The great English statesman, John Bright, once playfully suggested that the appointment of a certain gentleman to the Chief Secretaryship of Ireland was intended as a punishment to that country for some of its offences. What was thus said half in jest a sacred writer states here in all seriousness: “That such a prince as Zedekiah was raised to the throne was itself a token of divine displeasure, for his character was such as to hasten the final catastrophe,”—that which came to pass was “through the anger of the Lord.”
The Guilds of London
With regard to the origin of the London guilds there are two opposing parties, one of which holds that these organizations had their origin in certain mutual benefit associations of the Roman Empire, while the other insists on their spontaneous generation from the needs of Teutonic society in the Middle Ages. One thing is certain, without the culture of the Roman Empire there would have been no Teutonic nor Celtic nor Iberian civilization in modern Europe, and chivalry, knighthood, and the guild system, as well as every other step toward modern refinement, owe their existence in a near or remote degree to what preceded them, to the civic life that descended in unbroken continuity from Babylon to Treves. It would have been a remarkable thing if mediæval Europe had not retained a reminiscence more or less distinct of the well-drilled, well-mounted, well-armed, imperturbable Romans, the men “under authority,” scattered in villages and outposts, or collected in garrisons, and had not tried to create defenders of the same kind. Equally strange would it be if such organizations as the Collegia Opificum pervaded the urban life of the imperial dominions without leaving an impression on the people. The similarity of the guilds to their Roman prototypes is very remarkable. The objects of both were common worship, social intercourse, and mutual protection. It is confessed that modern historians have exaggerated the breach in continuity between the Roman and the barbarian world; it is even acknowledged that in one or two Gallic towns certain artisan corporations may have existed without interruption from the fifth to the twelfth century; and that Roman regulations may have served as models for the organization of serfs, skilled laborers on the lands of monks and nobles. But it must be pointed out on the other hand that until the twelfth century the demand for skilled labor in Europe was comparatively meagre and that the stream of ancient tradition was really growing weaker with every decade. What can be insisted on is simply a certain economy of intellectual effort, for the sake of a human animal, the mediæval Celt, Saxon, Norseman, Hun, etc., with whom intellect does not seem to have been a strong point. His invention may not have been put to the test in the matter of guilds. What he needed had happily survived his own clumsy race as well as the indifference of Romans and Provincials. Even in England one can ascend much beyond the twelfth century by the discovery of a rare notice now and then of a Knights’ Guild or a Frith Guild in Saxon London.
Rip Van Winkle
The classical scholar will regard Rip Van Winkle as a resuscitation of Epimenides, who lived in the Island of Crete six centuries before the Christian era. The story is, that going by his father’s order in search of a sheep, he laid himself down in a cave, where he fell asleep, and slept for fifty years. He then reappeared among the people, with long hair and a flowing beard. But while poor Rip, after his twenty years’ slumber, awoke to find himself the butt of his village, Epimenides had absorbed a wonderful degree of knowledge.
The German legend on which Washington Irving’s story is founded is given by Otmar in his “Volks-Sagen,” entitled “Der Ziegenhirt.” Peter Klaus, a goatherd of Sittendorf, is the hero of the tale, the scene of which is laid on the Kyffhäuser.
Menteith
Benedict Arnold, the traitor whose betrayal of trust and attempt to sacrifice his country will, through all time, be regarded as the highest height and the lowest depth of infamy, had a fitting prototype in Sir John Menteith, who betrayed the great defender of Scotch liberty, Sir William Wallace, into the hands of the English invaders, and, with the deliverance of his person, the surrender of the liberty of his country, leaving a name and memory loaded with disgrace. Sir Walter Scott, in his “Tales of a Grandfather,” says,—
“The King of England, Edward I., possessed so many means of raising soldiers, that he sent army after army into the poor, oppressed country of Scotland, and obliged all its nobles and great men, one after another, to submit themselves to his yoke. Sir William Wallace alone, or with a very small band of followers, refused either to acknowledge the usurper Edward, or to lay down his arms. He continued to maintain himself among the woods and mountains of his native country for no less than seven years after his defeat at Falkirk, and for more than one year after all the other defenders of Scottish liberty had laid down their arms. Many proclamations were sent out against him by the English, and a great reward was set upon his head; for Edward did not think he could have any secure possession of his usurped kingdom of Scotland while Wallace lived. At length he was taken prisoner, and shame it is to say, a Scotsman, called Sir John Menteith, was the person by whom he was seized and delivered to the English. It is generally said that he was made prisoner at Robroyston, near Glasgow, and the tradition of the country is that the signal for rushing upon him and taking him unawares, was that one of his pretended friends, who was to betray him, should turn a loaf which was placed on the table, with its bottom or flat side uppermost. And in after times it was reckoned ill-breeding to turn a loaf in that manner if there was a person named Menteith in company; since it was as much as to remind him that his namesake had betrayed Sir William Wallace, the champion of Scotland.