FOOTNOTES:

Scientific Studies and Chronicle Writing

The good monks have perhaps made their best progress in botany and geology. Some of the brethren have gathered collections of curious minerals, of herbs, and also of dried bird and animal skins; although the interest seems to be in the healing qualities of various substances rather than in the nature of the things themselves. Thus it is certain that figs are good for wounds and broken bones; aloes stops hair from falling; the root of mandrake will make women love you; and plenty of sage in a garden somehow protects the owner from premature death. As for geology, that consists of the collecting and arranging of curious stones. It is of course settled in Genesis that the world was made in a very few days. The infidel Avincenna has indeed advanced the theory that mountains are caused by the upheaval of the earth's crust and by action of water. One must hesitate, however, about believing this. It seems hardly compatible with Holy Writ.

On the other hand, the books on animals unhesitatingly tell about remarkable creatures which are mentioned inAristotle or in Pliny or by the Arabs. Unicorns, phœnixes, and dragons are well understood, likewise sea monsters, as, for example, great krakens, which drag down ships with their tentacles, sirens or mermaids, and finally "sea bishops" (probably a kind of seal) which piously "bless" their human victims before devouring them.

Besides the study of these older books, the monks are writing certain books themselves. The most important is the great chronicle, begun some years ago by the learned Brother Emeri. It commences with the creation of the world and Adam and Eve, tells about the Greeks and Romans and Charlemagne and his heirs, and then in much greater detail gives the recent history of the Duchy of Quelqueparte, the happenings at the abbey, and also much about the barons of St. Aliquis. Emeri is now dead, but the chronicle is continued from year to year. It is really a compendium of varied learning. From it, for example, you learn all about the wars of Julius Cæsar, the Crusades, the great lawsuit of ten years ago over some of the abbey lands, the feud between Conon and Foretvert, and how in 1216 a two-headed calf was born on a neighboring barony, and in 1217 a meteor struck near Pontdebois.

The Latin in this chronicle is, on the whole, very good, sometimes almost equal to Livy's, and the story is embellished by constant citations not merely of Virgil and Horace, but of Homer and Plato. One would suppose from this that the authors were familiar with Greek. Such, however, is by no means the case. All the quotations from Greek authors and many of their Latin ones are taken from commonplace books. Nevertheless, the narrative seems the more elegant for this borrowed learning. The monks are proud of their chronicle andnever fail to boast how much more complete, accurate, and erudite it is than similar works compiled at the rival institutions.

When the monks are not actually studying, they are often copying. St. Aliquis has more than two hundred volumes in its library. Parchment is very expensive, but very durable. When the abbot sees his way to procure material for another volume, he is likely to send to some friendly convent to borrow a book which his monks do not yet possess. Then some of the most skillful brethren are put to work making a copy, if possible more beautiful than the original. In from six months to a year the work will probably be finished, although, if a duplicate is to be made of a work already on hand, there will be less haste and the process may extend over years.[100]

Copying is an excellent means of propitiating Heaven. St. Bernard said emphatically, "Every word which you write is a blow which smites the devil," and Cassiodorus, much earlier, asserted: "By the exercise of the mind upon the Holy Scriptures you convey to those who read a kind of moral instruction. You preach with the hand, converting the hand into an organ of speech—thus, as it were, fighting the arch-fiend with pen and ink."

Parchment, we have said, is a costly article. To provide a single book scores of sheep must die. A new style of writing material, however, is just coming into vogue. Paper, a substance made of linen cloth, now is being produced in small quantities in France, although, asusual, it seems to have been an invention of the Arab Infidels. Some day, perhaps, paper will become so plentiful and cheap that books can be multiplied in vast numbers, but as yet practically everything has to be on parchment, which is certainly far less destructible than paper, whatever the cost.[101]

Elegant Manuscripts and Binding

In the cloister alcoves a dozen copyists are pursuing their task with infinite patience. Their question is not "how fast?" but "how well?"—for they are performing "a work unto God." As a rule, they write their sheets in two columns, making their characters either in roundish minuscule or in squarer Gothic. The initials are in bright colors—some with a background of gold. Here and there may be painted in a brilliant miniature illustration. The work of the best copyists is beautifully legible. The scribes put their heart and soul into their productions. They expect the volumes will be memorials to their faithfulness and piety scores of years after they are departed.

When the sheets are completed, the book is bound in leather much the same as in other ages, although sometimes the sides are of wood. In any case, there are likely to be metal clasps and bosses of brass upon the covers. A few of the most precious volumes are adorned with plates of silver or carved ivory. So year by year the library grows. It need not be remarked that every copy isreadandrereadwith devoted thoroughness. What the learning of the Feudal Age, therefore, lacks in breadth is somewhat compensated for by intensity. The older and more studious monks know almost by heartallthe facts in their entire collection. The younger brethren revere them as carrying in their own headspractically everything significant in the way of worldly wisdom.[102]

Thus we catch some glimpse of the superficial and material side of a typical monastic establishment. Into its spiritual and intellectual atmosphere we cannot find time to penetrate. Our present duty is to "return to the world" and to examine the oft-mentioned but as yet unvisited Good Town of Pontdebois.

FOOTNOTES:[96]Abbots and their advocates were continually having friction over their respective prerogatives. If Victor and Conon got along in fair harmony, they were somewhat exceptional both as prelate and as seigneur.[97]See also p.319.[98]A great abbey like Cluny would have so many lay servitors that it could dispense with manual labor by the monks, save where personal aptitude was lacking for anything else.[99]The result was that French was able to develop as a very forceful, expressive language, unspoiled by pedantry, before many serious books were written in the vernacular. The same was somewhat true also of English, German, and other modern tongues.[100]This would be especially true of copies of the Bible, of which every abbey would have at least one example; and additional specimens would be prepared very deliberately with the intention of making the new work just as beautiful and permanent as possible.[101]The introduction of paper was, of course, absolutely necessary, if the invention of printing were to have any real value.[102]It is perhaps proper to say that Dante (1265-1321), a person, of course, of remarkable intellect, was able to master theentire fundof learned information and science available in his time. This was not true of the next great mediæval scholar, Petrarch (1304-71). By his period the supply of human knowledge had become too vast for any one brain. Petrarch had to become a specialist.

[96]Abbots and their advocates were continually having friction over their respective prerogatives. If Victor and Conon got along in fair harmony, they were somewhat exceptional both as prelate and as seigneur.

[97]See also p.319.

[98]A great abbey like Cluny would have so many lay servitors that it could dispense with manual labor by the monks, save where personal aptitude was lacking for anything else.

[99]The result was that French was able to develop as a very forceful, expressive language, unspoiled by pedantry, before many serious books were written in the vernacular. The same was somewhat true also of English, German, and other modern tongues.

[100]This would be especially true of copies of the Bible, of which every abbey would have at least one example; and additional specimens would be prepared very deliberately with the intention of making the new work just as beautiful and permanent as possible.

[101]The introduction of paper was, of course, absolutely necessary, if the invention of printing were to have any real value.

[102]It is perhaps proper to say that Dante (1265-1321), a person, of course, of remarkable intellect, was able to master theentire fundof learned information and science available in his time. This was not true of the next great mediæval scholar, Petrarch (1304-71). By his period the supply of human knowledge had become too vast for any one brain. Petrarch had to become a specialist.

As the summer advances, Conon, his baroness, and his familiars make their annual visit to the great fair always held at this time at Pontdebois. Practically nothing except wheat, cattle, and a few like staples are ordinarily bought and sold in or around St. Aliquis. Of course, a messenger can be sent to the town for articles that are urgently needed, but, as a rule, the baron's family saves up all its important purchases until the fair, when many desirable things not ordinarily to be had in the city are put on sale. This present season the fair seems the more important because on account of the expensive fêtes Conon cannot afford to visit Paris and must make his purchases nearer home.

It is only a few leagues to Pontdebois, but messire travels with a considerable retinue—at least twenty men at arms well equipped, besides body servants for himself and his wife, and a long string of sumpter beasts to bring back the desired commodities, for the castle must really stock itself for the year. The baron hardly fears an attack by robbers so near to his own castle and to a friendly town, but he takes no chances. The best of seigneurs disclaim any responsibility for the fate of travelers who proceed by night, and one sire who controls some miles of the way has possibly a quiet understanding with certain outlaws that they may lurk in his forests and watch the roads without too muchquestioning, provided they refrain from outrages upon important people and make him liberal presents at Christmas and Easter.[103]In any case, a number of merchants, packmen, and other humble travelers who had gone safely as far as St. Aliquis, are glad to complete the journey in the baron's formidable company. Conon in turn gladly protects them; it adds to his prestige to approach Pontdebois with a great following.

The roads are no worse than elsewhere, yet they are abominable; trails and muddy ruts they seem most of the year, ordinarily passable only for horses and mules, although in the summer rude two-wheeled carts can bump along them. To cross the streams you must, in some places, depend on fords very dangerous in the springtime. One unfordable river, entering the Claire, is indeed crossed by a rude wooden bridge. The building of bridges is fostered by the Church. A great indulgence was proclaimed by the bishop some years ago when this bridge was constructed as a pious work, especially useful for pilgrims. Unfortunately, no one is responsible for its upkeep. It is falling into disrepair, and already is so tottering that as men pass over it they repeat those formulas, "commending their souls to God," which the Church provides for use whenever one is attempting unstable bridges.

Travelers and Inns

On the journey you meet many humble travelers obliged to trudge weary miles. There is a poor peasant seeking a farm now on a distant seigneury. He has a donkey to carry some of his household gear and one of the children. His wife is painfully carrying the youngest infant. The poor man himself staggers under a greatsack. Travelers of more consequence ride horseback, with a large mail or leathern portmanteau tied on their beast's crupper. Their burdens are heavy because one often has to spend the night in abominable quarters, and consequently must, if possible, carry flint, steel, and tinder for making a fire, some kind of bedding, and very often a tent. Along the road, too, are any quantity of beggars, real or pretended cripples and other deformed persons, wandering about and living on charity; or blind men with staffs and dogs. The beggars' disguise is a favorite one for robbers. The wretches, too, who whine their, "Alms, Messire! Alms!" and hold up a wrist minus the hand, or point to where an eye has been gouged out, probably have suffered just punishments for crimes, although some of them may have mutilated themselves merely in order to work on the sympathies of the gullible.

As the party approaches Pontdebois the houses become better and closer together, and just outside the gate is a group of taverns, available for those who prefer to carouse or lodge without rather than within the city walls. Conon is on terms of hospitality with a rich burgher who has found the baron's favor profitable, and he leads his company promptly inside the gates, but many of the humbler travelers turn off to these taverns. Adela gives an aristocratic sniff of disdain as they ride past such places. They are assuredly very dirty, and from them proceeds the smell of stale wine and poor cooking. The owners, smooth, smirking men, stand by the road as travelers come in sight and begin to praise their hostelries. "Within," one of them is calling out, "are all manner of comforts, painted chambers, and soft beds packed high with white straw under soft feather mattresses. Here is your hostel for love affairs. When you retire you will fall asleep on pillows of violets, afteryou have washed out your mouth and rinsed your hands with rose water!"

His victims, however, will find themselves in a dirty public dining room, where men and women alike are drinking and dicing around the bare oaken tables. At night the guests will sleep in the few chambers, bed wedged by bed, or perhaps two in a bed, upon feathers anything but vermin-proof. In the rear of most inns, too, there is a garden where guests are urged to carouse with the unsavory females who haunt the establishments. The visitors will be lucky if they can get safely away without being made stupidly drunken and then robbed, or having the innkeeper seize their baggage or even their clothes on the pretense that they have not paid their reckoning.

Leaving these taverns at one side, the St. Aliquis company rides straight onward. Before it the spires and walls of Pontdebois are rising. The circuit of gray curtain walls and turrets reaches down to the Claire, on which barges are swinging, and across which stretches the solid wooden bridge which gives the Good Town its name. Above the walls you can see the gabled roofs of the more pretentious houses, the great round donjon, the civic watchtower, and, above all else, the soaring fabric and stately mass of the cathedral with the scaffolding still around its unfinished towers. Several smaller parish churches are also visible. The baron's company is obliged to halt at the gate, such is the influx and efflux of rickety carts, sumpter beasts, and persons thrusting across the drawbridge. "Way, good people," Conon's squires cry. "Way for Messire of St. Aliquis!" and at last, not without a cracking of whips to make these mechanic crowds know their betters, the party forces a path down the narrow streets.

Entering a City

A visit to Pontdebois is no real novelty to the castlefolk, yet they always experience a sense of bustle and vastness upon entering. Here are eight thousand, indeed, some assert ten thousand, people, all living together in a single community.[104]How confused even the saints must be when they peer from heaven and try to number this swarm of young and old, rich and poor, masters and apprentices, packed in behind one set of walls! To tell the truth, the circuit of Pontdebois is not very great; to render the walls as defensible as possible and to save expense, the fortifications have been made to inclose the smallest circumference that will answer. As a result, the land inside is precious. Houses are wedged closely together. Streets are extraordinarily narrow. People can hardly stir without colliding with others, and about the only real breathing spaces are the market place and some open ground around the cathedral. Behind the bishop's palace, also, there is a small walled-in garden. Otherwise, it appears almost as if not one green thing could grow in Pontdebois. The contrast with the open country whence the travelers have just come is therefore startling.

Even the best of the streets are dark, tortuous, and filthy. There is almost no paving.[105]The waste water of the houses is flung from the windows. Horrid offal isthus cast out, as well as the blood and refuse from the numerous slaughterhouses. Pigs are privileged as scavengers, even in the market place. The streets are the darker because the second stories of the houses project considerably over the first, the third over the second, and also the fourth and fifth (which often exist) over those lower. Consequently, there is almost a roof formed over the lanes, cutting off rain, light and air. In the upper stories, neighbors not merely can gossip, but can actually shake hands with their friends across the street. All the thoroughfares, too, are amazingly crooked, as if everybody had once built his house where it pleased him, and afterward some kind of a bypath around it had been created! At night these twisting avenues are dark as pitch. No one can get about without a lantern, and even with one it were better, if possible, to stay at home. To prevent the easy flight of thieves, it is common to stretch many heavy chains across the streets at night. Notwithstanding, footpads often lurk in the covert of black corners.

Pontdebois has few quiet residence sections. It is a community of almost nothing but little shops and little industries—the two being often combined under one roof. The shops generally open directly into the streets, with their stalls intruding on the public way like Oriental bazaars. The streets, in fact, seem to be almost the property of the merchants. Foot passengers can barely find a passage. Carts cannot traverse the town during business hours, and Conon's company on horseback might have found itself absolutely blocked had it not chanced to arrive almost precisely at noon, when the hum and bustle very suddenly cease and the worthy folk of Pontdebois forsake their counters and benches to enjoy hearty dinners.

A Rich Burgher's House

As it is, they reach the market place just as the city hangman has finished a necessary ceremony. One Lambert, a master woolen weaver, had been caught selling adulterated and dishonestly woven cloth, contrary to the statutes of his guild. The hangman has solemnly burned the offending bolts of cloth before a jeering crowd of apprentices, while Lambert's offense has been cried out with loud voice. The man is disgraced and ruined. He will have to become again a mere wage earner, or quit the city outright. His misfortune is the choice news of the hour. The smell of the burning cloth is still in the air when Conon's party rides by the pillory and halts at the house of the rich Othon Bouchaut, who is ready to receive them.

Maître Othon is one of the principal burghers. He has grown rich by importing wares from Venice, Constantinople, and the lands of the Infidels. It is scandalous (say some nobles) how he, villein born, with hands only accustomed to hold a purse or a pen, is able to talk to a great seigneur without groveling as every good peasant ought. He and his wife even wear gold lace, pearls, and costly stuffs on fête days, as if they were nobles; and they are said actually to have broken the law forbidding non-nobles to wear furs. Very deplorable, but what can be done? Othon is so rich that he can stir up trouble even for the duke. Nothing remains but to speak him fair and accept his hospitality.

This powerful merchant's house is in the marketplace. It rises five stories high, and is built of beams filled in with laths, mortar, and stucco. On the ground floor are storerooms for costly Oriental goods, and desks where the master's clerks seem forever busy with complicated accounts. On the next are the rooms for the family, and, although without the spacious magnificenceof the great hall at St. Aliquis, Adela remarks a little enviously that her host's wife enjoys many comforts and luxuries hardly known in the castle. The upper stories are full of small chambers for Othon's family, his clerks, and the younger apprentices who are learning his business. Before the front door swings the ensign of the house—a gilded mortar (in token of the powdered spices which the owner sells). The houses of Pontdebois have no numbers. The ensigns serve to identify them. One of Othon's neighbors lives at the "Crouching Cat," another at the "Tin Pot," another at the "Silver Fish," and so on all through the town.

The house of Othon also appears to be quite new, as do many others. This, however, is a doubtful sign of good fortune. Only a few years ago much of Pontdebois was burned down. The narrow streets, the thatched roofs, the absence of any means of checking a blaze save a line of buckets hastily organized, make great fires a standing menace to every city.[106]Othon complains that at any moment he may be reduced almost to beggary by the carelessness of some wretched scullery maid or tavern apprentice. He will also say that somehow in the pent-up city there is greater danger of the plague than in the country castles or even in the villages with their dungheaps. A dozen years ago Pontdebois lost a quarter of its population by an outbreak which spared neither rich nor poor, before which physicians and religious processions seemed alike helpless, and which demoralized the community before the saints mercifully halted the devastation.

The Communal Donjon

There are only a few stone houses in Pontdebois. Even the best houses of the citizens are usually of wood and mortar. Not yet have risen those magnificent stone city halls which later will be the glory of North France and Flanders. But on one side of the market place rises the communal donjon. The Good Town is like a seigneur (indeed, somewhat itisa seigneur placed in commission): it has its walls and therefore its strong citadel. The donjon forms a high, solid, square tower dominating the public square. At its summit there is always a watchman ready, at first danger of fire or attack, to boom the alarm bell. The tower itself is large enough to have good-sized rooms in its base. Nearest the ground is the council chamber where the worshipful echevins can deliberate. Above that is the archive room, where the elaborate town records are kept. Directly under the council chamber, however, is the prison, where general offenders are mewed up no more comfortably than in the abysses of St. Aliquis.

The soul of the communal donjon, however, hovers around its bells. There in the dark tower hang shrill Jacqueline, loud Carolus, and, deepest and mightiest of all, Holy Trinity, and several others. A peal of powerful bells pertains to every free town. Of course, they ring lustily and merrily on holidays; indeed, strangers to the city think they are rung too often for repose.[107]But if they all begin leaping and thundering together, that is probably a sign for a mass meeting of the citizens in the open plaza before the donjon. The magistrates may wish to harangue the populace from the balcony, just above the council room, descanting upon some public dangeror deliver a peaceful explanation of some new municipal ordinance. In any case, a commune without its donjon and bells is like a ship without its rudder, and if ever Pontdebois succumbs to superior power, the first step of the conqueror will probably be to "take away the bells"—that will be the same thing as annulling the city liberties.

Pontdebois has been a Good Town with a charter of privileges for about a hundred years. As early as Charlemagne's day a village existed upon the site. The location proved good for trade, but the inhabitants, despite success in commerce and industry and increasing numbers, were for a long time mere villeins dependent upon the lord bishop of the town and region, and with no more rights than the peasants of the fields had. However, in dealing with men who were steadily becoming richer, and who were picking up strange ideas by foreign intercourse, it proved much harder to keep them content with their station than it did the run of villeins. Besides, the dukes of Quelqueparte, although very loath to grant privileges to their own villeins, were not averse to having privileges given to the subjects of such independent and unreliable vassals as the bishops of Pontdebois. Consequently, when the townspeople aboutA.D.1100 began raising the cry, "Commune! Commune!" in the episcopal presence, the bishop could not look to his suzerain for much support. Indeed, it was being realized by intelligent seigneurs that granting a charter to a town often meant a great increase of wealth, so that if the lord's fiscal rights were carefully safeguarded, he was actually the gainer by an apparent cession of part of his authority. The upshot was that aboutA.D.1110, when a certain bishop needed a large purse to cover his travel to the Holy Land, for a round sum the townsfolk bought from him a charter—aprecious document which practically raised them out of the status of villeins and protected them against those executions and tyrannies which the run of peasants had to accept resignedly, as they did bad winters.

Charter of a Commune

This charter read in part much as follows: "I, Henri, by the grace of God Bishop of Pontdebois, make known to all present and to come, that I have established the undermentioned rules for the inhabitants of my town of Pontdebois. Every male inhabitant of said town shall pay me every year twelve deniers and a bushel of oats as the price of his dwelling; and if he desires to hold land outside the walls four deniers per year for each acre. The houses, vines, and fields may be sold and alienated at the pleasure of the holder. The dwellers in this town shall go neither to theost(feudal levy) nor on any other expedition unless I lead the same in person. They are allowed six echevins to administer the ordinary business of the town and to assist my provost in his duties. I especially decree that no seigneur shall withdraw from this town any inhabitants for any reason, unless they are actually 'his men' or owe him arrears in taxes, etc."[108]

After securing this charter, the men of Pontdebois began to hold up their heads in a manner grievous to the neighboring nobles, and even more grievous to the wealthy clergy, for prince-bishops were often the original suzerains of the towns, and their authority was the most seriously curtailed.[109]The books are full of the wrath ofthe ecclesiastics over the changed situation. "'Commune!' a name new and detestable!" pungently wrote Abbot Guibert of Nogent, even when the movement was young; while Bishop Ives of Chartres assured everybody that "compacts (with city folk) are binding on no one: they are contrary to the canon law and the decision of the holy fathers." Even as recently as 1213 a synod at Paris has denounced communes as the creations of "usurers and exactors" who have set up "diabolical usages, tending to overthrow the jurisdiction of the Church."

However righteous the anger of these holy men, it has proved vain. The communes ever wax stronger, and annually some new seigneur is compelled to sell a charter or even to grant one for nothing. The kings watch complacently a movement which weakens their unruly feudatories. Sometimes the townsfolk have grown insolent and tried to defend their privileges by sheer violence. Once there was a very tyrannous bishop of Laon. He foolishly tried to cancel a charter granted the city, and boasted: "What can you expect these people to do by their commotions? If my negro boy John were to seize the most terrible of them by the nose, the fellow would not even growl. What they yesterday called a 'commune' I have forced them to give up—at least as long as I live!" The next day the yell, "Commune! Commune!" rang in the streets. A mob sacked the episcopal palace and found the bishop hiding in a cask at the bottom of the cellar. The howling populace dragged him into the street and killed him with a hatchet. Then, to add to this sacrilege upon an anointed bishop, they plundered most of the nobles who chanced to be in the town. After such deeds it is no wonder that the king went to Laon and re-established order with a stronghand. Nevertheless, some years later, a new charter was granted the town, and the succeeding bishops have had to walk warily, despite inward groanings.

Rule by Echevins and Rich Merchants

Fortunately, Pontdebois has been spared these convulsions. As a rule the local prelates have been reasonable and conciliatory. The bishop is still called "suzerain." He receives the fixed tax provided in the original agreement. He has jurisdiction over the citizens in spiritual matters, which include heresy, blasphemy, insults, and assaults upon priests and outrages to churches. Likewise much of what might be called "probate litigation"—touching the validity of marriages and children, and consequently the wills and property rights affected thereby. However, in most secular particulars the citizens have pretty complete control. They levy numerous imposts, direct taxes, tolls, and market dues; they enroll a militia to defend the walls and to take the field under their own officers and banner when the general levy of the region is called out; they pass many local ordinances; and they name their own magistrates who administer "high justice." They can even wage local wars if they have a grievance against neighboring barons, being themselves a kind of collective seigneur. The one thing theycannotdo is to coin money; that is a privilege carefully reserved to the king and to the superior nobility.

Practically all these powers are exercised by the six echevins, with a higher dignitary, the mayor (maire), at their head.[110]There is little real democracy, however, in Pontdebois. The richer merchants, like Othon, and the more prosperous masters form practically an oligarchy,excluding the poor artisans and apprentices from any share in municipal affairs save that of paying taxes and listening to edicts by the magistrates. The same officers are re-elected year after year. They use the town money much as they see fit, refusing public reckoning and blandly announcing that "they render their accounts to one another." There are, therefore, certain discontented fellows who even murmur, "We 'free burghers' are worse taxed and oppressed than are Baron Conon's villeins at St. Aliquis."

Nevertheless, there is often a great desire to become even a passive citizen of Pontdebois. If you can live there unmolested for "a year and a day," you escape the jurisdiction of the lord on whose estate you have been a villein. You are protected against those outrages which are possible on even the best seigneuries. Most of all, you gain a chance to become something more than a clodhopping plowman. Perhaps your grandchildren at least will become wealthy and powerful enough to receive a baron as their guest, even as does the rich Othon.

So one may wander about the twisting streets of Pontdebois until nightfall, when the loud horns blow curfew—"cover fires." After that, the streets are deserted save for the occasional watchman rattling his iron-shod staff and calling through the darkness, "Pray for the dead!"

FOOTNOTES:[103]Another abuse would be to levy a heavy toll on all travelers passing a castle, irrespective of whether there was any legal license to demand the same.[104]If Pontdebois really had as many as eight thousand permanent inhabitants, it was no mean community in feudal times. Many a city would have only two or three thousand, or even less. A place of ten thousand or more would rank as the most important center for a wide region. There were few of such size in France.[105]Even in Paris at this time the only paving was on the streets leading directly to the city gates. The remainder continued to be a mere slough, a choice breeding place for those contagious diseases against which precautions were assumed to be useless and to which men were bound to submit as to "the will of God." Supplications to some healing saint, like St. Firman or St. Antoine, usually seemed more efficacious than any real sanitary precautions.[106]Rouen had six severe fires between 1200 and 1225, and yet was not exceptionally unfortunate. If a city were close to a river, it was liable also to very serious freshets. Of course, every place was in fairly constant danger of being stormed, sacked, and burned down in war.[107]Modern travelers are to this day impressed by the amount of bellringing which goes on in such unspoiled mediæval-built Flemish towns as Bruges.[108]Of course, no two communal charters were ever alike, although many were run in a common mold. Many towns received not a full charter, but "rights of burgessy"—e.g., guaranties against various common forms of oppression, although the laws were still actually administered by officers named by the seigneur.[109]Bishops often had their cathedral and episcopal seat at the largest place in their dioceses—the very places most likely to demand charters.[110]The echevins were often known instead as "jurés" and their numbers were frequently much greater than six. The mayors might be called "provosts" or "rewards."

[103]Another abuse would be to levy a heavy toll on all travelers passing a castle, irrespective of whether there was any legal license to demand the same.

[104]If Pontdebois really had as many as eight thousand permanent inhabitants, it was no mean community in feudal times. Many a city would have only two or three thousand, or even less. A place of ten thousand or more would rank as the most important center for a wide region. There were few of such size in France.

[105]Even in Paris at this time the only paving was on the streets leading directly to the city gates. The remainder continued to be a mere slough, a choice breeding place for those contagious diseases against which precautions were assumed to be useless and to which men were bound to submit as to "the will of God." Supplications to some healing saint, like St. Firman or St. Antoine, usually seemed more efficacious than any real sanitary precautions.

[106]Rouen had six severe fires between 1200 and 1225, and yet was not exceptionally unfortunate. If a city were close to a river, it was liable also to very serious freshets. Of course, every place was in fairly constant danger of being stormed, sacked, and burned down in war.

[107]Modern travelers are to this day impressed by the amount of bellringing which goes on in such unspoiled mediæval-built Flemish towns as Bruges.

[108]Of course, no two communal charters were ever alike, although many were run in a common mold. Many towns received not a full charter, but "rights of burgessy"—e.g., guaranties against various common forms of oppression, although the laws were still actually administered by officers named by the seigneur.

[109]Bishops often had their cathedral and episcopal seat at the largest place in their dioceses—the very places most likely to demand charters.

[110]The echevins were often known instead as "jurés" and their numbers were frequently much greater than six. The mayors might be called "provosts" or "rewards."

The St. Aliquis folk have come to Pontdebois largely to attend the great fair soon to open, but the more ordinary articles they will purchase can be found on sale on any week day. The city is a beehive of industry. Notwithstanding much talk about commerce in the Feudal Ages, the means of communication and transport are so bad that it is only the luxuries—not the essentials—that can be exported very far. It takes thirty days in good weather to travel from Paris to Marseilles. It takes sometimes a week to go from Pontdebois to Paris; and there is no larger industrial city much nearer than Paris. The result is that almost everything ordinarily needed in a château, village, or even in a monastery, which cannot be made upon the spot, is manufactured and sold in this Good Town.

Industrial life, however, seems to exist on a very small scale. There are no real factories. An establishment employing more than four or five persons, including the proprietor, is rare. Much commoner are petty workshops conducted by the owner alone or aided by only one youthful apprentice. This multiplicity of extremely small plants gives Pontdebois a show of bustle and activity which its actual population does not warrant.

When you do business in a town, simply name yourdesires and you can be directed to a little winding street containing all the shops of a given industry. There is the Glass Workers' Street, the Tanners' Row, the Butchers' Lane, the Parchment Makers' Street (frequented by monkish commissioners from the abbeys), the Goldsmiths' Lane, etc.

Shopkeepers Crying their Wares

CLOTH MERCHANTSCLOTH MERCHANTSFrom a bas-relief in the cathedral of Rheims (thirteenth century).

CLOTH MERCHANTSFrom a bas-relief in the cathedral of Rheims (thirteenth century).

CLOTH MERCHANTS

From a bas-relief in the cathedral of Rheims (thirteenth century).

As a rule the goods are made up in the rear of the shop and are sold over a small counter directly upon the street, where the customer stands while he drives his bargain. Written signs and price cards are practically unknown. The moment a possible purchaser comes in sight, all the attendants near the front of the shops begin a terrific uproar, each trying to bawl down his neighbor, praising his own wares and almost draggingin the visitor to inspect them. Trade etiquette permits shopkeepers to shout out the most derogatory things about their rivals. Father Grégoire, wishing to buy some shoes, is almost demoralized by the clamor, although this is by no means his first visit to Pontdebois. As he enters the Shoemakers' Lane it seems as if all the ill-favored apprentices are crowding around him. One plucks his cape. "Here, good Father! Exactly what you want!" "Hearken not to the thief," shouts another; "try on our shoes and name your own price!" A third tries to push him into yet another stall. "Good sirs," cries Grégoire, in dismay, "for God's sake treat me gently or I'll buy no shoes at all!" Only reluctantly do they let him make his choice, then conclude a bargain unmolested by outsiders. In the fish, bread, and wine markets the scenes can be even more riotous, while the phrases used by the hucksters in crying their wares are peculiar and picturesque.

As always in trade, it is well that "the buyer should beware"; fixed prices are really unknown and inferior goods are inordinately praised. Nevertheless, the city and guild authorities try hard to protect purchasers from misrepresentation. The officers are always making unannounced rounds of inspection to see how the guild ordinances are being obeyed.[111]The fate of the rascally woolen maker has been noted. Heavy fines have also been imposed lately upon a rope maker who put linen in a hemp cord, and a cutler who put silver ornaments in abone knife handle. This, however, was not to protect purchasers, but because they had gone outside the line of work permitted to members of their guild and trenched upon another set of craftsmen. Indeed, a very short residence in Pontdebois makes one aware that within the chartered commune the question is not, as in strictly feudal dominions, "Whose 'man' is he?" but "To what guild does he belong?" Everything apparently revolves around the trade and craft guilds.

Some of these guilds, like that of the butchers, are alleged to be much older than the granting of the charter; but it is undeniable that the organizations have multiplied and grown in power since that precious document was obtained.[112]Each special industry goes to the seigneur (in this city to the bishop) for a special grant of privileges and for a fee he will usually satisfy the petitioners, especially as they desire the privileges mainly to protect them against their fellow craftsmen, not against himself. In Paris there are more than three hundred and fifty separate professions; in Pontdebois they are much fewer, yet the number seems high. Many guilds have only a few members apiece, but even the smallest is mortally jealous of its prerogatives. One "mystery" makes men's shoes, another women's, another children's. Some time ago the last mentioned sold some alleged "children's shoes" which seemed very large! Result—a bitter law suit brought by the women's shoemakers. Christian charity among the guildsmen has not been restored yet. In Paris they say that the tailors arepushing a case against the old-clothes dealers because the latter "repair their garments so completely as to make them practically new." There will soon be handsome fees for the kings' judges, if for nobody else.[113]

Division and Regulations of Guilds

Such friction arises, of course, because each guild is granted a strict monopoly of trade within certain prescribed limits. A saddle maker from a strange city who started a shop without being admitted to the proper guild would soon find his shop closed, his products burned, and his own feet in the stocks by the town donjon. The guilds are supposed to be under strict regulations, however, in return for these privileges. Their conditions of labor are laid down, as are the hours and days of working. The precise quality of their products is fixed, and sometimes even the size of the articles and the selling price. Night work, as a rule, is forbidden, because one cannot then see to produce perfect goods, although carpenters are allowed to make coffins after sunset. On days before festivals everyone must close by 3P.M., and on feast days only pastry shops (selling cakes and sweetmeats) are allowed to be open. Violaters are subject to a fine, which goes partly to the guild corporation, partly to the town treasury; and these fines form a good part of the municipal revenue.

The guilds are not labor unions. The controlling members are all masters—the employers of labor, although usually doing business on a very small scale. A guild is also a religious and benevolent institution. Every corporation has its patron saint, with a special chapel in some church where a priest is engaged to say masses forthe souls of deceased members.[114]If a member falls into misfortune his guild is expected to succor him and especially, if he dies, to look after his widow and assist his orphans to learn their father's craft. Each organization also has its own banner, very splendid, hung ordinarily beside the guild's altar, but in the civic processions proudly carried by one of the syndics, the craft's officers. To be a syndic in an influential guild is the ordinary ambition of about every young industrialist. It means the acme of power and dignity attainable, short of being elected echevin.

The road to full guild membership is a fairly difficult one, yet it can be traversed by lads of good morals and legitimate birth if they have application and intelligence. A master can have from one to three apprentices and also his own son, if he has one who desires to learn the trade. The apprentices serve from three to twelve years.

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