central statue, whether it’s of Christ, the Virgin, or a saint, at the west front. At Amiens, this central statue, on the 'trumeau' or supporting and dividing pillar of the central porch, is of Christ Immanuel—God with us. On His right and left, covering the entire walls of the central porch, are the apostles and the four greater prophets. The twelve minor prophets are lined up on the front, three on each of its large piers. [4-16]

The northern porch is dedicated to St. Firmin, the first Christian missionary to Amiens.

The southern porch, dedicated to the Virgin.

But both of these are seen as set back behind the strong foundation of Christ and the Prophets; and their small alcoves partly hide their sculptures until you step inside. What you need to focus on first, and read, is the scripture of the large central porch and the façade itself.

29. In the center of the front, you have the image of Christ Himself receiving you: "I am the Way, the truth, and the life." The arrangement of the attendant figures can be best understood by visualizing them placed on Christ's right and left sides. This reflects the order the builder follows in the Scripture history on the façade, which is meant to be read from left to right—meaning from Christ's left to His right, as He sees it. Therefore, according to the layout of the grand statues: first, in the central porch, there are six apostles on Christ's right and six on His left. On His left, closest to Him, is Peter; then in order, Andrew, James, John, Matthew, and Simon. On His right, closest to Him, is Paul; followed by James the Bishop, Philip, Bartholomew, Thomas, and Jude. These opposing rows of the Apostles occupy what could be called [Pg 109] the apse or curved bay of the porch, creating a nearly semicircular arrangement that is clearly visible as we approach. However, on the sides of the porch, outside the lines of the apostles and not easily seen until we enter the porch, are the four major prophets. On Christ's left are Isaiah and Jeremiah, while on His right are Ezekiel and Daniel.

30. Then, in front, along the entire façade—read from Christ's left to His right—are the twelve minor prophets displayed in a series, three on each of the four pillars of the temple, starting at the south corner with Hosea and finishing with Malachi.

As you face the front, the statues in the smaller porches are either hidden in their narrow alcoves or pushed back behind each other so they can't be seen. The whole structure is essentially built on the foundation of the Apostles and Prophets, with Jesus Christ as the cornerstone. Literally that; because the recessed Porch is a deep 'angulus,' and its central pillar is the 'Head of the Corner.'

Built on the foundation of the Apostles and Prophets, meaning the Prophets who predicted Christ and the Apostles who proclaimed Him. Even though Moses was an Apostle of God, he isn't here—just as Elijah was a Prophet of God, and he isn't here either. The voice of the whole structure reflects the voice from Heaven at the Transfiguration, saying, "This is my beloved Son, listen to Him."

31. There is still another and even greater prophet who, at first glance, seems to be absent. Will the people walk through the temple gates, singing "Hosanna to the Son of David"; and not see any representation of His father?—Christ Himself declares, "I am the root and the offspring of David"; and yet the Root has no sign nearby of its Earth?

Not at all. David and his Son are together. David is the foundation of Christ.

32. We're going to start our look at the front of the Temple with its impressive pedestal stone. The statue of David is about two-thirds the size of a real person, positioned in the niche in front of the pedestal. He holds his [Pg 110] scepter in his right hand and a scroll in his left. King and Prophet, representing all that is divinely right in action, claim, and declaration, kinghood forever.

The pedestal in front of this statue, which is the Western sculpture, is square. On two sides, there are two flowers in vases: a lily on the north side and a rose on the south side. The whole monolith is one of the most impressive pieces of Christian sculpture in the world.

Above this pedestal is a smaller one, featuring a tendril of vine in front, which completes the floral symbolism of the entire piece. The plant I refer to as a lily isn’t the Fleur de Lys or the Madonna's, but rather an idealized version with bells like the crown Imperial (Shakespeare's type of 'lilies of all kinds'), representing the mode of growth of the lily of the valley, which could not be sculpted so large in its literal form without looking monstrous. This is perfectly represented in this tablet—as it fulfills, along with the rose and vine, its companions, the triple saying of Christ: "I am the Rose of Sharon, and the Lily of the Valley." "I am the true Vine."

33. On the side of the upper stone are supporters of a different kind. Supporters—not captives or victims; the Cockatrice and Adder. Representing the most active evil principles of the earth, in their utmost malice; yet, they serve as Pedestals of Christ, and even in their deadly existence, they fulfill His final will.

Both creatures are depicted accurately in the medieval traditional form: the cockatrice is half dragon and half rooster, while the deaf adder lays one ear against the ground and uses her tail to block the other.

The first represents the betrayal of Pride. The cockatrice—king serpent or highest serpent—claiming that he is God, and will be God.

The second, the betrayal of Death. The adder (lower or underground snake) saying that he is mud, and will be mud.

34. Finally, and most importantly, set at the feet of the statue of Christ [Pg 111] Himself, are the lion and dragon; symbols of Physical sin, or Human sin, as opposed to the Spiritual and Intellectual sin of Pride, which is how the angels also fell.

To want to rule instead of serve—the sin of the Cockatrice, or to choose silence over the call of Life—the sin of the Adder—these temptations are available to all beings in the universe. But the uniquely Human sins, like anger and lust, are the roots of our ongoing sorrow. Christ, in His own humanity, overcame these; and He continues to overcome through His followers. That’s why His foot is on the heads of these sins, and the prophecy, "Inculcabis super Leonem et Aspidem," is always recognized as fulfilled in Him and in all His true followers, depending on their level of authority and the truth of their strength.

35. In this mystical sense, Alexander III used these words while restoring peace to Italy and forgiving her deadliest enemy beneath the porch of St. Mark's. [4-17] However, the meaning of every action, like every work of art from the Christian ages, lost for three hundred years now, can only be understood in our own time through a reversed perspective, influenced by the values we've adopted; elevating Pride and Greed as the virtues by which everything operates and exists—following our own desires as our only guides to salvation, and showcasing our own shame as the sole material outcomes of our actions and words.

36. I won't go into detail about the statue of Christ here, since no sculpture can truly fulfill the hopes of anyone who loves and trusts in Him; however, at the time, it represented an unprecedented level of sculpted tenderness and became widely known as the "Beau Dieu d'Amiens." [4-18] It's important to understand that it was merely a symbol of the Heavenly Presence, just as the writhing worms below were only symbols of the demonic. It wasn't an idol in the way we think of the term—just a letter or sign of the Living [Pg 112] Spirit—yet every worshipper saw it as a representation of their meeting with Him at the temple gate: the Word of Life, the King of Glory, and the Lord of Hosts.

"Dominus Virtutum," "Lord of Virtues," [4-19] is the best single interpretation of the concept that a well-educated student in the thirteenth century would have understood from the words of the twenty-fourth Psalm.

37. Beneath the feet of His apostles, in the quatrefoil medallions of the foundation, are the virtues that each Apostle taught or demonstrated in their lives—sometimes tested and struggling with the very strengths of the character they later developed. For example, St. Peter, who denied out of fear, later became the Apostle of courage; and St. John, who, along with his brother, wanted to burn down the unwelcoming village, later became the Apostle of love. With this understanding, you can see that on the porch sides, the apostles stand in opposing ranks, each representing their unique virtues.

Now you can see how these virtues correspond with one another in their opposing ranks. Keep in mind that the left-hand side is always first, and notice how the left-hand virtues transition to the right hand:—

38. Also note that the Apostles are all calm, almost all with books, some with crosses, but all with the same message, [Pg 113]

—"Peace be upon this house. And if the Son of Peace is there," etc. [4-20]

But the Prophets—all searching, longing, struggling, questioning, or praying, except for Daniel. The most troubled is Isaiah; spiritually torn apart. There’s no account of his martyrdom below, but he sees the Lord in His temple and still feels he has unclean lips. Jeremiah also bears his burden—but with more peace.

39. Now, I’ll clearly present the arrangement of the statues along the entire front, along with the themes of the quatrefoils beneath each statue, labeling the upper quatrefoil as A and the lower as B. The six prophets—Amos, Obadiah, Micah, Nahum, Zephaniah, and Haggai—positioned at the corners of the porches, each have four quatrefoils: the upper ones are marked A and C, and the lower ones are B and D.

Beginning on the left side of the central porch and reading outward, you have—

41. Now that I’ve briefly laid out the order of the statues and their quatrefoils for you—(just a heads up, if you’re in a hurry to catch a train, it might be helpful to know that if you walk from the east end of the cathedral down the street to the south, Rue St. Denis, it’s the quickest way to the station)—I’ll start again with St. Peter and explain the sculptures in the quatrefoils a bit more in depth. Keeping the same numbers to identify the statues, St. Peter's quatrefoils will be 1 A and 1 B, and Malachi's will be 28 A and 28 B.

1, B. Fearfulness, a man scared by an animal jumping out
of the bushes, while a bird sings nearby. The coward lacks
the heart of a thrush.
[Pg 118]

2, A. Patience, holding a shield with a bull on it (never backing
down). __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__

2, B. Rage, a woman stabbing a man with a sword. Anger
is basically a female flaw—a real man,
might be driven to rage or madness by indignation,
(think of the Black Prince at Limoges,) but not by
anger. It often feels completely brutal—"Incensed with __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__."
Indignant, Satan stood, unafraid—" but in that last
The word holds the key difference; there's just as much fear in Anger.
as there is in Hatred.

3, A. Kindness, carrying a shield with a lamb.

3, BDisrespect, once more a woman, kicking her cup-bearer.
The ultimate example of French rudeness
is found in the feminine expressions of the Cancan.
Check out the popular designs in stores around Paris.

4, A❤️; the Divine, not human love: "I in them, and
You in me." Her shield features a tree with many
branches grafted onto its severed trunk: "Back then
the Messiah will be cut off, but not for His own sake.

4, B. Discord, a husband and wife arguing. She has
dropped her spindle (Amiens wool production, see more details __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__)
on—9, A.)

5, A. Compliance, has a shield with a camel. In reality, he is the most
disobedient and bad-tempered of all useful animals—yet
He dedicates his life to the hardest work. I don't
know how much the northern sculptor understood his
character; however, I think he represents carrying burdens,
without joy or empathy, unlike
[Pg 119] the horse, and unable to defend itself, like the
ox does. His bite is severe enough (check Mr. Palgrave's __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__).
description of him), but it's probably not well-known at
Amiens, even by the Crusaders, who would always choose
to ride their own war horses, or not ride at all.

5, BUprising, a man snapping his fingers at his Bishop.
(Like Henry the Eighth with the Pope—and the modern
French and English working-class people at any priests.)

6, APersistence, the highest spiritual expression of the virtue
often referred to as 'Fortitude.' Generally, it signifies
to conquer or fight a lion; here, embracing one, and holding on
her crown. "Hold on to what you have, so that no one
takes your crown.

6, BAtheism, leaving his shoes at the church door. The nonbeliever
is always shown in the twelfth and thirteenth
century manuscripts as barefoot—the Christian having "his
"feet equipped with the readiness of the Gospel of Peace."
How beautiful are your feet in those shoes, O
"Princess!"

7, A. Faith, holding a cup with a cross above it, her accepted
symbol across ancient Europe. It remains a lasting
one, because, despite all the differences among Churches, the
words, "Unless you eat the flesh of the Son of Man and
"drink His blood, you have no life in you," stay in
their mystery, understood only by those who comprehend
the sacredness of food, in every time and place,
and the principles of life and spirit, relying on its acceptance,
refusal and distribution.

7, B Worshipping idols, bowing down to a monster. The opposite of
Faith—not a lack of faith. Idolatry is placing faith in the
the wrong thing, and it's totally different from Faith in No thing
(6, B), the "Dixit Insipiens." Very intelligent individuals can be
idol worshippers, but they cannot be non-believers.

8, A. Hope, with the Gonfalon Standard and distant crown; as
compared to the unchanging crown of Fortitude (6, A).
The Gonfalon (Gund, war, drive, standard, according
to Poitevin's dictionary), is the sharp flag of moving forward
[Pg 120] battle; it is fundamentally sacred; therefore the consistent
title "Gonfaloniere" for the battle standard-bearers of
the Italian republics.

Hope says so,
because she always moves forward towards her
goal, or at least enjoys seeing it get closer.
Faith and Resilience
Wait, like St. John in prison, but without any wrongdoing.
Hope is, however,
associated with St. James, because
of the 7th
and the 8th verses of his last chapter, concluding
"Stay strong, because the Lord is coming."
near." It's him
who asks Dante about the
nature of Hope. 'Par.,' c. xxv., and refer to Cary's notes.

8, B. Hopelessness, stabbing himself. Suicide wasn't seen as heroic
or sentimental in the 13th century; and no Gothic
Morgue built next to Somme.

9, A. Philanthropy, holding a shield with a woolly ram and giving a
coat to a naked beggar. The old wool industry
in Amiens came up with this idea—
to provide clothes for the poor first, then for the rich.
No discussion about the negative effects.
of unregulated giving back then.

9, BGreed, with hoard and cash. The current, similar
English and Amienois understanding of Divine fulfillment
of the wool sector.

10, A. Celibacy, shield with the Phoenix. [4-24]

10, B. Desire, an overly intense kiss.

11, A. Knowledge: a shield with what I believe is an edible root; this means
self-control is the foundation of wisdom.

[Pg 121]

11, BFolly, the common type used in all early Psalters, of
a glutton, holding a club. Both this vice and
virtue represents earthly wisdom and foolishness, complementing
the spiritual wisdom and foolishness discovered under St.
Matthew. Self-control, which complements Obedience,
and Greed, along with the violence of Atheism.

12, A. Humility, shield with dove.

12, B. Pride, falling off his horse.

42. All these quatrefoils are more symbolic than representative; and, since their purpose was mostly fulfilled if their meaning was understood, they were assigned to a less skilled worker than the one who carved the subsequent series under the Prophets. Most of these images depict a historical event or a scene mentioned by the prophet as a real vision; and they were generally created by the most skilled artisans available to the architect.

With this interpretation, I have again mentioned the name of the prophet whose life or prophecy they represent.

13, A. "I saw the Lord sitting on a throne" (vi. I).
The vision of the throne "high and lifted up"
between angels.

13, B. "Look, this has touched your lips" (vi. 7).
The Angel is standing
in front of the prophet, holding,
or instead held the coal with tongs that
have been carefully crafted, but are now
broken, leaving just a
fragment in his hand.

14, A. The burial of the belt (xiii. 4, 5).
The prophet is digging.
by the banks of the Euphrates,
indicated vertically
twisting furrows down the road
center of the tablet. Note that the translation should be
"hole in the ground,"
not "rock."

14, B. The breaking of the yoke (xxviii. 10).
From the prophet Jeremiah's neck; it's shown here as a compounded and strengthened link.

15, A. Wheel within wheel (i. 16).
The prophet is sitting.
In front of him are two wheels of
the same size, one inside the other.

15, B. "Son of man, direct your gaze towards Jerusalem" (xxi. 2).
The prophet standing at the entrance of Jerusalem.

16, A. "He has shut the lions' mouths" (vi. 22).
Daniel is holding a book, and the lions are represented in a heraldic style.
supporters. The topic is presented with more
animation later in the series (24, B).

16, B. "At that same hour, fingers appeared from a man's hand" (v. 5).

43. The next topic starts the series of the minor prophets.

17, A. "So I bought her for fifteen pieces of silver and
"a homer of barley" (iii. 2).
The prophet poured the grain and the silver into
[Pg 123] the woman's lap, "cherished by her friend." The
carved coins are each decorated with the cross, and I
believe, the engraving on the French contemporary coin.

17, B. "I will be there for you too" (iii. 3).
He puts a ring on her finger.

18, A. The sun and moon lightless (ii. 10).
The sun and moon are like two small, flat discs in the sky.
the outer frame.

18, B. The gnarled fig tree and useless vine (i. 7).
Notice the ongoing focus on the decline of plants.
as a divine punishment, 19 D.

To the front line.

19, A. "The Lord will call out from Zion" (i. 2).
Christ appears with a halo in the shape of a cross.

19, B. "The homes of the shepherds will grieve" (i. 2).
Amos with the shepherd's crook or staff,
and a woven bottle in front of his tent. (Architecture
in right-hand design restored.)

Inside the Porch.

19, C. The Lord with the mason's line (vii. 8).
Christ, now and always,
with a cross halo,
holds a big trowel in His hand,
which He puts on top
of a partially constructed wall. It seems
to be a wrapped line
around the grip.

19, D.
The place where it didn't rain (iv. 7).
Amos is gathering the leaves from the vine that doesn't bear fruit,
to feed the sheep,
who can't find any grass. It's one of the
most impressive sculptures.

Indoors Porch.

20, A. "I hid them in a cave" (1 Kings xviii. 13).
Three prophets at the entrance of a well, to whom
Obadiah brings bread.

[Pg 124]

20, B. "He fell on his face" (xviii. 7).
He kneels before Elijah, who is wearing his rough cloak.

Move to the front.

20, C. The leader of fifty.
Elijah (?) is talking to a guy with a weapon by a tree.

20, D. The Messenger.
A messenger kneeling in front of a king. I can't
Make sense of these two scenes (20, C and 20, D).
The first might represent the discussion of Elijah.
with the captains (2 Kings 1:2), and the second one,
the return of the messengers (2 Kings 1:5).

21, A. Escaped from the ocean.

21, B. Under the gourd. A small grasshopper-like creature
chewing on the gourd stem. I’d really like to know
which insects attack the Amiens gourds. This could
could be a study in entomology, for all we know.

Move to the front.

22, A. The Tower of the Flock (iv. 8).
The tower is covered in clouds, with God above it.

22, B. Each will rest, and "no one shall make them afraid" (iv. 4).
A man and his wife "under his vine and fig tree."

Indoor Porch.

22, C. "Swords into ploughshares" (iv. 3).
Yet, two hundred years after these medallions
were created, sword production had transformed into a
common industry in Amiens!
That didn't help her at all.

22, D. "Spears into pruning hooks" (iv. 3). [Pg 125]

Indoor Porch.

23, A. "No one shall look back" (ii. 8).

23, B. The Burden of Nineveh (i. I). [4-26]

To the front.

23, C. "Your princes and your leaders" (iii. 17).
23, A, B, and C are all difficult to interpret with certainty. The
the prophet in A is pointing down to a small hill, which
Père Rozé claims it’s filled with grasshoppers. I can only repeat
what he says about them.

23, D. "Untimely figs" (iii. 12).
Three people under a fig tree are catching its falling fruit.
fruit in their mouths.

24, A. "I will wait to see what he has to say to me" (ii. 1).
The prophet is writing on his tablet as Christ speaks the words.

24, B. The ministry to Daniel.
The traditional visit to Daniel. An angel brings
Habakkuk by the hair. The prophet
is holding a loaf of bread in each hand. They break
through the roof of the cave. Daniel is petting one
young lion lying on its back; the head of another is casually resting
under his arm. Another is chewing
on bones at the bottom of the cave.

[Pg 126]

Move to the front.

25, A. The Lord strikes Ethiopia (ii. 12).
Christ striking a city with a sword. Note that all __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__
Violent actions are shown in these bas-reliefs in a weak or silly way.
The calm ones are always right.

25, B. The creatures in Nineveh (ii. 15).
Very impressive. All
types of crawling creatures among
the crumbling walls, emerging from their
cracks and gaps. A monkey sitting down,
turning into a demon,
reverses the Darwinian theory.

Porch area.

25, C. The Lord visits Jerusalem (i. 12).
Christ walking through the streets of Jerusalem,
with a lantern in each hand.

25, D. The Hedgehog and Bittern [4-27] (ii. 14).
With a singing bird in a cage by the window.

Inside the Porch.

26, A. The houses of the princes, decorated with paneling (i. 4).
A perfectly built house made of dark square stones
strong, with what appears to be a grating (of a prison?) in front of the foundation.

26, B. The sky is dry and lacks dew (i. 10).
The sky looks like a solid surface, with stars and the sun,
and the moon visible on its surface.

Forward.

26, C. The Lord's temple is in ruins (i. 4).
The destruction of the temple, "not one stone left on __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__"
another, dramatically chaotic. Square stones again. Check
the text (i. 6).

[Pg 127]

26, D. "This is what the Lord of Hosts says" (i. 7).
Christ pointing up to His destroyed temple.

27, A. The raising of Iniquity (v. 6 to 9).
Evil in the container.

27, B. "The angel that spoke to me" (iv. 1).
The prophet was reclining, a magnificent winged
angel floating out of the clouds.

28, A. "You have wounded the Lord" (ii. 17).
The clergy are
piercing Christ with a
sharp spear, with its tip sticking out from His back.

28, B. "This commandment is for you" (ii. 1).
In these sections,
the least experienced usually introduces
the one above it, acting as an example.
It's likely
chapter 1, verse 6,
that is intended to be spoken here by
the seated figure of Christ, speaking to the distressed priests.

44. This bas-relief marks the end of the series of sculptures illustrating Apostolic and Prophetic teachings, which is what I refer to as the "Bible" of Amiens. However, the two side porches feature additional subjects that are essential for the complete pastoral and traditional teaching meant for the people of that time.

The Northern Porch, dedicated to her first missionary St. Firmin, has his statue on the central pier; above, on the flat surface behind the arch, is the story of how his body was found; on the sides of the porch are companion saints and angels in this order:— [Pg 128]

MAIN STATUE.

St. Firmin.

South (left) side.

North (right) side.

45. Among these saints, aside from St. Firmin and St. Honoré, whom I’ve already mentioned, [4-28] St. Geoffroy feels more real to us than the others; he was born in the year of the Battle of Hastings, in Molincourt, Soissonais, and served as the Bishop of Amiens from 1104 to 1150. He lived a completely simple, pure, and righteous life: one of the strictest ascetics, but without being gloomy—always gentle and merciful. Many miracles are attributed to him, all reflecting a life that was primarily miraculous through its justice and peace. After being consecrated in Rheims, and accompanied by other bishops and nobles to his diocese, he dismounted from his horse at St. Acheul, the site of St. Firmin's first tomb, and walked barefoot to his cathedral along the now damaged causeway. On another occasion, he walked barefoot from Amiens to Picquigny to request the freedom of Chatelain Adam from the Vidame of Amiens. He defended the citizens' rights, with the support of Louis le Gros, against the Count of Amiens, defeated him, and destroyed his castle; however, since the people didn’t fully follow his guidance in their lives, he blamed his own weakness instead of theirs and retreated to the Grande Chartreuse, believing himself unworthy to be their bishop. When questioned by the Carthusian superior about his reasons for retiring, and whether he had ever sold church offices, the Bishop replied, "My father, my hands are free of simony, but I have allowed myself to be swayed by praise a thousand times."

46. St. Firmin the Confessor was the son of the Roman senator who welcomed St. Firmin himself. He preserved the martyr's tomb in his father's garden and eventually built a church over it, dedicated to our Lady of Martyrs, which became the first episcopal seat of Amiens, at St. Acheul, mentioned earlier. St. Ulpha was a girl from Amiens who lived in a chalk cave above the marshes of the Somme;—if Mr. Murray ever creates a humorous guide to Amiens, the clever author will surely highlight the amusing tale of her being greatly distracted during her prayers by the frogs and praying for their silence. You are now, of course, far above such trivial concerns and know that God cannot, or will not, even silence a frog for you. Therefore, remember that just as He allows the liar, blasphemer, and betrayer to speak, you must try to shut your own ears to their voices as best as you can.

Of her name, St. Wolf—or Guelph—check out Miss Yonge's first names again. Our Wolf's stone tower, Ulverstone, and Kirk of Ulpha are, I think, unaware of any Picard relatives.

47. The other saints in this area are similarly local, almost like personal friends of the Amienois; and below them, the quatrefoils depict the delightful cycle of the sacred and protected year—the zodiac signs above and the labors of the months below; hardly different from the usual representations of them—except for May: see below. The Libra is also somewhat unique with the female [Pg 130] figure holding the scales; the lion looks particularly friendly—and the 'reaping' is one of the most beautiful figures in the entire series of sculptures; several others are notably delicate and intricately crafted. In Mr. Kaltenbacher's photographs, as I have arranged them, the bas-reliefs can be examined almost as well as in the porch itself. Their order is as follows, starting with December in the left-hand inner corner of the porch:—

[Pg 131]

48. And now, finally, if you're interested in seeing it, let's head into the Madonna's porch—just remember, if you decide to join us, good Protestant female reader—come with an open mind: and please keep in mind, if you have any knowledge of history, that (or if you can't recall—know this for certain): that neither worship of the Madonna nor any form of worship of women, whether they're alive or dead, has ever harmed anyone,—but that worship of Money, worship of Hairstyles, worship of Fancy Hats, worship of Material Wealth, worship of Cooking Pots, and worship of Pipes has caused, and continues to cause, significant harm,—and that any of these forms of worship, and all of them together, are a million times more offensive to the God of Heaven and Earth and the Stars, than all the most absurd and loving misunderstandings ever made by any generations of His innocent children regarding what the Virgin mother could, would, or might do, or feel for them.

49. And next, please notice this important historical fact about the three types of Madonnas.

There is first the Madonna Dolorosa; the Byzantine style, and Cimabue's. It is the most noble of all and the earliest in clear popular influence. [4-29]

Secondly. The Madone Reine, who is essentially the Frank and Norman one; crowned, calm, and full of power and gentleness. She is the one represented in this porch.

[Pg 132]

Thirdly, the Madone Nourrice, who represents the Raphael-like and generally late, decadent style. She can be seen here as a typical French figure in the south transept porch, as mentioned earlier. An excellent comparison has been made by M. Viollet le Duc (the article 'Vierge' in his dictionary is well worth a close read) between this statue of the Queen-Madonna from the southern porch and the Nurse-Madonna from the transept. I might be able to get a photograph taken of his two drawings next to each other; however, if I succeed, I want the reader to note that he has slightly flattered the Queen and somewhat vulgarized the Nurse, which isn’t fair. The statue in this porch is in a thirteenth-century style and is really impressive; however, there's no reason to make a big deal out of it—the earlier Byzantine types are much grander.

50. The story of the Madonna, in its key events, is depicted in the series of statues around the porch and in the quatrefoils below—some of which relate to a legend about the Magi that I haven't been able to reference, so I'm not certain about their interpretation.

The large statues are on the left, facing outward as usual.

On the right side, reading outward,

51. I'm not entirely sure I correctly understand the introduction of these last two statues, but I think the designer's idea was that Queen Mary essentially visited Herod when she sent, or had someone send for, the Magi to inform him of her presence in Bethlehem. The contrast between Solomon's welcoming of the Queen of Sheba and Herod's rejection of the Madonna, forcing her into Egypt, is highlighted throughout this side of the porch, along with the different consequences for the two Kings and the world. [Pg 133]

The quatrefoils under the large statues are as follows:

29. Under Gabriel—
A. Daniel saw the stone that was hewn without human intervention.
b. Moses and the burning bush.

30. Under Virgin Annunciate—
A. Gideon and the dew on the fleece.
B. Moses held the written law, stepping back; Aaron was in charge,
points to his growing rod.

31. Under Virgin Visitant—
A. The message to Zacharias: "Don't be afraid, because your
"Your prayer has been heard."
B. Joseph's dream: "Don't be afraid to take
"Mary as your wife?"

32. Under St. Elizabeth—
A. The silence of Zacharias: "They understood that he
"had seen a vision in the temple."
B. "None of your relatives goes by this
"His name is John," he wrote.

33. Under Virgin in Presentation—
Trip to Egypt.
Christ and the Scholars.

34. Under St. Simeon—
A. The fall of the idols in Egypt.
B. The trip back to Nazareth.

These two last quatrefoils connect the beautiful C and D of Amos.

Then on the other side, beneath the Queen of Sheba, connecting the A and B of Obadiah—

40.   A. Solomon hosts the Queen of Sheba. The Grace cup.
B. Solomon says to the Queen of Sheba, "God is greater."

39. Under Solomon—
A. Solomon seated on his judgment throne.
B. Solomon praying at the entrance of the temple.

[Pg 134]

38. Under Herod—
Massacre of Innocents.
B. Herod commands the burning of the ship of the Kings.

37. Under the third King—
Herod questions the Kings.
Ship fire.

36. Under the second King—
A. Worship in Bethlehem? —unknown.
B. The journey of the Kings.