Read Ebook: A Popular History of France from the Earliest Times Volume 4 by Guizot Fran Ois Neuville Alphonse Marie De Illustrator Black Robert Translator

Font size: 10 px 15 px 20 px 25 px 30 px 35 px

Background color: BlackWhiteGrayLight GrayDark GrayDim Gray

Text color: BlackWhiteGrayLight GrayDark GrayDim Gray

Apply/Save settings

Ebook has 195 lines and 167357 words, and 4 pages

When, two years afterwards, on the 1st of January, 1515, he ascended the throne before he had attained his one and twentieth year, it was a brilliant and brave but spoiled child that became king. He had been under the governance of Artus Gouffier, Sire de Boisy, a nobleman of Poitou, who had exerted himself to make his royal pupil a loyal knight, well trained in the moral code and all the graces of knighthood, but without drawing his attention to more serious studies or preparing him for the task of government. The young Francis d'Angouleme lived and was moulded under the influence of two women, his mother, Louise of Savoy, and his eldest sister, Marguerite, who both of them loved and adored him with passionate idolatry. It has just been shown in what terms Louise of Savoy, in her daily collection of private memoranda, used to speak to herself of her son, "My king, my lord, my Caesar, and my son!" She was proud, ambitious, audacious, or pliant at need, able and steadfast in mind, violent and dissolute in her habits, greedy of pleasure and of money as well as of power, so that she gave her son neither moral principles nor a moral example: for him the supreme kingship, for herself the rank, influence, and wealth of a queen-mother, and, for both, greatness that might subserve the gratification of their passions--this was all her dream and all her aim as a mother. Of quite another sort were the character and sentiments of Marguerite de Valois. She was born on the 11th of April, 1492, and was, therefore, only two years older than her brother Francis; but her more delicate nature was sooner and more richly cultivated and developed. She was brought up with strictness by a most excellent and most venerable dame, in whom all the virtues, at rivalry one with another, existed together. As she was discovered to have rare intellectual gifts and a very keen relish for learning, she was provided with every kind of preceptors, who made her proficient in profane letters, as they were then called. Marguerite learned Latin, Greek, philosophy, and especially theology. "At fifteen years of age," says a contemporary, "the spirit of God began to manifest itself in her eyes, in her face, in her walk, in her speech, and. generally in all her actions." "She had a heart," says Brantome, "mighty devoted to God, and she loved mightily to compose spiritual songs. . . . She also devoted herself to letters in her young days, and continued them as long as she lived, loving and conversing with, in the time of her greatness, the most learned folks of her brother's kingdom, who honored her so that they called her their Maecenas." Learning, however, was far from absorbing the whole of this young soul. "She," says a contemporary, "had an agreeable voice of touching tone, which roused the tender inclinations that there are in the heart." Tenderness, a passionate tenderness, very early assumed the chief place in Marguerite's soul, and the first object of it was her brother Francis. When mother, son, and sister were spoken of, they were called a Trinity, and to this Marguerite herself bore witness when she said, with charming modesty,--

"Such boon is mine, to feel the amity That God hath putten in our trinity, Wherein to make a third, I, all unfitted To be that number's shadow, am admitted."

It was the month of August; the snow was diminishing and melting away among the Alps; and the king, with the main body of the army, joined at Embrun the Constable de Bourbon, who commanded the advance-guard. But the two passes of Mount Cenis and Mount Ginevra were strongly guarded by the Swiss, and others were sought for a little more to the south. A shepherd, a chamois-hunter, pointed out one whereby, he said, the mountains might be crossed, and a descent made upon the plains of the marquisate of Saluzzo. The young constable went in person to examine the spots pointed out by the shepherd; and, the statement having been verified, it did not seem impossible to get the whole army over, even the heavy artillery; and they essayed this unknown road. At several points, abysses had to be filled up, temporary bridges built, and enormous rocks pierced; the men-at-arms marched on foot, with great difficulty dragging their horses; with still greater difficulty the infantry hauled the cannon over holes incompletely stopped and fragments of yawning rock. Captains and soldiers set to work together; no labor seems too hard to eager hope; and in five days the mountain was overcome, and the army caught sight of the plain where the enemy might be encountered. A small body of four hundred men-at-arms, led by Marshal de Chabannes, were the first to descend into it; and among them was Bayard. "Marshal," said he to Chabannes, "we are told that over the Po yonder is Sir Prosper Colonna, with two thousand horse, in a town called Villafranca, apprehending nought and thinking of nought but gaudies. We must wake up his wits a little, and this moment get into the saddle with all our troops, that he be not warned by any." "Sir Bayard," said the marshal, "it is right well said; but how shall we cross the River Po, which is so impetuous and broad?" "Sir," said Bayard, "here is my Lord de Morette's brother, who knows the ford; he shall cross first, and I after him." So they mounted their horses, crossed the Po, and "were soon there, where Sir Prosper Colonna was at table and was dining, as likewise were all his folk." Bayard, who marched first, found the archers on guard in front of the Italian leader's quarters. "Yield you and utter no sound," cried he, "else you are dead men." Some set about defending themselves; the rest ran to warn Colonna, saying, "Up, sir; for, here are the French in a great troop already at this door." "Lads," said Colonna to them, "keep this door a little till we get some armor on to defend ourselves." But whilst the fight was going on at the door Bayard had the windows scaled, and, entering first, cried out, "Where are you, Sir Prosper? Yield you; else you are a dead man." "Sir Frenchman, who is your captain?" asked Colonna. "I am, sir." "Your name, captain?" "Sir, I am one Bayard of France, and here are the Lord of La Palice, and the Lords d'Aubigny and d'Himbercourt, the flower of the captains of France." Colonna surrendered, cursing Fortune, "the mother of all sorrow and affliction, who had taken away his wits, and because he had not been warned of their coming, for he would at least have made his capture a dear one;" and he added, "It seems a thing divinely done; four noble knights at once, with their comrades at their backs, to take one Roman noble!"

On the 13th of September, 1515, about midday, the Constable de Bourbon gave notice to the king, encamped at Melegnano , that the Swiss, sallying in large masses from Milan, at the noisy summons of the bull of Uri and the cow of Unterwalden, were advancing to attack. "The king, who was purposing to sit down to supper, left it on the spot, and went off straight towards the enemy, who were already engaged in skirmishing, which lasted a long while before they were at the great game. The king had great numbers of lanzknechts, the which would fain have done a bold deed in crossing a ditch to go after the Swiss; but these latter let seven or eight ranks cross, and then thrust you them back in such sort that all that had crossed got hurled into the ditch. The said lanzknechts were mighty frightened; and but for the aid of a troop of men-at-arms, amongst the which was the good knight Bayard, who bore down right through the Swiss, there had been a sad disaster there, for it was now night, and night knows no shame. A band of Swiss came passing in front of the king, who charged them gallantly. There was heavy fighting there and much danger to the king's person, for his great buffe was pierced, so as to let in daylight, by the thrust of a pike. It was now so late that they could not see one another; and the Swiss were, for this evening, forced to retire on the one side, and the French on the other. They lodged as they could; but well I trow that none did rest at ease. The King of France put as good a face on matters as the least of all his soldiers did, for he remained all night a-horseback like the rest .

On the morrow at daybreak the Swiss were for beginning again, and they came straight towards the French artillery, from which they had a good peppering. Howbeit, never did men fight better, and the affair lasted three or four good hours. At last they were broken and beaten, and there were left on the field ten or twelve thousand of them. The remainder, in pretty good order along a high road, withdrew to Milan, whither they were pursued sword-in-hand."

The Pragmatic Sanction had three principal objects:--

After the diplomatic stipulations were concluded, the royal meeting was prolonged for sixteen days, which were employed in tourneys, jousts, and all manner of festivals. The personal communication of the two kings was regulated with all the precautions of official mistrust and restraint; and when the King of England went to Ardres to see the Queen of France, the King of France had to go to Guines to see the Queen of England, for the two kings were hostages for one another. "The King of France, who was not a suspicious man," says Fleuranges, "was mighty vexed at there being so little confidence in one another. He got up one morning very early, which is not his habit, took two gentlemen and a page, the first three he could find, mounted his horse, and went to visit the King of England at the castle of Guines. When he came on to the castle-bridge, all the English were mighty astonished. As he rode amongst them, the king gayly called upon them to surrender to him, and asked them the way to the chamber of the king his brother, the which was pointed out to him by the governor of Guines, who said to him, 'Sir, he is not awake.' But King Francis passed on all the same, went up to the said chamber, knocked at the door, awoke the King of England, and walked in.

Never was man more dumbfounded than King Henry, who said to King Francis, 'Brother, you have done me a better turn than ever man did to another, and you show me the great trust I ought to have in you. I yield myself your prisoner from this moment, and I proffer you my parole.' He undid from his neck a collar worth fifteen thousand angels, and begged the King of France to take it and wear it that very day for his prisoner's sake. And, lo, the king, who wished to do him the same turn, had brought with him a bracelet which was worth more than thirty thousand angels, and begged him to wear it for his sake, which thing he did, and the King of France put what had been given him on his neck. Thereupon the King of England was minded to get up, and the King of France said that he should have no other chamber-attendant but himself, and he warmed his shirt and handed it to him when he was up. The King of France made up his mind to go back, notwithstanding that the King of England would have kept him to dinner; but, inasmuch as there was to be jousting after dinner, he mounted his horse and went back to Ardres. He met a many good folk who were coming to meet him, amongst the rest l'Aventureux , who said to him, 'My dear master, you are mad to have done what you have done; I am very glad to see you back here, and devil take him who counselled you.' Whereupon the king said that never a soul had counselled him, and that he knew well that there was not a soul in his kingdom who would have so counselled him; and then he began to tell what he had done at the said Guines, and so returned, conversing, to Ardres, for it was not far."

"Then began the jousts, which lasted a week, and were wondrous fine, both a-foot and a-horseback. After all these pastimes the King of France and the King of England retired to a pavilion, where they drank together. And there the King of England took the King of France by the collar, and said to him, 'Brother, I should like to wrestle with you,' and gave him a feint or two; and the King of France, who is a mighty good wrestler, gave him a turn and threw him on the ground. And the King of England would have had yet another trial; but all that was broken off, and it was time to go to supper. After this they had yet three or four jousts and banquets, and then they took leave of one another , with the greatest possible peace between the princes and princesses. That done, the King of England returned to Guines, and the King of France to France; and it was not without giving great gifts at parting, one to another."

When Maillart, officer of hell, escorted To Montfaucon Semblancay, doomed to die, Which, to your thinking, of the twain supported The better havior? I will make reply: Maillart was like the man to death proceeding; And Semblancay so stout an ancient looked, It seemed, forsooth, as if himself were leading Lieutenant Maillard--to the gallows booked!

This state of things lasted far nearly three weeks. The king remained stationary at Lyons waiting for the constable to join him; and the constable, saying he was ready to set out and going so far as to actually begin his march, was doing his three leagues a day by litter, being always worse one day than he was the day before. Peter de Warthy, the officer whom the king had left with him, kept going and coming from Lyons to Moulins and from Moulins to Lyons, conveying to the constable the king's complaints and to the king the constable's excuses, without bringing the constable to decide upon joining the king at Lyons and accompanying him into Italy, or the king upon setting out for Italy without the constable. "I would give a hundred thousand crowns," the king sent word to Bourbon, "to be in Lombardy." "The king will do well," answered Bourbon, "to get there as soon as possible, for despatch is needful beyond everything." When Warthy insisted strongly, the constable had him called up to his bedside; and "I feel myself," said he, "the most unlucky man in the world not to be able to serve the king; but if I were to be obstinate, the doctors who are attending me would not answer for my life, and I am even worse than the doctors think. I shall never be in a condition to do the king service any more. I am going back to my native air, and, if I recover a day's health, I will go to the king." "The king will be terribly put out," said Warthy; and he returned to Lyons to report these remarks of the real or pretended invalid. While he was away, the constable received from England and Spain news which made him enter actively upon his preparations; he heard at the same time that the king was having troops marched towards Bourbonness so as to lay violent hands on him if he did not obey; he, therefore, decided to go and place himself in security in his strong castle of Chantelle, where he could await the movements of his allies; he mounted his horse, did six leagues at one stretch, and did not draw bridle until he had entered Chantelle. Warthy speedily came and rejoined him. He found the constable sitting on his bed, dressed like an invalid and with his head enveloped in a night-cap. "M. de Warthy," said Bourbon, "you bring your spurs pretty close after mine." "My lord," was the reply, "you have better ones than I thought." "Think you," said Bourbon, "that I did not well, having but a finger's breadth of life, to put it as far out of the way as I could to avoid the king's fury?" "The king," said Warthy, "was never furious towards any man; far less would he be so in your case." "Nay, nay," rejoined the constable, "I know that the grand master and Marshal de Chabannes set out from Lyons with the archers of the guard and four or five thousand lanzknechts to seize me; and that is what made me come to this house whilst biding my time until the king shall be pleased to hear me." He demanded that the troops sent against him should be ordered to halt till the morrow, promising not to stir from Chantelle without a vindication of himself. "Whither would you go, my lord?" said Warthy: "if you wished to leave the kingdom, you could not; the king has provided against that everywhere."

"Nay," said Bourbon, "I have no wish to leave the kingdom; I have friends and servants there." Warthy went away from Chantelle in company with the Bishop of Autun, Chiverny, who was one of the constable's most trusted friends, and who was bearer to the king of a letter which ran thus: "Provided it please the king to restore to him his possessions, my lord of Bourbon promises to serve him well and heartily, in all places and at all times at which it shall seem good to him. In witness whereof, he has signed these presents, and begs the king to be pleased to pardon those towards whom he is ill disposed on account of this business. CHARLES." In writing this letter the constable had no other object than to gain a little time, for, on bidding good by to the Bishop of Autun, he said to him, "Farewell, my dear bishop; I am off to Carlat, and from Carlat I shall slip away with five or six horses on my road to Spain." On the next day but one, indeed, the 8th of September, 1523, whilst the Bishop of Autun was kept prisoner by the troops sent forward to Chantelle, the constable sallied from it about one in the morning, taking with him five-and-twenty or thirty thousand crowns of gold sewn up in from twelve to fifteen jackets, each of which was intrusted to a man in his train. For a month he wandered about Bourbonness, Auvergne, Burgundy, Beaujolais, Vienness, Languedoc, and Dauphiny, incessantly changing his road, his comrades, his costume, and his asylum, occasionally falling in with soldiers of the king who were repairing to Italy, and seeking for some place whence he might safely concert with and act with his allies. At last, in the beginning of October, he arrived at Saint-Claude, in Franche-Comte, imperial territory, and on the 9th of October he made his entry into Besancon, where there came to join him some of his partisans who from necessity or accident had got separated from him, without his having been able anywhere in his progress to excite any popular movement, form any collection of troops, or intrench himself strongly in his own states. To judge from appearances, he was now but a fugitive conspirator, without domains and without an army.

It was not long before this was proved by facts. The campaign of 1524 in Italy, brilliant as was its beginning, what with the number and the fine appearance of the troops under Bonnivet's orders, was, as it went on, nothing but a series of hesitations, contradictory movements, blunders, and checks, which the army itself set down to its general's account. Bonnivet, during his investment of Milan, had posted Bayard with a small corps in the village of Rebec. "The good knight, who was never wont to murmur at any commission given him, said, 'Sir Admiral, you would send me to a village hard by the enemy, the which is without any fortress, and would need four times so many men as I have, for to be in safety and to hold it.' 'Sir Bayard,' said the admiral, 'go in peace; on my faith I promise you that within three days I will send you plenty of men with you for to hold Rebec, since I well know that it is not to be held with so few men; but never you mind; there shall not a mouse get out of Milan without you have notice of it.' And so much did he say of one sort and another that the good knight, with great disgust, went away with the men told off to him to his post in Rebec. He wrote many times to the admiral that he was in very dangerous plight, and that, if he would have them hold out long, he should send him aid; but he got no answer. The enemies who were inside Milan were warned that the good knight was in Rebec with very little company; so they decided on a night to go and surprise and defeat him. And the good knight, who was ever on his guard, set nearly every night half his men to watch and to listen, and himself passed two or three nights at it, in such sort that he fell ill, as much from melancholy as from cold, and far more than he let it appear; howbeit he was forced to keep his room that day. When it came on towards night, he ordered some captains who were with him to go on the watch. They went, or made show of going; but, because it rained a little, back went all those who were on the watch, save three or four poor archers, the which, when the Spaniards approached within bow-shot of the village, made no resistance, but took to flight, shouting, 'Alarm alarm!' The good knight, who in such jeopardy never slept but with his clothes on, rose at once, had the bridle put on a charger that was already saddled, and went off with five or six men-at-arms of his, straight to the barrier whither incontinently came up Captain Lorges and a certain number of his foot, who bore themselves mighty well. The uproar was great and the alarm was hot. Then said the good knight to Captain Lorges, 'Lorges, my friend, this is an unequal sort of game; if they pass this barrier we are cooked. I pray you, retire your men, keep the best order you can, and march straight to the camp at Abbiate-Grasso; I, with the horse I have, will remain in the rear. We must leave our baggage to the enemy; there is no help for it. Save we the lives if possible.' . . . The enemy sought on all sides for the good knight, but he had already arrived at Abbiate-Grasso, where he had some unpleasant words with the admiral; howbeit, I will not make any mention of them; but if they had both lived longer than they did live, they would probably have gone a little farther. The good knight was like to die of grief at the mishap that had befallen him, even though it was not his fault; but in war there is hap and mishap more than in all other things."

It is a duty and an honor for history to give to such lives and such deaths, as remarkable for modesty as for manly worth, the full place which they ought to occupy in the memory of mankind.

Antony de Leyva was notified the same evening of their decision, and was invited to make, as soon as he heard two cannon-shots, a sortie which would place the French army between two fires. Pescara, according to his custom, mustered the Spaniards; and, "My lads," said he, "fortune has brought you to such extremity that on the soil of Italy you have for your own only that which is under your feet. All the emperor's might could not procure for you to-morrow morning one morsel of bread. We know not where to get it, save in the Frenchman's camp, which is before your eyes. There they have abundance of everything, bread, meat, trout and carp from the Lake of Garda. And so, my lads, if you are set upon having anything to eat tomorrow, march we down on the Frenchmen's camp." Freundsberg spoke in the same style to the German lanzknechts. And both were responded to with cheers. Eloquence is mighty powerful when it speaks in the name of necessity.

"My lord, the joy we are still feeling at the kind letters which you were pleased to write yesterday to me and to your mother, makes us so happy with the assurance of your health, on which our life depends, that it seems to me that we ought to think of nothing but of praising God and desiring a continuance of your good news, which is the best meat we can have to live on. And inasmuch as the Creator bath given us grace that our trinity should be always united, the other two do entreat you that this letter, presented to you, who are the third, may be accepted with the same affection with which it is cordially offered you by your most humble and most obedient servants, your mother and sister-- LOUISE, MARGUERITE."

"For the bliss that awaits me so strong Is my yearning that yearning is pain; One hour is a hundred years long; My litter, it bears me in vain; It moves not, or seems to recede; Such speed would I make if I might: O, the road, it is weary indeed, Where lies--at the end--my delight!

"I gaze all around me all day For some one with tidings to bring, Not ceasing--ne'er doubt me--to pray Unto God for the health of my king I gaze; and when none is descried, Then I weep; and, what else? if you ask, To my paper my grief I confide This, this is my sorrowful task.

"O, welcome be he who at length Shall tap at my door and shall cry, 'The king to new health and new strength Is returning; the king will not die!' Then she, who were now better dead, Will run, the news-bearer to see, And kiss him for what he hath said, That her brother from danger is free."

"As soon as the treaty of Madrid was signed, the emperor came to Madrid to see the king; then they went, both in one litter, to see Queen Eleanor, the emperor's sister and the king of Portugal's widow, whom, by the said treaty, the king was to espouse before he left Spain, which he did." After which Francis was escorted by Lannoy to Fontarabia, whilst, on the other hand, the regent Louise, and the king's two sons who were to go as hostages to Spain, were on their way to Bayonne. A large bark was anchored in the middle of the Bidassoa, the boundary of the two kingdoms, between Irun and Andaye. Lannoy put the king on board, and received in exchange, from the hands of Marshal Lautrec, the little princes Francis and Henry. The king gave his children his blessing, and reached the French side whilst they were being removed to the Spanish; and as soon as he set foot on shore, he leaped upon a fine Turkish horse, exclaiming, as he started at a gallop for Bayonne, where his mother and his sister awaited him, "So now I am king again!"

However determined he was, at bottom, to elude the strict execution of the treaty of Madrid, Francis was anxious to rebut the charge of perjury by shifting the responsibility on to the shoulders of the people themselves and their representatives. He did not like to summon the states-general of the kingdom, and recognize their right as well as their power; but, after the meeting at Cognac, he went to Paris, and, on the 12th of December, 1527, the Parliament met in state with the adjunct of the princes of the blood, a great number of cardinals, bishops, noblemen, deputies from the Parliaments of Toulouse, Bordeaux, Rouen, Dijon, Grenoble, and Aix, and the municipal body of Paris. In presence of this assembly the king went over the history of his reign, his expeditions in Italy, his alternate successes and reverses, and his captivity. "If my subjects have suffered," he said, "I have suffered with them." He then caused to be read the letters patent whereby he had abdicated and transferred the crown to his son the dauphin, devoting himself to captivity forever. He explained the present condition of the finances, and what he could furnish for the ransom of his sons detained as hostages; and he ended by offering to return as a prisoner to Spain if no other way could be found out of a difficult position, for he acknowledged having given his word, adding, however, that he had thought it pledged him to nothing, since it had not been given freely.

It lasted three years in Italy, from 1526 to 1529, without interruption, but also without result; it was one of those wars which are prolonged from a difficulty of living in peace rather than from any serious intention, on either side, of pursuing a clear and definite object. Bourbon and Lannoy commanded the imperial armies, Lautrec the French army. Only two events, one for its singularity and the other for its tragic importance, deserve to have the memory of them perpetuated in history.

The celebrated artist-in-gold, Benvenuto Cellini, says, in his Life written by himself, that it was he who, from the top of the wall of the Campo Santo at Rome, aiming his arquebuse at the midst of a group of besiegers, amongst whom he saw one man mounted higher than the rest, hit him, and that he then saw an extraordinary commotion around this man, who was Bourbon, as he found out afterwards. "I have heard say at Rome," says Brantome on the contrary, "that it was held that he who fired that wretched arquebuse-shot was a priest."

To these names, known to every enlightened man, might be added many others less familiar to the public, but belonging to men who held a high place in the philosophical contests of their times, such as John Scot Erigena, Berenger, Roscelin, William of Champeaux, Gilbert of La Poree, &c. The questions which always have taken and always will take a passionate hold of men's minds in respect of God, the universe, and man, in respect of our origin, our nature, and our destiny, were raised and discussed, from the eleventh to the fifteenth century, if not with so much brilliancy, at any rate with as much boldness and earnest thought, as at any other period. The middle ages had, in France, their spiritualists, their materialists, their pantheists, their rationalists, their mystics, and their sceptics, not very clear or refined in their notions, but such as lacked neither profundity in their general view of the questions, nor ingenious subtilty in their argumentative process. We do not care to give in this place any exposition or estimate of their doctrines; we shall simply point out what there was original and characteristic in their fashion of philosophizing, and wherein their mental condition differed essentially from that which was engendered and propagated, in the sixteenth century, by the resuscitation of Greek and Roman antiquity.

It is the constant idea of the philosophers and theologians of that period to affirm and to demonstrate the agreement between Christian faith and reason. They consider themselves placed between two fixed points, faith in the Christian truths inculcated from the very first or formally revealed by God to man, and reason, which is the faculty given to man to enable him to recognize the truth. "Faith," wrote Hildebert, Archbishop of Tours, in the eleventh century, "is not contrary to reason, but it is above reason. If, like the philosophers, one willeth not to believe anything but what reason comprehends, faith, in this case, hath no merit. The merit is in believing that which, without being contrary to reason, is above it. . . . Faith is certainty in respect of things which fall not under the perceptions of the body; it is below knowledge, for to believe is less than to know; and it is above opinion, for to believe is more than to imagine." "I do not seek to understand in order to believe," says St. Anselm; "I believe in order to understand. . . . Authority requires faith in order to prepare man for reason." But "authority," said St. Columban, in the sixth century, "proceeds from right reason, not at all reason from authority. Every authority whereof the decrees are not approved of by right reason appears mighty weak." Minds so liberal in the face of authority, and at the same time attached to revealed and traditional faith, could not but be sometimes painfully perplexed. "My wounded spirit," said Adam of the Premontre-order , in the twelfth century, "calls to her aid that which is the source of all grace and all life. But where is it? What is it? In her trouble the spirit hath love abiding; but she knows no longer what it is she loves, what she ought to love. She addresseth herself to the stones and to the rocks, and saith to them, 'What are ye?' And the stones and the rocks make answer, 'We are creatures of the same even as thou art.' To the like question the sun, the moon, and the stars make the like answer. The spirit doth interrogate the sand of the sea, the dust of the earth, the drops of rain, the days of the years, the hours of the days, the moments of the hours, the turf of the fields, the branches of the trees, the leaves of the branches, the scales of fish, the wings of birds, the utterances of men, the voices of animals, the movements of bodies, the thoughts of minds; and these things declare, all with one consent, unto the spirit, 'We are not that which thou demandest; search up above us, and thou wilt find our Creator!'" In the tenth century, Remigius the theologian had gone still farther: "I have resolved," said he, "to make an investigation as to my God; for it doth not suffice me to believe in Him; I wish further to see somewhat of Him. I feel that there is somewhat beyond my spirit. If my spirit should abide within herself without rising above herself, she would see only herself; it must be above herself that my spirit will reach God."

God, creator, lawgiver, and preserver of the universe and of man, everywhere and always present and potent, in permanent connection, nay, communication, with man, at one time by natural and at another by supernatural means, at one time by the channel of authority and at another by that of free-agency, this is the point of departure, this the fixed idea of the philosopho-theologians of the middle ages. There are great gaps, great diversities, and great inconsistencies in their doctrines; they frequently made unfair use of the subtile dialectics called scholastics , and they frequently assigned too much to the master's authority ; but Christian faith, more or less properly understood and explained, and adhesion to the facts, to the religious and moral precepts, and to the primitive and essential testimonies of Christianity, are always to be found at the bottom of their systems and their disputes. Whether they be pantheists even or sceptics, it is in an atmosphere of Christianity that they live and that their thoughts are developed.

A breath from the grand old pagan life of Greece and Rome heaved forth again and spread, in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, throughout this Christian atmosphere of the middle ages. Greek and Roman antiquity, with its ideas and its works, had never been completely forgotten therein. Aristotle and Plato, Seneca, Epictetus, Boetius, and other ancients had taken their place amongst the studies and philosophical notions of that period; but their influence had been limited to professional scholars, and had remained without any social influence. In spite of the stateliness of its ceremonies and the charm of its traditions, paganism had never been, in plain truth, a religion; faith and piety had held but a paltry place in it; instead of a God, the creator and acting sovereign of the world, its gods were of human invention and human nature: their adventures and the parts they played were pleasing to the imagination, but gave no sort of satisfaction to the deep instincts and higher aspirations of the soul. Christianity is God hovering over, watching over, and descending to earth; paganism is earth, its children and the stories of their lives transported, with their vices rather than their virtues, to heaven. Olympus was peopled with nothing but personages belonging to popular tradition, mythology, or allegory; and in the fifteenth century this mythology was in full course of decay; all that it might have commanded of credence or influence had vanished; there remained of it nothing but barren memories or a contemptuous incredulity. Speaking from the religious point of view, the Renaissance was but a resurrection of paganism dying out before the presence of the Christian world, which was troubled and perplexed, but full of life and futurity.

The religious question thus set on one side, the Renaissance was a great and happy thing, which restored to light and honor the works and glories of the Greek and Roman communities, those two communities which, in history anterior to the sixteenth century, had reached the greatest prosperity and splendor under a civil regimen, in the midst of a more or less stormy but real and strong political freedom, and had attained by the mere development of human thought and human energy the highest degree of civilization yet known in Europe, and, one would be inclined to say, in the world. The memorials and monuments of this civilization, which were suddenly removed, at the fall of the Greek empire, to Italy first and then from Italy to France, and throughout the whole of Western Europe, impressed with just admiration people as well as princes, and inspired them with the desire of marching forward in their turn in this attractive and glorious career. This kind of progress, arrived at by the road of imitation, often costs dear in the interruption it causes to the natural course of the peculiar and original genius of nations; but this is the price at which the destinies of diverse communities get linked together and interpenetrate, and the general progress of humanity is accomplished.

The middle ages bequeathed to French literature four prose-writers whom we cannot hesitate to call great historians: Villehardouin, Joinville, Froissart, and Commynes. Geoffrey de Villehardouin, after having taken part, as negotiator and soldier, in the crusade which terminated in the capture of Constantinople, and having settled in Thessaly, at Messinopolis, as holder of considerable fiefs, with the title of Marshal of Romania , employed his leisure in writing a history of this great exploit. He wrote with a dignified simplicity, epic and at the same time practical, speaking but little of himself, narrating facts with the precision of one who took part in them, and yet without useless detail or personal vanity, finding pleasure in doing justice to his comrades, amongst others the veteran Doge of Venice, Henry Dandolo, and sometimes intermingling with his story the reflections of a judicious and sincere Christian, without any pious fanaticism and without ostentation. Joinville wrote his History of St. Louis at the request of Joan of Navarre, wife of Philip the Handsome, and five years after that queen's death; his manuscripts have it thus: "The things which I personally saw and heard were written in the year of grace 1309, in the month of October." He was then eighty-five, and he dedicated his book to Louis le Hutin , great-grandson of St. Louis. More lively and more familiar in style than Villehardouin, he combines the vivid and natural impressions of youth with an old man's fond clinging to the memories of his long life; he likes to bring himself upon the scene, especially as regards his relations towards and his conversations with St. Louis, for whom he has a tender regard and admiration, at the same time that he maintains towards him a considerable independence of ideas, conduct, and language; he is a valiant and faithful knight, who forms a very sensible opinion as to the crusade in which he takes part, and who will not enter upon it a second time even to follow the king to whom he is devoted, but whose pious fanaticism and warlike illusions he does not share; his narrative is at one and the same time very full of himself without any pretension, and very spirited without any show of passion, and fraught with a graceful and easy carelessness which charms the reader and all the while inspires confidence in the author's veracity. Froissart is an insatiable Fry, who revels in all the sights of his day, events and personages, wars and galas, adventures of heroism or gallantry, and who is incessantly gadding about through all the dominions and all the courts of Europe, everywhere seeking his own special amusement in the satisfaction of his curiosity. He has himself given an account of the manner in which he collected and wrote his Chronicles. "Ponder," says he, "amongst yourselves, such of ye as read me, or will read me, or have read me, or shall hear me read, how I managed to get and put together so many facts whereof I treat in so many parts. And, for to inform you of the truth, I began young, at the age of twenty years, and I came into the world amidst the deeds and adventures, and I did always take great delight in them, more than in aught else. And God gave me such grace that I was well with all parties, and with the households of the kings, and, especially, the household of King Edward of England, and the noble queen his wife, Madame Philippa of Hainault, unto whom, in my youth, I was clerk, and I did minister unto her with beautiful ditties and amorous treatises. And for love of the service of the noble and valiant dame with whom I was, all the other lords, kings, dukes, counts, barons, and knights, of whatsoever nation they might be, did love me and hear me and see me gladly, and brought me great profit. . . . Thus, wherever I went, I made inquiry of the old knights and squires who had been at deeds of arms, and who were specially fit to speak thereof, and also of certain heralds in good credit for to verify and justify all matters. Thus have I gotten together this lofty and noble history." This picture of Froissart and his work by his own hand would be incomplete without the addition of a characteristic anecdote. In one of his excursions in search of adventures and stories, "he fell in at Pamiers with a good knight, Messire Espaing of Lyons, who had been in all the wars of the time, and managed the great affairs of princes. They set out to travel together, Messire Espaing telling his comrade what he knew about the history of the places whereby they passed, and Froissart taking great care to ride close to him for to hear his words. Every evening they halted at hostels where they drained flagons full of white wine as good as the good canon had ever drunk in his life; then, after drinking, so soon as the knight was weary of relating, the chronicler wrote down just the substance of his stories, so as to better leave remembrance of them for time to come, as there is no way of retaining so certain as writing down."

There is no occasion to add to these quotations; they give the most correct idea that can be formed of Froissart's chronicles and their literary merit as well as their historical value.

Let us pass from the prose-writers of the middle ages to their poets.

The eighty-second strophe of the poem commences thus:

"'Of Paynim yonder, saw I more,' Quoth Oliver, 'than e'er before The eye of man hath seen An hundred thousand are a-field, With helm and hauberk, lance and shield, And pikes and pike-heads gleaming bright; Prepare for fight, a fiercer fight Than ever yet hath been. Blow Olifant, friend Roland, blow, That Charles and all his host may know.'

"To whom Sir Roland in reply: 'A madman, then, good faith, were I For I should lose all countenance Throughout the pleasant land of France Nay, rather, facing great and small, I'll smite amain with Durandal, Until the blade, with blood that's spilt, Is crimson to the golden hilt.' 'Friend Roland, sound a single blast Ere Charles beyond its reach hath passed.' 'Forbid it, God,' cried Roland, then, 'It should be said by living men That I a single blast did blow For succor from a Paynim foe!' When Roland sees what moil will be, Lion nor pard so fierce as he.

"Archbishop Turpin looks around, Then forward pricks to higher ground He halts, he speaks; the French give ear: 'Lords barons, Charles hath left us here, And for our king we're bound to die; For him maintain the Christian cause; Behold! how near the battle draws; Behold! where yonder Paynim lie; Confess to God; and I will give Absolvement, that your souls may live. Pure martyrs are ye if ye fall; And Paradise awaits ye all.'

"Down leap the French, on bended knee They fall for benison; and he Doth lay on all a penance light-- To strike their hardest in the fight.

"The French have risen to their feet; They leap upon their chargers fleet; Into the defiles rides their chief On his good war-horse, Veillantif. O, in his harness he looks grand! On, on he goes with lance on high Its tip is pointed to the sky; It bears a snow-white pennon, and Its golden fringes sweep his hand. He scans the foe with haughty glance, With meek and sweet the men of France 'Lords barons, gently, gently ride; Yon Paynim rush to suicide; No king of France could ever boast The wealth we'll strip from yonder host.' And as the words die off his lips, Christian and Paynim are at grips.

"A wondrous fight! The men of France Thrust fiercely with the burnished lance! O, 'twas a sight of grief and dread, So many wounded, bleeding, dead! On back or face together they, One on another falling, lay! The Paynim cannot choose but yield, And, willy-nilly, quit the field The eager French are on their track, With lances pointed at the back. . . .

"Then pricketh forth a Saracen, Abyme by name, but worst of men No faith hath he in God the One, No faith in Holy Mary's Son; As black as melted pitch is he, And not for all Galicia's gold Could he be bribed his hand to hold From murder and from treachery; No merry laugh, no sportive mien In him was ever heard or seen. . . . The good archbishop could not brook On pagan such as he to look; He saw and fain would strike him dead, And calmly to himself he said, 'Yon pagan, as it seems to me, A grievous heretic must be; 'There best to slay him, though I died; Cowards I never could abide.'

"He mounts his steed, won, so they tell, From Denmark's monarch, hight Grosselle; He slew the king and took the steed The beast is light and built for speed; His hoofs are neat, his legs are clean, His thigh is short, his flanks are lean, His rump is large, his back full height, His mane is yellow, his tail is white; With little ears and tawny head, No steed like him was ever bred. The good archbishop spurs a-field, And smites Abyme upon the shield, His emir's shield, so thickly sown With many a gem and precious stone, Amethyst and topaz, crystals bright, And red carbuncles flashing light: The shield is shivered by the blow; No longer worth a doit, I trow; Stark dead the emir lies below. 'Ha! bravely struck!' the Frenchmen yell: 'Our bishop guards the Cross right well!'

"To Oliver Sir Roland cried, 'Sir comrade, can it be denied Our bishop is a gallant knight? None better ever saw the light! How he doth strike With lance and pike!' Quoth Oliver, 'Then in the fight Haste we to aid him with our might!' And so the battle is renewed: The blows are hard, the melley rude; The Christians suffer sore Four times they charge and all is well, But at the fifth--dread tale to tell-- The knights of France are doomed to fall,-- All, all her knights; for of them all God spareth but threescore. But O, their lives they dearly sell! Sir Roland marks what loss is there, And turns him to Sir Oliver 'Dear comrade, whom pray God to bless, In God's own name see what distress-- Such heaps of vassals lying low-- Fair France hath suffered at a blow Well may we weep for her, who's left A widow, of such lords bereft! And why, O, why art thou not near, Our king, our friend, to aid us here? Say, Oliver, how might we bring Our mournful tidings to the king?' Quoth Oliver, 'I know not, I To fly were shame; far better die.' Quoth Roland, 'I my horn will blow, That Charles may hear and Charles may know; And, in the defiles, from their track The French, I swear, will hasten back.' Quoth Oliver, ''Twere grievous shame; 'Twould bring a blush to all thy name When I said thus thou scornedst me, And now I will not counsel thee. And shouldst thou blow, 'twere no great blast; Already blood is gushing fast From both thine arms.' 'That well may be,' Quoth he, 'I struck so lustily! The battle is too strong: I'll blow Mine Olifant, that Charles may know.' Quoth Oliver, 'Had Charles been here, This battle had not cost so dear; But as for yon poor souls, I wis, No blame can rest with them for this.' 'Why bear me spite?' Sir Roland said. 'The fault,' said he, 'lies on thy head. And mark my words; this day will see The end of our good company; We twain shall part--not as we met-- Full sadly ere yon sun bath set.' The good archbishop hears the stir, And thither pricks with golden spur; And thus he chides the wrangling lords 'Roland, and you, Sir Oliver, Why strive ye with such bitter words Horns cannot save you; that is past; But still 'twere best to sound a blast; Let the king come: he'll strike a blow For vengeance, lest the Paynim foe Back to their homes in triumph go.'

"With pain and dolor, groan and pant, Count Roland sounds his Olifant: The crimson stream shoots from his lips; The blood from bursten temple drips; But far, O, far the echoes ring, And, in the defiles, reach the king; Reach Naymes, and the French array: 'Tis Roland's horn,' the king doth say; 'He only sounds when brought to bay.' How huge the rocks! How dark and steep! The streams are swift! The valleys deep! Out blare the trumpets, one and all, As Charles responds to Roland's call. Round wheels the king, with choler mad, The Frenchmen follow grim and sad; Not one but prays for Roland's life, Till they have joined him in the strife. But ah! what prayer can alter fate? The time is past; too late! too late! As Roland scans both plain and height, And sees how many Frenchmen lie Stretched in their mortal agony, He mourns them like a noble knight: 'Comrades, God give ye grace to-day, And grant ye Paradise, I pray! No lieges ever fought as they. What a fair land, O France, art thou! But ah! forlorn and widowed now! O Oliver, at least to thee, My brother, I must faithful be Back, comrade mine, back let us go, And charge once more the Paynim foe!'

"When Roland spies the cursed race, More black than ink, without a trace, Save teeth, of whiteness in the face, 'Full certified,' quoth he, 'am I, That we this very day shall die. Strike, Frenchmen, strike; that's all my mind!' 'A curse on him who lags behind!' Quoth gallant Oliver; and so Down dash the Frenchmen on the foe. . . . Sir Oliver with failing breath, Knowing his wound is to the death, Doth call to him his friend, his peer, His Roland: 'Comrade, come thou here; To be apart what pain it were!' When Roland marks his friend's distress, His face all pale and colorless, 'My God!' quoth he, 'what's now to do? O my sweet France, what dole for you, Widowed of all your warriors true! You needs must perish!' At such plaint, Upon his steed he falls a-faint.

"Then Roland takes his horn once more; His blast is feebler than before, But still it reaches the emperor He hears it, and he halts to shout, 'Let clarions, one and all, ring out!' Then sixty thousand clarions ring, And rocks and dales set echoing. And they, too, hear--the pagan pack; They force the rising laughter back; 'Charles, Charles,' they cry, 'is on our track!' They fly; and Roland stands alone-- Alone, afoot; his steed is gone-- Brave Veillantif is gone, and so, He, willy-nilly, afoot must go. Archbishop Turpin needs his aid: The golden helm is soon unlaced, The light, white hauberk soon unbraced; And gently, gently down he laid On the green turf the bishop's head; And then beseechingly he said,-- "'Ah! noble sir, your leave I crave The men we love, our comrades brave, All, all are dead; they must not lie Here thus neglected; wherefore I Will seek for them, each where he lies, And lay them out before your eyes.' 'Go,' said the bishop, 'and speed be thine Thank God! the field is thine and mine.'

"Sir Roland searched the plain, and found His comrade's body on the ground; Unto his heart he strained it tight, And bore it off, as best he might. Upon a shield he lays his friend Beside the rest, and, for an end, The bishop gives them, all and one, Absolvement and a benison. As Roland marks them lying there, His peers all dead--and Oliver, His mighty grief he cannot stay, And, willy-nilly, swoons away.

"The bishop feeleth grief profound To see Sir Roland in a swound. Through Roncesvalles, well he knows, A stream of running water flows, And fain would he a journey make To fetch thereof for Roland's sake, He totters forth; he makes essay; But all! his feeble limbs give way; Breaks his great heart; he falls and lies, Face downward, in death's agonies! So Charles's soldier-priest is dead He who with mighty lance and sword And preacher's craft incessant warred Against the scorners of the Lord: God's benediction on his head! Count Roland laid him to his rest Between his shoulders, on his breast, He crossed the hands so fine and fair, And, as his country's customs were, He made oration o'er him there 'Ah! noble knight, of noble race, I do commend thee to God's grace Sure never man of mortal birth Served Him so heartily on earth. Thou hadst no peer in any clime To stoutly guard the Christian cause And turn bad men to Christian laws, Since erst the great Apostles' time. Now rest thy soul from dolor free, And Paradise be oped to thee!'"

"And as he makes to draw the steel, A something doth Sir Roland feel; He opes his eyes, says nought but this, 'Thou art not one of us, I wis,' Raises the horn he would not quit, And cracks the pagan's skull with it. . . And then the touch of death that steals Down, down from head to heart he feels Under yon pine he hastes away On the green turf his head to lay Placing beneath him horn and sword, He turns towards the Paynim horde, And, there, beneath the pine, he sees A vision of old memories A thought of realms he helped to win, Of his sweet France, of kith and kin, And Charles, his lord, who nurtured him. He sighs, and tears his eyes bedim. Then, not unmindful of his case, Once more he sues to God for grace 'O Thou, true Father of us all, Who hatest lies, who erst did call The buried Lazarus from the grave, And Daniel from the lions save, From all the perils I deserve For sinful life my soul preserve!' Then to his God outstretcheth he The glove from his right hand; and, see! St. Gabriel taketh it instantly. God sends a cherub-angel bright, And Michael, Saint of Peril hight; And Gabriel comes; up, up they rise, And bear the Count to Paradise."

"I am not rich; that, certes, I confess; But, natheless, well born and nobly bred; I'm read by both the people and noblesse, Throughout the world: 'That's Clement,' it is said. Men live their span; but I shall ne'er be dead. And thou--thou hast thy meadow, well, and spring, Wood, field, and castle--all that wealth can bring. There's just that difference 'twixt thee and me. But what I am thou couldst not be: the thing Thou art, why, anybody else might be."

What were the cause, the degree, and the real value of this success and this renown of which Clement Marot made so much parade, and for which his contemporaries gave him credit? What change, what progress effected by him, during his lifetime, in French literature and the French language won for him the place he obtained and still holds in the opinion of the learned?

There we have exactly the new character which Marot, coming between Villon and Ronsard, gave in the sixteenth century to French poesy. We may be more exacting than M. Sainte-Beuve; we may regret that Marot, whilst rescuing it from the streets, confined it too much to the court; the natural and national range of poesy is higher and more extensive than that; the Hundred Years' War and Joan of Arc had higher claims. But it is something to have delivered poesy from coarse vulgarity, and introduced refinement into it. Clement Marot rendered to the French language, then in labor of progression, and, one might say, of formation, eminent service: he gave it a naturalness, a clearness, an easy swing, and, for the most part, a correctness which it had hitherto lacked. It was reserved for other writers, in verse and prose, to give it boldness, the richness that comes of precision, elevation, and grandeur.

"Happy the man whose favored ear In golden days to come shall hear The ploughman, as he tills the ground, The tarter, as he drives his round, The shopman, as his task he plies, With psalms or sacred melodies Whiling the hours of toil away! O, happy he who hears the lay Of shepherd and of shepherdess, As in the woods they sing and bless, And make the rocks and pools proclaim With them their great Creator's name! O, can ye brook that God invite Them before you to such delight? Begin, ladies, begin! . . ."

Share on: WhatsApp @Hash Facebook Tweet