Long, long ago the land which we now call France was called Gaul.
Gaul was much larger than France is to-day, although north, south, and west France has the same boundaries now as Gaul had in the far-off days of which I am going to tell you.
What these boundaries are, many a geography lesson will have shown. But, lest you have forgotten, take a map of Europe, and you will see that on the north France has to protect her the English Channel, on the south she is guarded by the Mediterranean and the Pyrenees, while on her west roll the waters of the Atlantic. These mountains and waters were also the bulwarks of ancient Gaul.
It was on the east that Gaul stretched far beyond the boundaries of France, reaching to the Alps and to the swift-flowing river Rhine.
And it is of Gaul, as it was in those far-off days many centuries B.C., that I wish first to tell you.
The large tract of land called Gaul was then little more than a dreary waste of moor and marsh, with great forests, larger and gloomier than any you have ever seen.
Through these forests and marshlands terrible beasts prowled—wolves, bears, wild oxen. Herds of swine, too, fierce as any wolves, roamed through the marshes. These had been tamed enough to answer to their keepers horn.
As for the people who lived in Gaul in those days, they were almost as savage as the wild beasts. Half naked, they too, like the wolves and bears, wandered through the marshes and forests to seek for food.
They were tall and strong, these huntsmen, with blue eyes and yellow hair. If you had met a savage Gallic warrior, you would have thought he looked wild and fierce enough to frighten any foe. But, you know, people do not often see themselves as others see them. That is why the Scottish poet Burns sang—
“O wad some Power the giftie gie us
To see oursels as ithers see us.”
These warriors with blue eyes and yellow hair thought that they did not look at all fierce, and so they would often stain their yellow locks red, to make themselves appear, as they thought, terrible to their foes.
Although they wore few clothes, the Gauls were fond of ornaments, and often they adorned themselves with heavy chains and collars of gold.
Stalwart warriors as well as huntsmen were these yellow-haired men. Different tribes or clans, led each by his own chief, would hunt one another and fight to the death.
In these far-off days the clans often fought to win a piece of land on which another clan had settled and built huts. It is true that the huts were rough and comfortless, yet they were the only shelter these wild folk knew from the storm and cold. Very often, too, it was bitterly cold. In winter the rivers were frozen for weeks at a time. They were frozen so hard that they were used as highways, and heavy wagons with great loads could be rolled or drawn across the solid ice without a fear that it would give way.
The Gauls built their huts of wood and clay, covering them with straw and with branches cut from the great trees of the forests. They were huddled close together, and round them the Gauls threw up a rough wall of timber, earth stone. This wall was meant to protect the town or encampment, as it was called, from the attacks of an unfriendly tribe.
Yet when the war-cry was heard drawing nearer and nearer to the little settlement, the people, after all, did not always wait to defend their town.
It was so simple to build other huts, that sometimes, at the sound of the terrible war-whoop, the whole clan would flee for greater safety into the depths of the forests.
Here, to be ready for such a flight, they had already felled trees, which they now set to work, in grim earnest, to pile up into an enormous barricade between themselves and the foe that was all the while drawing near.
After the battle was over, the victorious clan held a great feast, to which they brought the prisoners whom they had taken in the fight. While their victors danced wild dances and shouted triumphant war-songs, the poor prisoners looked on with sullen faces and with heavy hearts, for well they knew what would now befall them.
They would be tied to trees and burned, or, if they escaped that cruel fate, it would perhaps be to be flogged to death. Their conquerors were pitiless, the prisoners knew it well. They might even be sacrificed to the gods. For the Gauls never doubted that their gods demanded human sacrifices.
But though the tribes which wandered now here, now there, throughout the land of Gaul were wild and warlike, yet already they had priests to whom they yielded obedience as well as reverence.
These priests were called Druids. You have read of Druids in the early history of your own land, and you may have seen some of the temples in which they worshipped long years ago. The temples were but simple circles of Stones, open to the blue sky and fresh winds of heaven. These stones are still to be seen in England and in the west of France.
Usually the Druids were grave old men with long white beards, who were believed to be very wise. They were not often seen, for they dwelt in the depths of some sacred wood, where, silent and alone, they sought to learn the will of their gods.
But once every year the Druids, clad in their long white robes, with sickles in their hands, would summon the wandering tribes together, and go with them into the forest. There, under the oak trees, they would gather. The trees themselves were cold and bare, but they were sacred, and upon them grew the mistletoe with its green leaves and pure white berries.
The mistletoe as well as the oak was sacred to the gods, and with their sickles the priests cut it down and carried it in triumph to their temples.
The Druids were not only the teachers of the people, they were also their poets and priests. It was from them that the Gauls learned to sacrifice their prisoners to the gods.
From the Druids, also, the Gallic warriors heard that when they were slain in battle, they would live again in some other world the same life that they had lived on earth.
When they heard this, the warriors said, “In this other world we must have our slaves, our horses and our dogs, to wait upon us as they have done here. Our swords and our shields, also, we will not leave behind us.’
Thus it was that when a great warrior was buried, his slave, his horse, his dog, each was buried alive with his master. His sword and shield also were not forgotten. And the white-robed Druids who ruled the Gauls in these olden days, though they had the power, did not forbid this cruel rite.
AS I HAVE TOLD YOU, different tribes in Gaul fought one with the other. But sometimes the clans forgot their own quarrels, that they might join together against a common foe. Feeling that even then they were not strong enough, they would appeal to Rome to help them against the fierce German warriors, who poured across the river Rhine and invaded Gaul.
These Germans, when they were victorious, treated their prisoners even more cruelly than the Gauls treated each other.
It was natural that the Gallic chiefs should ask the Romans to help them, for the Romans were a strong people, with well-disciplined legions of soldiers. Already, too, they had a special interest in Gaul, as their provinces were scattered up and down the country.
Long before this, in 283 B.C., a few Roman families, led by three Roman officers, journeyed to a part of Gaul called Cisalpine Gaul. Here they took possession of some ground on the borders of the Adriatic Sea. On the ground they planted the standard of Rome, a golden eagle, which they had carried before them on their journey.
The officers ordered a round hole to be dug, and in this hole they laid a handful of earth and a cluster of fruit, which, along with the standard, they had brought from Rome.
Taking a plough, and yoking to it a white bull and a white heifer, the settlers then drew a furrow round a large piece of ground, after which the bull and the heifer were sacrificed to the gods of Rome, and the ceremony was complete.
Thus the first Roman colony was planted in Gaul. Fifteen years passed and another Roman colony was founded, with the same rites, and then another and another. And wherever the Romans went, they drained the land and built houses, bridges, towns.
Many of the Gauls among whom they dwelt learned to copy these Roman buildings, which were so much better than their own rude huts and irregular villages.
The first time a Roman army came to Gaul, it was led by a great general, called Scipio, and landed about 218B.C. at Massilia, which in those long-ago days was the name for Marseilles.
Massilia opened its gates to the Romans, and welcomed them to its city, which was already an ancient one, having been founded by a Greek, 600 B.C.
More than a hundred years after the Romans had settled at Massilia, a terrible earthquake startled the inhabitants of northern Europe. A fierce German tribe, feeling no longer safe in the north, began to travel southward, and never stopped until it reached Gaul.
Crossing the Rhone, the barbarians came to the camp of Marius, a Roman general.
They at once offered to fight, but Marius paid no heed to the taunts by which they tried to rouse him, and allowed them to pass on their way.
Some time later he broke up his camp and followed the invaders. He found them, among the mountains, not far from the town of Aix. Here, in 102 B.C., Marius fought with the rude Germans and defeated them with terrible slaughter.
The victory of Aix was an important one; for had the barbarians conquered, they would probably have gone on to Italy to try to vanquish Rome. Thus they might have become the masters of the world.
Two years after this victory, the man who was to succeed Marius was born. This was Julius Cæsar, one of the greatest and most ambitious generals of Rome.
For years Gaul suffered from the invasion of the Germans. But when, in the year 62 B.C., great hordes of these warriors poured across the Rhine, more than ever determined to wrest the land from its owners, the Gauls turned again to Rome, begging for help.
The Romans, eager to keep their own colonies, perhaps also eager for new conquests, sent Julius Cæsar, who was now a man thirty-eight years of age, to the aid of the Gauls.
Even by the well-disciplined troops of Rome the Germans were not easily beaten, but at length Cæsar utterly routed them, and they fled in confusion toward the Rhine, anxious only to go back to their own land.
Now that they were delivered from their foes, the Gauls would gladly have seen the brave Roman warriors march back to Rome. But the Romans did not mean to go away, as the Gauls very soon found out. They meant to stay until they were themselves masters of Gaul.
This was no light task, for the Gauls dearly loved their independence. At the end of six years, though some tribes had been forced to submit, the struggle against Cæsar was in reality fiercer than it had ever been.
Their country was in danger, and the Gauls, forgetting their own quarrels, determined to unite against their foe in one last great attempt to win freedom for themselves and their country.
A young Gaul was the chief leader of the revolt. His real name is not known, but in history he is always called Vercingetorix, which means ‘chief of a hundred kings.’
Vercingetorix belonged to a powerful tribe, and Cæsar, with his usual wisdom, had tried to win the young chief over to his side. But he had failed. And now, about 53 B.C.. Vercingetorix had come down from the mountains with his followers and seized Gergovia, the capital of his tribe and his own birthplace.
The Gauls flocked to his standard. But whether love drew them or fear, it is difficult to tell, for Vercingetorix had decreed that whoever stayed away should be punished with torture or with death.
Cæsar was in Italy when the rebellion led by the young Gaul broke out, but he no sooner heard of it than he hastened back to Gaul, and put himself at the head of his well-trained legions.
Vercingetorix knew he could not hope to destroy the Roman legions in the open field, but he could attack small bands of the enemy and harass their movements.
Moreover, he begged the people of Gaul to destroy their dwellings, their springs, their bridges, their provisions, so that when Cæsar came he might find nothing but ruins.
But in spite of all that Vercingetorix could do, Cæsar reached Gergovia, and at once laid siege to the town, which was really a rough cluster of huts, surrounded by strong barricades made out of trunks of trees.
The Gauls were not used to be shut up in a town, and soon they were clamouring to be led against the enemy.
But Cæsar had seen tribe after tribe joining the young Gallic chief. One of his legions, too, when ordered to assault the walls of Gergovia, had been driven back with the loss of forty-six of its bravest officers, and Cæsar thought it was time to raise the siege.
The Gauls could scarcely believe their eyes when they saw the Roman army withdrawing. It was the first time that Cæsar had been unable to take a Gallic town, and the Gauls, shouting in triumph, declared that their foe was vanquished. Vercingetorix himself believed it would now be well to strike a blow at the enemy, and placing himself at the head of his followers, he led them against the retreating army. Within nine miles of the fugitives he pitched his camp, and gathering together his chiefs he spoke to them these proud words:
‘Now is the hour of victory; the Romans are flying to their province and leaving Gaul; that is enough for our liberty to-day, but too little for the peace and repose of the future; for they will return with greater armies, and the war will be without end.’
Then the young Gaul ordered his troops to pursue the retreating foe. He did not know that Cæsar had added to his army a large number of horsemen from the fierce German tribes which were still wandering through the country, and had promised them lands and plunder, as well as wages, if they proved faithful.
Now the battle began. One band of Gauls seized a road by which the Romans must pass, hoping to bar their passage. While the fight raged fiercely at this point, the wild German horsemen dashed up a height held by the Gauls, drove them away, and chased them toward a river where Vercingetorix was stationed.
Cæsar ordered his legion to attack the Gauls as they fled toward their leader, and soon the fugitives dashed in among Vercingetorix’s company followed by the Romans. The Gallic army was in utter confusion.
With great difficulty Vercingetorix rallied his men and ordered a retreat. The Roman general followed, taking many prisoners, and killing more than three thousand Gauls.
Vercingetorix succeeded in reaching a town called Alesia, and with the remnant of his army he at once began to fortify the place.
As you may imagine, Julius Cæsar had soon followed the Gauls to Alesia. When he saw them within the walls of the town, he determined to keep them there. He ordered his great army at once to surround the town and begin to dig trenches and build forts to keep the Gauls from escaping.
Again and again Vercingetorix tried to destroy the Roman forts and trenches, but each time he was beaten back into Alesia.
But the young Gaul had a brave spirit, and he still hoped to win the day. One night, by his orders, some Gallic horsemen stole quietly and unnoticed through the Roman lines, and hastened each to his own tribe to summon it to arms.
Before long the Gauls throughout the country were roused and galloping to the help of Vercingetorix.
And so it happened that one day the Romans were surprised and attacked in their entrenchments by a new army of Gauls.
A terrible struggle followed. Each time the new Gallic army attacked the enemy, Vercingetorix led his men out of the gates of Alesia and joined in the assault.
The Romans fought desperately. To be beaten by these rough, untrained warriors would humble their pride in the dust.
The Gauls, too, strained every nerve to win. To be beaten by the Roman legions would mean the loss of home, of country, of freedom.
For four days the battle raged, and then at length the well-trained troops of Rome were victorious.
The Gallic army had been cut to pieces, and Vercingetorix and a few men pushed back into Alesia. Escape was now impossible.
Then Vercingetorix, with rare courage, offered to give himself up to the Romans, that his followers might go free, and not one voice was raised to bid him stay.
Too heedless of his life, now that his country was lost, the young Gaul did not wait to send before him a herald of peace.
Mounting his war-horse, he rode away alone into Cæsar’s camp, and found the great general seated on his tribunal to give judgment.
Dismounting in silence, Vercingetorix threw his weapons at the feet of his conqueror; then flinging himself down beside them, he pleaded for mercy.
But Julius Cæsar had no pity. Rome’s stern motto was ‘Vae Victis,’ Woe to the vanquished!
Vercingetorix was loaded with chains and taken to Rome. For six long years he was there in a dungeon.
Then, when Cæsar came to Rome to give thanks to the gods for his victories, Vercingetorix was led, with other prisoners, in the triumphal procession. Afterwards he was taken back to his dungeon and beheaded.
After Vercingetorix had given himself up to Cæsar the war still dragged on, but without their young chief the Gauls fought ever more and more listlessly. By the end of the year 51 B.C. the country was subdued. Cæsar treated the conquered people kindly, and even enrolled among his own troops Gauls whose bravery he had proved.
One legion, too, he formed almost wholly of the conquered people, calling it the ‘Alauda’ or ‘Lark.’ For on their helmets the soldiers of this legion had engraved the figure of a lark, the old Gallic symbol of wakefulness.
FOR FIVE CENTURIES GAUL WAS now ruled by the Romans. The people hated their conquerors, for they were forced to pay them taxes, and until now, 50 B.C., they had been free, owing obedience to none. Taxes were to them the sign of their bondage.
Yet the Romans were not cruel to the people they had conquered. Indeed, they taught them many useful things, so that gradually the people became less wild and savage. Instead of mud huts they learned to build comfortable houses, and soon they possessed cities of which they were proud. They drained the dreary marshlands, made good roads and built bridges. They even dressed as did their conquerors, and spoke their language.
Many of the great forests, too, were cut down, and thus the wild beasts gradually disappeared, so that, instead of wild hogs, quiet sheep were to be seen browsing in the fields.
You remember that the winters in Gaul were bitterly cold. Now, as the forests were gradually cut down, the rays of the sun reached the earth and warmed it, so that the weather grew less severe.
In the south of Gaul the Romans then began to plant vines. These took root and spread, so that when Gaul became France the vine was already known all over the southern part of the country. Olives, too, began to be cultivated, and the olive crops were soon as valuable as the corn crops.
Finding that the Druids, those mysterious white-robed priests, encouraged the Gauls to offer human sacrifices, the Romans banished them from the land. But while the Romans did their utmost to stamp out the ancient Druidical worship, in later years they brought to the Gauls a new religion, for about the year 244 A.D. Rome sent seven bishops into Gaul.
Little by little the Gospel spread among the fierce Gallic warriors, moving them sometimes to love and always to wonder, so strangely in their ears rang the tidings of peace and goodwill to man.
About seven years after the bishops reached Gaul, a church was founded at Paris, which in these far-off days was called Lutetia.
Lutetia had already become the capital of northern Gaul, and from this city the Christian religion began in 251A.D. to spread rapidly all over the land.
Meanwhile the power of the Romans was growing less and less. And the wild barbarian tribes across the Rhine thought that now was the time to sweep down upon Gaul, and wrench her from the nation whose legions they had been used to fear.
The Germans, as these wild tribes were named, were in appearance much like the Gallic tribes they had come to conquer.
For the Germans had blue eyes and long yellow hair like the Gauls, although they were much taller than they, while over the Romans they towered like giants.
But while the Gauls wore bright colours and adorned themselves with ornaments, the Germans were content to wear only a rough skin, which they fastened round their bodies with a skewer or pin.
In other ways, too, the tribes were unlike each other, in spite of blue eyes and yellow hair.
The Gauls were ever ready to talk, to tell of their wonderful deeds, which deeds had not always taken place; for the Gaul’s imagination was as vivid as the clothes he liked to wear.
The Germans did not boast, indeed they talked but little. Yet they were determined and constant, and seldom failed in what they set their will to do.
In their home life, too, the Gauls and Germans had different customs. One of these was that the Gauls were served by slaves, whom they treated as they treated their beasts, while those who waited on the Germans sat round the hearths of their masters, and were treated as friends and comrades.
Three chief German tribes overran Gaul-the Visigoths, the Burgundians, and the Franks.
Julian, the Roman emperor, in 355 A.D. found that all his strength was needed to fight the Franks, who were the most powerful of the three German tribes. In spite of all he could do, however, northern Gaul was soon seized and held by these wild ambitious Germans.
The emperor therefore went himself to the north, and set up his court at Paris, or Lutetia, as this small village, built on a little island in the river Seine, was then called. He hoped by his presence to subdue the Franks.
But his hope was vain, and in 357 A.D. Lutetia itself, which Julian loved for its sea breezes and its vines and figs, was filled with Franks, and the emperor was forced to admit them to his court, and even to employ them in his army.
So great became the power of these persistent Franks, that in 387 A.D. Argobast, one of their chiefs, became Emperor of the West in all but name. The real emperor was Theodosius, but Argobast was powerful enough to put his own followers into every position of trust in the kingdom.
When Theodosius died, his successor Valentinian was determined to get rid of Argobast. He thought it would be a simple matter to depose the Frank, and himself handed him a writ or paper, bidding him give up all claim to the imperial throne.
With true Frankish scorn for his enemy, Argobast tore up the writ, trampled it beneath his feet in the presence of Valentinian, and then went on his way as before.
When, a short time after this, Valentinian was strangled as he slept, Argobast put Eugenius, who had been a school master on the emperor’s seat. He himself took the highest position next to the emperor, being called a ‘Mayor of the Palace.’
In 394 A.D. Argobast, who was a pagan, led the emperor’s forces to battle against the Christians in Gaul.
Eugenius, who himself was on the battlefield, was lulled and his army utterly defeated. Then Argobast fearing that he might be captured and slain by the enemy, fell upon his sword and died.
In northern Gaul the Franks were now more powerful than the Romans. In the south the Visigoths and Burgundians. the other great German tribes, had made a home for themselves, and were living more or less peaceably among the Romans and Gauls. The country might therefore soon have been at peace, but in 450 A.D. a barbarous people called the Huns invaded the land. The Huns came from the east, where they had already laid waste country and town. They had no wish to conquer Gaul and settle in it. All they cared for was to conquer and destroy.
‘The Huns were led by their king, Attila, who was so cruel that he was named ‘The Scourge of God.’
Against so dread a foe all the different tribes in Gaul united, being led by Theodoric, a Visigoth, and Aetius, a Roman general. It was a conflict on which much depended, for should the Huns conquer Gaul they would attack Spam, Italy and finally rule over the whole western world.
Meanwhile, in the summer of 451 A.D., Attila besieged Orleans. The town was considered sacred in those days and was called Aureliacum.
For a time the city held out bravely, but at length the bishop sent a message to Aetius, saying, l If thou be not here this very day, my son, it will be too late.’
Yet still Aetius did not come, and Orleans was forced to surrender. As the Huns began to plunder the city, however, loud shouts rent the air. Aetius and Theodoric had come at last. They fell upon the Huns so fiercely that Attila was forced to retreat.
At length they reached the plains of Chalons-sur-Marne. Aetius and Theodoric, who had followed, were now close behind. Attila ordered his men to halt. He was determined to fight and overthrow the bold Roman, the undaunted Visigoth, who had forced him to leave Orleans, his hardly won prize.
On the plains of Chalons-sur-Marne a terrible battle then began. All afternoon and evening the struggle lasted. Theodoric was slain, and when night came those who had fallen were too many to be numbered.
Aetius and his followers were victorious. Attila, expecting that his camp would be attacked, made ready a great funeral-pyre on which he meant to die rather than be captured by the Romans and Franks. But Aetius was worn out after the battle, and the Huns were free to retreat across the Rhine. Thus the country was saved from King Attila and his barbarous followers.
Gaul was now no longer a province of Rome. The German tribes had gradually taken possession of the country. Rome, indeed, had fallen on such evil days, that she soon ceased to have an emperor of her own. Even as her first emperor was a Romulus, so was her last, who in 476 A.D. was deposed. There was now no Emperor of the West, the Emperor of the East ruling supreme from the Bosphorus, until the year 800 A.D., when, as you shall hear, Charles the Great became the head of the Holy Roman Empire with the title ‘Emperor of Rome.’
AMONG THE FRANKS WHO HAD settled in northern Gaul, the Salian Franks were the strongest. The heads of the Salian Franks were called Merwings or Merovingians.
It is said that Meroveus, one of these Merwings, was a sea-king, and you will remember his name because the kings of his race were called after him the Merovingians.
Meroveus had long yellow hair reaching to his shoulders, so the kings of his line always wore their hair long. Indeed, one of the titles of the Frankish kings was ‘Long-Haired.’ By degrees these long locks became a sign of royalty; to have them shorn a token of disgrace.
Whether Meroveus Was really a sea-king or not, his son Childeric was certainly king of the Salian Franks, and died in 481 A.D., leaving his son Clovis, a boy of fifteen, to succeed him.
Clovis might not have become king because he was Childeric’s son, but the lad had already shown on the battlefield that he was strong and could be brave. The warriors of his tribe therefore chose him, by vote, to be their king. To let the people know on whom their choice had fallen, they placed Clovis on their shields and Carried him thus through their towns and villages.
At fifteen years of age the lad was king of only a small tribe of Salian Franks; by the time he was forty-five years of age he had won all Gaul for himself and his Frankish warriors.
The only Roman governor left in northern Gaul when Clovis became king was Syagrius. He was rash enough to proclaim himself prince of the province of Soissons.
But the young king of the Franks would have no Roman, or, for the matter of that, no Frank either, ruling in opposition to him. He called his warriors together in 486 A.D. and declared war against Syagrius. Then shouting their fierce battle-cry, clashing their iron javelins upon their great white shields, the Franks set out to fight the Roman.
Syagrius did his utmost to defend his province, but neither skill nor strength was of any use before the furious onslaught of the Franks. The Roman governor was taken and secretly put to death, while Clovis established his capital at Soissons.
This success roused the ambition of Clovis. He sent his warriors out all over the country, bidding them lay waste those provinces that refused to own him as their lord.
In this way Gaul was gradually won for the king of the Franks, and the country which was ruled by the king of the Franks now, in 496 A.D., began to be known as France.
As the king’s kingdom grew larger, his power also became greater. Before long it was plain that Clovis meant to use his power.
The king was a pagan, that is, he worshipped idols, as did also his followers. But, as you know, the Romans had brought the teaching of Christ to Gaul, and here and there churches had been built in which to worship Him. These churches were already rich and held many treasures.
Clovis, being a pagan, did not hesitate to enter the churches and seize their treasures, whenever there was an opportunity to do so.
There was a law among the Franks, that all the booty taken in war should be equally divided among the warriors, the king taking his share by lot, as did the others.
One day Clovis’s warriors came to a town called Rheims. Here there was a church which contained, among other treasures, a beautiful vase. It was said to be ‘of marvellous size and beauty.’ The soldiers did not fear to add the vase to their booty.
The Bishop of Rheims had sent his good wishes to Clovis when he was chosen king, and Clovis had been pleased with the priest’s kindness.
When the bishop heard that the church at Rheims had been sacked, and that the vase had been carried away, he sent a messenger to the king, begging that all the church’s treasures might be sent back, but if that could not be, that at least the vase ‘of marvellous size and beauty’ should be returned.
Clovis, pagan though he was, wished to please the bishop, and bade the messenger go with him to Soissons, where the booty was to be divided.
When they reached the capital, the plunder was piled up in a great heap, and round it stood the host commanded by the king.
Clovis, determined to please the bishop, stepped forward and said, ‘Valiant warriors, I pray thee not to refuse me, over and above my share, this vase,’ and he pointed to the one which the bishop valued so greatly.
The Franks, who were proud of their king because he led them always to victory, answered his appeal right royally.
‘Glorious king,’ they cried, ‘everything we see here is thine, and we ourselves are submissive to thy command. Do thou as seemeth good to thee, for there is none that can resist thy power.’
You can imagine how pleased Clovis was as he listened to the words of his brave warriors.
But among these warriors was one who thought it would be a fine thing to defy his king. He broke from the ranks and struck the beautiful vase with his battle-axe, so that it was broken in half. Then pointing to the pile of booty, he shouted, ‘Thou shalt have naught of all this, O king, save what the lots shall truly give thee.’
Clovis took no notice of the soldier’s rudeness. It seemed as though he had not heard, for he took the broken vase and gave it to the bishop’s messenger.
But punishment was yet to be meted out to the insolent soldier. Some months later, Clovis ordered his battle host to assemble, that he might, as was his custom, inspect their arms. All went well until the king came to the soldier who had struck the vase.
Before him the king lingered, looking at his lance, his sword, his battle-axe. Then stern and loud he spoke: “None hath brought hither arms so ill-kept as thine, nor lance, nor sword, nor battle-axe are fit for service” and snatching the battle-axe from the soldier’s hand, Clovis flung it to the ground.
As the warrior stooped to pick it up, the king seized his own battle-axe, swung it high above his head, and bringing it down upon the soldier’s neck, said, ‘Thus diddest thou to the vase at Soissons.’
Rough as the times were, the king’s deed filled his warriors with fear.
Now as Clovis journeyed through his land, he heard of a beautiful princess named Clotilde. Clotilde was a Christian, yet Clovis, the worshipper of idols, determined to marry her.
The bishops and priests were pleased that Clovis should marry Clotilde. They thought that for the love he bore his wife the king would soon become a Christian, and the bishops wished the powerful young monarch to be on their side. When the priests told Clovis the story of Christ’s death upon the Cross, he cried, “Had I and my Franks been there we would have avenged the wrong.’
Clotilde also longed to see her husband give up his idols and often she would plead with him to pray to the true God. But the years passed, and still Clovis clung to his idols.
At length the queen had a little son. She begged Clovis to let their child be baptized by the Bishop of Rheims. Perhaps in her heart she hoped that Clovis would himself be baptized with his boy.
Ofttimes she said to the king, ‘The gods you worship are naught and can do naught for themselves or others: they are of wood or stone or metal.’
Clovis loved Clotilde well, and although he was not yet willing to give up his gods, he could not refuse to let their little son be baptized as Clotilde wished. So the bishop came to the palace, and the child was baptized in the name of Christ.
The queen was glad, and looked more beautiful than ever in her joy. But in a little while her joy faded, for her little son grew ill and died.
To add to Clotilde’s grief Clovis reproached her. In his pain he scarce knew what he said.
‘Had the child been dedicated to my gods he would have been alive,’ he muttered. ‘He was baptized in the name of your God and could not live.’
Clotilde answered gently, ‘bear up against my sorrow, because I believe in the wisdom and goodness of the true God. Our little babe is with the whitest angels in heaven.’
Then Clovis grew ashamed and silent before the patience of Clotilde. When another little son was bom he also was baptized, and as he grew strong and lusty, Clovis began to think more kindly of Christ.
Shouting his war-cry anew, Clovis once again led his men against the foe, and lo! the victory was his.
When Clotilde heard how the battle had been won, she was glad, but gladder still she grew as the day drew near on which her lord would be baptized.
From the palace to the church the royal procession walked when the great day dawned, the bishop leading the king by the hand as a little child. Following the king came the queen, more joyous than on her bridal morn, while behind her pressed the people. They, too, were going to be baptized with Clovis.
So great was the splendour prepared for the royal procession that, as he passed along the road from the palace to the church, the king said to the bishop, father, is not this itself that heaven which you have promised me?’
With Clovis were baptized three thousand of his warriors as well as many women and children.
After his baptism the king went back to his wars, for he could not rest until he had brought all Gaul under his own rule. But now, when he went forth to battle, Clovis no longer invoked his old gods of wood and stone; instead, he prayed to one of the saints of the Christian Church.
Soon after he became a Christian, Clovis went to Paris. And there, in the city which the Emperor Julian had loved for its sea breezes, its vines and figs, Clovis established his capital.
The work of the king was now nearly over. But before he died, Clovis confessed all the evil he had done, and knowing that he had often been cruel and unjust, he said that he had need of a ‘large pardon.’
It was in the grey autumn days of the year 511 A.D.that King Clovis died at Paris, and was buried in a church which had been built by his wife Clotilde.
And you will remember that to Clovis belongs the glory of founding the kingdom of France, and of making it a Christian land.
After the death of Clovis, northern France was divided among his four sons.
One of these died, leaving behind him three little boys, who lived with their grandmother Clotilde. The little princes loved their grandmother, and were as happy as three little boys could be.
One day a messenger came to Queen Clotilde from two of her sons, Clotair and Hildebert, saying, ‘Send thou the children to us that we may place them upon their father’s throne.’
Clotilde was pleased to do as her sons wished, for she thought she was too old to guard the children well. So, after making a little feast for the princes, she sent them away, never dreaming that any harm could befall them when they were in their uncle’s care.
But no sooner had the children reached their uncles than the servants and tutors who had come with them were sent away, while they were shut up in a gloomy room all by themselves.
Then Clotair and Hildebert sent a messenger to Clotilde, bearing in his hands a pair of shears or scissors and a naked sword.
‘Most glorious queen,’ said the messenger when he was shown into her presence, ‘thy sons and masters desire to know thy will touching these children. Wilt thou that they live with shorn hair or that they be put to death?’ You remember that to cut off a prince’s long locks was to take from him the sign of his royal birth, when as a rule he entered the Church and became a priest.
Clotilde was so angry and dismayed at this strange message, that scarce knowing what she said, she cried, ‘If my grandsons are not placed upon their father’s throne I would rather see them dead,’ and the poor queen wrung her hands and wept bitterly.
But the messenger hastened away, and although he knew that Clotilde had not really meant what she said, he told his master that the queen was pleased that the children should be put to death.
Clotair and Hildebert, the two cruel uncles, then sent for the little princes. The eldest, who was only ten years old, began to cry bitterly when he saw that his uncle Clotair held a hunting knife in his hand, but his voice was speedily silenced.
Then the second little prince, who was only seven years old, clung to his uncle Hildebert, begging that he might not be slain as his brother had been. For a moment it seemed as though Hildebert would try to save his little nephew.
But Clotair cried, ‘Thrust the child from thee, or thou diest in his stead.’ And Hildebert was afraid, and tried no more to shield his little nephew. Then he too was speedily put to death.
Amid the crowd of cruel men who looked on at Clotair’s cruel deeds, one was struck with pity for the little prince who was left. He suddenly caught the child up in his arms and fled with him into the country.
When he was a few years older the prince was taken to church, where his locks were shorn, and in after-days he became a saint. When he became a saint he was named St. Cloud. To-day, close to Paris, on the banks of the Seine, there is a town called St. Cloud, after this little prince who became a saint.
Queen Clotilde wept bitterly when she heard of the death of her two grandsons, and never did she forgive herself for the hasty words she had spoken.
But Clotair and Hildebert divided their nephews’ kingdom, and paid no heed to their mother’s tears.
Clovis, you remember, ruled as a king over the Franks, but Clotair was ruled by his warriors, for, many years after the death of the little princes, he refused to lead his people to battle, wishing rather to make peace with the Saxons, a German tribe which had come from the mouth of the Elbe, and was harrying the land.
But the Franks would have nothing to do with so cowardly a king, for such, in truth, they deemed him. They set a guard upon Clotair, tore his tent into pieces, and hurled scorn upon his fears. Then they carried him to the head of his army, saying that if he would not march upon the enemy they would kill him. So Clotair was forced to give battle. But the Saxons fought as men fight for home and country, slaying their foes in great numbers, until even the fierce Franks were themselves glad to sue for peace.
In 558 A.D. Hildebert died, and Clotair then ruled over all the Franks. From this time until his death in 561 he was engaged in wars with different tribes. At last he was stricken with fever, and as he tossed upon his couch he cried, ‘O how great must be the King of Heaven, if He can thus kill so mighty a king as I.’
After Clotair’s death the kingdom of the Franks was again divided into four parts. The kings who ruled during the next fifty years committed so many cruel deeds and did so little for their country, that there is nothing to tell you about them in this story. But during these years two queens lived, whose wicked lives have made their names well known in history.
Brunhilda and Fredegonda had each married a grandchild of King Clovis. From the first they hated and were jealous of one another,
When by chance Brunhilda fell into Fredegonda’s power the jealous queen sent her rival Brunhilda to prison, from which, however, she was rescued by a man who loved her. In vain did Fredegonda try again to capture her prisoner.’ Brunhilda had escaped beyond the reach of the angry queen.
In 584 A.D. it is said that Fredegonda murdered her husband. Many other crimes she certainly committed, but at length in 597 A.D. she died, leaving her son, Clotair II., to rule over part of the Frankish kingdom.
Brunhilda lived still for many years, and during these later years she grew more and more powerful. She also did much good, building churches, and giving alms to the poor. There were many of these who mourned for her after her death.
When she was eighty years of age, Brunhilda fell into the hands of Fredegonda’s son, Clotair II., who was now king of all the Franks. Clotair was Brunhilda’s enemy for the old queen had been hated by his mother, and had also, when she was powerful, wrested many provinces from his kingdom. In 618 A.D. he ordered Brunhilda, whose age alone might have aroused his compassion, to be tied to the tail of a wild horse. In this cruel way the poor old queen was trampled to death.
In 628 A.D. Clotair II. died, and Dagobert, his son, at once seized the throne. The times were rough, yet the new king ruled so wisely that he was loved and obeyed by his people.
As he journeyed through his kingdom, he would stop at the towns and villages, that the people might come to tell him their troubles. And because the king was just, and punished the rich if they disobeyed his laws as well as the poor, the nobles did not dare to oppress their vassals so much as they had been used to do.
The king encouraged his people, too, to build churches and to adorn them with the work of skilful goldsmiths.
Because of his justice and his kindness the fame of Dagobert spread all over the land. While he lived his people called him ‘Great King Dagobert’ and for many years after his death his name was remembered with reverence.
CLOVIS, YOU WILL REMEMBER, WAS the first of the Merovingian monarchs. Dagobert was the last who was worthy to bear the name of king.
After the death of Dagobert twelve princes of his race ruled, but little is remembered of them save only their names.
They were weak and lazy, these Merovingian kings; indeed, they became so lazy that they were called the ‘Sluggard Kings,’ and sluggard is a name which no one, and least of all a king, should ever bear.
These sluggard or do-nothing kings sat upon the throne and pretended to rule.
If an ambassador from a distant land came to the court of France, he was brought into the king’s presence to deliver his message. And the do-nothing king would seem to listen, but when he answered, the words he spoke were those that had been put into his mouth by his chief minister.
The chief minister of these Merovingian kings was called the Mayor of the Palace. At first these mayors were only stewards of high rank, but when they saw the weakness and laziness of the kings, then, little by little, they seized upon the power which was slipping from the hands of the listless race of Meroveus, and became the real rulers of the land.
You will be almost sorry for these kings, in spite of their foolish lazy ways, when you hear how they were treated by the Mayors of the Palace.
To begin with, the kings had no money, save a small sum which was given to them by the mayor, and even the amount of that varied according to the minister’s mood.
The kings owned no palaces, but were lodged in poorly furnished houses in the country, and there they held their dreary court, surrounded by a few roughly dressed servants.
When they wished to drive, no carriage was ordered for these make-believe kings. A cart drawn by a yoke of oxen and guided by a cowherd was the only chariot they knew.
One of the most powerful of the mayors was named Pepin. Pepin was a duke, and although he never tried to change his title to king, he could easily have done so had he wished.
For twenty-seven years Duke Pepin ruled France. While a lazy, shadowy figure sat upon the throne and was called king, Pepin led the warriors forth to battle. And when the Pope, as the Bishop of Rome was now called, sent teachers or missionaries into France, it was Pepin who protected them from the fierce German tribes who were still wandering over the country.
As Christmastide drew near in the year 714 A.D. Pepin died. His son Charles now became Mayor of the Palace.
Charles seemed to think that the Franks could not be ruled unless a king was on the throne. He therefore saw to it that one of the sluggard kings should still sit there, for well he knew that such a king would not interfere with him.
A strong ruler was needed in France, for the country was threatened with a great danger. The Saracens or Arabs, followers of the Prophet Mahomet and enemies of the Cross, had spread all over the southern world.
In India they had taught their faith and put to death those who refused to accept it. In Spain, too, they had forced their faith upon the people, and in 718 A.D.possessed most of that country.
Then in 782 A.D. the Saracens determined to cross the Pyrenees, the mountains that separated Spain from France.
This was the great danger that threatened the country. And you will remember that Charles, in fighting against the Saracens, was fighting for the Christian faith as well as in defence of his country.
The Saracens, having crossed the Pyrenees, fell upon the town of Bordeaux and sacked it. They then crossed the river Garonne, and laid waste the province of Aquitaine.