Romance | Page 6

to preserve and
increase are no part of their care. They are strangers and pilgrims in the
country where they pitch their tent for a night. How dare they spend

time on cherishing the painted veil called Life, when their desires are
fixed on what it conceals? When Tacitus called the Christian religion "a
deadly superstition," he spoke as a true Roman, a member of the race of
Empire- builders. His subtle political instinct scented danger from those
who looked with coldness on the business and desire of this world. The
Christian faith, which presents no social difficulties while it is
professed here and there by a lonely saint or seer, is another thing when
it becomes the formal creed of a nation. The Christians themselves
knew that to cut themselves off from the country of their birth would
have been a fatal choice, so far as this world is concerned. Their
ultimate decision was to accept Roman civilization and Roman culture,
and to add Christianity to it.
Then followed an age-long attempt to Christianize Latin literature, to
supply believers with a new poetry, written in polished and
accomplished verse, and inspired by Christian doctrine. Of those who
attempted this task, Prudentius is perhaps the greatest name. The
attempt could never have been very successful; those who write in
Latin verse must submit to be judged, not by the truth of their teaching,
but by the formal beauties of their prosody, and the wealth of their
allusive learning. Even Milton, zealot though he be, is esteemed for his
manner rather than for his matter. But the experiment was cut short by
the barbarian invasions. When the Empire was invaded, St. Jerome and
St. Augustine, Prudentius and Symmachus, Claudian and Paulinus of
Nola, were all alive. These men, in varying degrees, had compounded
and blended the two elements, the pagan and the Christian. The two
have been compounded ever since. The famous sevententh century
controversy concerning the fitness of sacred subjects for poetic
treatment is but a repetition and an echo of that older and more vital
difference. The two strains could never be perfectly reconciled, so that
a certain impurity and confusion was bequeathed to modern European
literature, not least to English literature. Ours is a great and various
literature, but its rarest virtue is simplicity. Our best ballads and lyrics
are filled with the matter of faith, but as often as we try the larger kinds
of poetry, we inevitably pass over into reminiscence, learning,
criticism,--in a word, culture.

The barbarians seized, or were granted, land; and settled down under
their chiefs. They accepted Christianity, and made it into a warlike
religion. They learned and "corrupted" the Latin language. In their
dialects they had access neither to the literature of ancient Rome, nor to
the imitative scholarly Christian literature, poetry and homily, which
competed with it. Latin continued to be the language of religion and
law. It was full of terms and allusions which meant nothing to them.
They knew something of government,--not of the old republic, but of
their own men and estates. They believed wholly and simply in
Christianity, especially the miraculous part of it. To them (as to all
whom it has most profoundly influenced) it was not a philosophy, but a
history of marvellous events. When, by the operation of society, their
dialect had formed itself, a new literature, unlike anything that had
flourished in ancient Rome, grew up among them. This was Romance,
the great literary form of the Middle Ages. It was a sincere literature,
expressive of their pride in arms and their simple religious faith. The
early songs and ballads, chanted in the Romance speech, have all
perished. From a later time there have come down to us the Chansons
de Geste, narrative poems composed by the professional caste of poets
to celebrate the deeds and adventures of the knights who fought the
battles of Charlemagne against the Saracen invader.
The note of this Romance literature is that it was actual, modern,
realistic, at a time when classical literature had become a remote
convention of bookish culture. It was sung in the banqueting-hall, while
Latin poetry was read in the cells of monks. It flourished enormously,
and extended itself to all the matter of history and legend, to King
Arthur, Theseus, Alexander, ancient heroes and warriors who were
brought alive again in the likeness of knights and emperors. Its triumph
was so complete, that its decadence followed swiftly. Like the creatures
that live in the blood of man, literary forms and species commonly die
of their own excess. Romances were multiplied, and imitated;
professional poets, not content with marvels that had now become
familiar, sought for a new sensation in extravagant language and
incident. The tales became more and more sophisticated, elaborate,
grotesque, and