The Historians' History of the World 07

The Alamanni, extending themselves from their original seats on the right bank of the Rhine, between the Main and the Danube, had pushed forward into Germanica Prima, where they came into collision with the Frankish subjects of King Sigebert of Cologne. Clovis flew to the assistance of his kinsman, and defeated the Alamanni in a great battle in the neighbourhood of Zülpich. He then established a considerable number of his Franks in the territory of the Alamanni, the traces of whose residences are found in the names of Franconia and Frankfort.

CLOVIS TURNS CHRISTIAN (496 A.D.)

[496 A.D.]

The same year is rendered remarkable in ecclesiastical history by the conversion of Clovis to Christianity. In 493 A.D., he had married Clotilda,[121] Chilperic the king of Burgundy’s daughter, who, being herself a Christian, was naturally anxious to turn away her warlike spouse from the rude faith of his forefathers. The real result of her endeavours it is impossible to estimate, but, at all events, she has not received from history the credit of success. The mere suggestions of an affectionate wife would be considered as too simple and prosaic a means of accounting for a change involving such mighty consequences. The conversion of Clovis was so vitally important to the interests of the Catholic church, that the chroniclers of that wonder-loving age, profuse in the employment of extraordinary means for the smallest ends, could never be brought to believe that this great event was the result of anything but a miracle of the most public and striking character.

The way in which the convictions of Clovis were changed is unknown to us, but there were natural agencies at work, and his conversion is not, under the circumstances, a thing to excite surprise. According to the common belief, however, in the Roman church, it was in the battle of Zülpich[122] that the heart of Clovis, callous to the pious solicitude of his wife, and the powerful and alluring influence of the Catholic ritual, was touched by a special interposition of providence in his behalf. When the fortune of the battle seemed turning against him, he thought of the God whom his wife adored, of whose power and majesty he had heard so much, and vowed that if he escaped the present danger, and came off victorious, he would suffer himself to be baptised, and become the champion of the Christian faith. Like another Constantine, he saw written on the face of heaven that his prayer was heard; he conquered, and fulfilled his promise at Christmas in the same year, when he was baptised by Remigius at Rheims, with three thousand of his followers.

The sincerity of Clovis’ conversion has been called in question for many reasons—such as the unsuitability of his subsequent life to Christian principles; but chiefly on the ground of the many political advantages to be derived from a public profession of the Catholic faith. We are too ready with such explanations of the actions of distinguished characters, too apt to forget that politicians are also men, and to overlook the very powerful influences which lie nearer to their hearts than even political calculation. A spirit was abroad in the world, drawing men away from the graves of a dead faith to the life and light of the Gospel—a spirit which not even the coldest and sternest heart could altogether resist. There was something, too, peculiarly imposing in the attitude of the Christian church at that period. All else in the Roman world seemed dying of mere weakness and old age; the Christian church was still in the vigour of youth, and its professors were animated by indomitable perseverance and boundless zeal. All else fell down in terror before the barbarian conqueror; the fabric of the church seemed indestructible, and its ministers stood erect in his presence, as if depending for strength and aid upon a power, which was the more terrible because indefinite in its nature and uncertain in its mode of operation.

And Clovis was as likely to be worked upon by such means as the meanest of his followers. We must not suppose that the discrepancy between his Christian profession and his public and private actions, which we discern so clearly, was equally evident to himself. How should it be so? His own conscience was not specially enlightened beyond the measure of his age. The bravest warriors of his nation hailed him as a patriot and hero, and the ministers of God assured him that his victories were won in the service of truth and heaven. It is always dangerous to judge of the sincerity of men’s religious—perhaps we should say theological—convictions by the tenor of their moral conduct, and this even in our own age and nation; but far more so in respect to men of other times and countries, at a different stage of civilisation and religious development, at which the scale of morality was not only lower, but differently graduated from our own.