Agobard of Lyons

Today many of us think, as did the comforters of the Patriarch Job, that verily we “are the people and wisdom will perish” with us. It is even more likely, as a modem commentator has observed, that we believe that wisdom (and other values) began with us. This is especially true of our attitude towards such a virtue as freedom of thought and expression: if it is not peculiar to our times, we say, only the Greeks of Plato’s day offer any vital comparison. But let us see for ourselves; let us plunge into the midst of an era more than a thousand years before our own period and more than a thousand years after the ancient Greeks. A grim story out of the fatal year 810 will serve to introduce our inquiry. The year was ominously marked by two eclipses of the sun and two of the moon, all visible in Frankland, all evoking superstitious manifestations among the masses and striking fear even in the heart of the great Emperor Charles. Moreover, two of his three legitimate sons and his eldest daughter died: Einhard, his biographer, says that in spite of the stoutness of his heart, the ruler gave vent to his grief in tears.