Part 8

How superior this method of giving a view of some of the peculiarities of feudalism is to the common dissertations we meet with, will be acknowledged by any one who prefers a chapter of _Ivanhoe_ to an explanation by Ducange. We are tempted to make quotation from the conversations between the worthy Friar John and the Commander of Rhodes, in one of which the veteran soldier fights nobly in defence of the right of private war; and there are other incidents in which the two men are brought out with a freshness and individuality not at all to be expected in the lucubrations of the chief of the French Dryasdusts; but we must content ourselves with the last glimpse of knight-errantry. Ill fares it with a period when it can be truly said its days of chivalry are past. But chivalry was a thing and a principle, and knight-errantry a pretence. There is the same difference between them as between the quiet benevolent practice of a physician, and the noisy operations of a quack doctor at a fair. How, in the midst of all that ignorance, and that rough handling of sword and spear, arose the poetic idealisation of personal honour and respect for woman, it is impossible to say. The fact is all we can answer for, and the result. At first the ennobling pictures of unselfishness and courtesy and generosity were viewed by the portly baron, the rough, gruff old head-breaker on the dais, as they were meant to be viewed; namely, as altogether fictitious and imaginary representations of a state of manners which never had real existence. But the young squire his son, the long-haired maiden his daughter, who sat on the tabouret at his feet; the pages who stood open-mouthed behind his chair—were of a very different opinion. They believed in King Arthur, and in Amadis, and in Gualior, and in the peerless damosel who cheered him with such loving caress and such purity of heart; and, in the next generation, they resolved to form themselves on the model set before them in the achievements of these heroes and princesses. And if the state of their quarrels did not allow them to carry out all the refinements practised in those romances—if they were still forced to carry battle into their neighbour’s manor, and carry off their neighbour’s daughter, they did so “with a difference;” they doffed their plumed helmet when they received their vanquished enemy’s sword; they bent knee to ground when they locked the captive maiden into her bower. Chivalry was a recognised fact, and was at all events a standard by which to measure their actions, if not always a barrier against the actions themselves. But its truest merit is the effect it undoubtedly produced on the civilisation of Europe. It supplied the place of religion itself, when religion was either locked up entirely in an unknown tongue, or enveloped in manifold additions which concealed it like the cerements of an Egyptian mummy. The code of honour gradually exerted its sway where civil laws were ineffectual. There were virtues inculcated, and vices condemned by it, which criminal courts could neither reward nor punish. Truth, generosity, temperance, purity, defence of innocent weakness, resistance to strong injustice—these formed the true knights’ system of laws. The opposite evils were forbidden on pain of general censure. And the final effect has been this—that no nation which has not gone through the period of chivalry can give its true and full meaning to the great word “Gentleman.” India, China, Russia, never felt its force; they have, therefore, no civil freedom, no personal self-respect. A system which has given rise to all the gentlemen of Europe should never lightly be talked of; and Amans Alexis in his garret had as high an appreciation of gallant knight and fair ladie as if he had been present, when

“High in the breathless hall the minstrel sate,”

and charmed young and old with the music of harp and song. But knight-errantry—a running to and fro in search of adventures!—a travelling attorney in pursuit of practice in the courts of Honour!—it scarcely needed the genius of Cervantes to bring this extravagance into ridicule; for even the commander of the fourteenth century, himself vowed to the protection of injured innocence, laughs at the pre-Quixotic absurdity as if he had had the knight of La Mancha before his eyes. A specimen of the genus even then was looked on as our naturalists would now look upon a dodo. “I must tell you a curious thing that lately occurred here. A knight-errant is not often seen nowadays, though the genus is not extinct. One came here and wound the horn which hangs before the great gate of the chateau. No trumpet having sounded in reply, as is the rule on these occasions, he turned his horse and rode away. The pages ran after him, and after many excuses for their want of skill on the trumpet, they persuaded him to come back. Meanwhile the ladies had dressed to receive him, and taken their places in state, holding embroidery-frames in their hands. The Lady of Montbason was attired in a robe stiffened with gold, which had been in the house for more than a century. The dowager covered her head with a fur cap according to the fashion of her youth, and loaded herself with ermine. The knight comes in along with his squire, both covered all over with dangling plates of brass, making as much noise as a mule when loaded with copper pots and pans ill packed. The knight having ordered his squire to take off his helmet, revealed a head nearly bald, and fringed with long white hair. His left eye was tied up with a piece of green cloth, of the same colour as his coat. He had made a vow, he said, not to see with his left eye, nor eat with the right side of his mouth, till he had accomplished his enterprise. The ladies offered him refreshment. He replied by throwing himself at their feet, and swearing eternal love to old and young, saying, that though his armour was of truest steel, it could not defend him against their arrows; that he should die of the wounds they inflicted—that he felt himself expiring—and a hundred other follies of the same kind. As he persisted in this style, particularly in his address to the lady of Montbason, whose hand he frequently kissed, I became impatient; the Commander perceived my annoyance. ‘Good!’ he said: ‘these old fools have their set words and phrases like a village lawyer. But keep your temper; perhaps he won’t stay the day.’ And in fact in a few hours he departed. Such are the ridiculous remains of that ancient chivalry which at one time ennobled humanity with so many virtues and so much glory.”

Poor old frivolous knight-errant! away he goes for ever out of human ken, with both eyes bandaged now, and all his enterprises accomplished; and, at the same time with him, dies off also another form of resistance to oppression, where the performer was of far humbler rank, and came in aid of justice in a much more legitimate way. There seems to have been no town in France of sufficient importance to have a court of civil or criminal process, which did not maintain a champion as one of the chief officers of its administration. The duty of this distinguished functionary was to supply any lack of evidence which might occur in the course of a trial; and as it was generally necessary to obtain the assistance of two witnesses in the conviction of a culprit, the champion watched over the cause, and when only one witness was producible, threw his sword into the scale which he believed to be just, and did battle with any one who would take up arms on behalf of the other side. All through the early centuries, the office of town or precinct champion was as well recognised, and considered as indispensable, as that of notary or judge. But some terrible things happened in the fifteenth century, which put the arbitrement of the sword into disrepute. Printing and gunpowder, when they came to maturity, were fatal to many a stout-armed gentleman, who had been installed in his honourable post of champion of the town, and had brought up his children with the honourable ambition of handling his sword and stepping into his shoes. How many Oxford coachmen and Cheltenham “whips,” in the same way, had to descend from the box, and turn their energies into other channels, on the first whistle of the railway engine!

It happened one day, says Alexis, in the first page of the second volume (which is equivalent to the middle or latter end of the fifteenth century), that a good many people were collected in the great chamber of the town-hall of Troyes, along with the mayor and bailiffs, when a curious question arose, as to which of all the trades and conditions were the worst. Everybody, as might be expected, laid claim to that bad eminence on behalf of his own. But at last it was arranged, that on that evening, and at their succeeding meetings, the question should be thoroughly gone into, and every man give some account of the evils he complained of, so that the company might decide after a full hearing of the evidence. On this hint the different personages speak. There is a beggar who paints a wretched picture of the state of his fraternity, even in those days of meritorious alms and food at the monastery gates.

“Who denies,” he cries, “that the beggar’s state is the most miserable of all?—who? Why, the bad Christians, the hard-hearted rich; and they are so plentiful now! How often have I heard it said in the days of my prosperity, that the poor were in the happiest state; that their revenues were secured on the charity of the public; and that they lived without care, with nothing to do but say their paternosters, and hold out their hands! Alas, alas! nobody thought of adding how often their hands remained empty—how often they had to submit in patience to the hunger of many days, to the cold of many months.”

Then come the farmer, the messenger, the comedian, and many more; but after the noble (for even he has discomforts to complain of), the tale is taken up by a person who is minutely described and introduced by the name of Vieuxbois.

Vieuxbois, who remembers the time when he was champion of the city, and believes that he is so still, though there is now neither champion nor lists, generally sits near the chimney. He is always dressed in an old suit of clothes, very tidy and clean, and always carries a long iron sword suspended by a sash of red silk. His face is so haggard and thin that it is nothing but bone. People call him more than a hundred years old, but he has the vanity of being thought young, and only confesses to ninety. This evening he rose from his chair, and having saluted the company several times with his sword, he resumed his chair, and thus began:—

“Gentlemen, you are all complaining of your callings, which proves, at least, that callings are still left you; but for us miserable champions—for us, the most miserable of you all—there is no calling left except in name. Oh! the long past, happy, blessed days of France! days, above all, of the fourteenth, thirteenth, twelfth centuries!—why can’t I prolong them into the present time! Then the sword of the champion was honoured—it decided where the judge was puzzled. Then the champion, the lists, the trumpet, the charge in every doubtful case: but now there is so much knowledge! there is so much learning! no more doubts—no more puzzled judges—and the champion’s occupation’s gone! But oh! little did my grandfather, the Champion of Chalons—he was hanged in that office—foresee this wretched time. Just before he was turned off, he summoned my father, who had fled from the scene in tears, and said, ‘Champion, my son, weep not: it does not become a champion to weep: the cause I supported was just. I die because I did not parry in carte. Study the carte, my son; it is the best of the thrusts: you must deliver it free—you must have your wrist well placed. My adversary made a movement—it was against all the rules—but it deceived me. Champion, my son, attend to your trade—it is a good one; and above all, I beseech you, do not neglect the carte.’ But the people became impatient, and cried out for his execution; they were enraged because he had undertaken the defence of a wretch whom they considered guilty; and disdaining to reason with his inferiors, my grandfather shrugged his shoulders two or three times in sign of contempt, and died like a true and noble champion.

“My father also was hanged. You are astonished, gentlemen; that is because you did not know the good old times, when, the moment a champion was vanquished, he was dragged from the lists, and hoisted on the gallows. After having been victorious a great number of times, he died at last, not from want of courage or address, but because he slipt. He died, recommending me always to wear sharp-headed nails in my shoes. I can declare that his fate was much regretted by the people, while the person for whom he fought, and who was going to be hanged along with him, had the bad taste to find fault with him in coarse insulting language. He was an advocate, and always an uncivil sort of man. My father was a man of fine manners and excellent temper. ‘Master Martean,’ he said, ‘neither you nor any of your craft are able to give me lessons in the management of my sword. I shall speak to you no more.’ He kept his word; the next moment they were run up. My mother brought me my father’s sword: and though it was at that time a little taller than myself, I managed to draw it from the sheath and swing it at arm’s-length. This was thought a good augury, and great expectations were entertained of me when I should be old enough to be champion. When I was twenty, my active life began. Two men of distinction, each above sixty years of age, had accused each other without sufficient proofs. The judicial duel was ordered, of course. A beautiful closed ring raised on the banks of the Marne was crowded on the following day with all the rank and fashion of Champagne—for such sights were already become rare. The combat was on the point of beginning. I was at the summit of felicity. My eyes flashed brighter than my arms. The party for whom the opposite champion was engaged, perhaps perceived this, for offers of accommodation were made, and the duel was at an end. The disappointment of the spectators was immense. The authorities feared an uproar, and to quiet the populace, it was proposed by the mayor and magistrates that I should marry the daughter of my adversary, and that a fête should be given in honour of the event. Her name was Championnette: she was beautiful as the day—she was just sixteen; and you may imagine I offered no opposition to the match. The wedding rejoicings commenced at once, and the enclosure where the combat was to have taken place, could scarcely contain the dancers. Next day there were joustings with sword and lance. The trumpets of the town-hall had never ceased their music, and at night there were bonfires and illuminations.”

After his marriage with Championnette, it was impossible for him to be the hostile champion to his father-in-law; and his travels in search of occupation take him through several districts in France. In all he finds the dignity of the office decaying, its privileges denied, and its income annihilated. He goes from place to place, but the scales of justice were now getting so evenly balanced that he seldom required the sword to adjust the weight. He comes, among other places, to Lyons. “What do you take us for?” says the bailiff. “Perhaps you think Lyons a Gothic town of the fourteenth century. Lyons is a polished city, enlightened and civilised, where everybody knows how to write. Nobody, therefore, can now deny his signature. Go rather to some out-of-the-way valley in the Jura or the Vosges. It is possible a champion may still be useful among the savages there.” It is impossible to describe the indignation of the gallant Vieuxbois on this insulting speech. However, he restrains his wrath, and passes on, but no better reception awaits him wherever he goes. At last there is a glimpse of prosperity and a chance of work when he gets to the valley of the Aspe, among the Pyrenees. The magistracy of that small republic receive him courteously, but even here he finds he comes too late. “‘We might have sent you,’ said the rulers of the republic, ‘into the valley of Lavedan, but it has no intention now of seeking a champion to resist our claims.’ ‘And why did the valley wish to fight you?’ I inquired. ‘It was because their little abbé, St Sevin, irritated against the valley of the Aspe, uttered his curse upon it. Whereupon every year we were visited with great storms and tempests, and sometimes for months the hail fell upon our republic, but we were miraculously avenged. The earth, and all the inhabitants, and all the cattle, great and small, were struck with sterility throughout the Lavedan. To get remission of this dreadful plague, they came and begged for mercy on the valley of the Aspe. Peace was made between the two valleys, and Lavedan was absolved from the sin of its old abbé. During the eighty years of this treaty, the conditions have several times been broken. Our republic demanded satisfaction. The valley of Lavedan wished to defend itself by a champion, but has not been able to find one. We therefore have no occasion for your services, but if a few acres of ground, a few sheep and oxen, a cottage such as you see——’

“Thanks, gentlemen of the republic of the Aspe,” says Vieuxbois, “my fathers were gentlemen, and lived by the sword. I am not yet so fallen as to maintain myself by flocks and herds.” But years pass on, and no doubt he looked back on the offers he had rejected with useless regret. Meanwhile his family becomes numerous, but they are victims of the advancing arts and sciences. One is a transcriber of manuscripts, and the press throws his pen out of work. Another illuminates old books, and engraving upsets his colours. Another is a maker of bows and arrows, and arbalists and other engines of war, but gunpowder and cannon unstring all his bows, and knock his ballistas in pieces. A grandson is sedulously educated for the profession of a fool; but as a profession it falls into disrepute, and the jester unlearns his quiddities, keeps his features at rest like other people, and starves as becomes a reasonable man. The only happy one of the family is another grandson, who is blessed with such a tremendous eruption on his face that he has got admission to a leprosy-house, where he is wonderfully fed and kindly treated. The eruption is not leprosy; but, in the alarming scarcity of real sufferers by that malady, the office-bearers of the houses of retreat, who derive great salaries for their posts (which they execute by deputy), are glad to accept a pensioner with so near a resemblance to the true disease; for what would they do if leprosy disappeared altogether? The story of the old champion comes to an end, and it is difficult to imagine that any of the other complainants can give a more wretched account of their position. But misery is, in fact, in that century, the characteristic of all conditions of life. As the ages move on, men get better; their places become more defined.—The remaining volumes of the work are occupied with the progress of the people, and their gradual elevation into civil consideration and political power. We may return to the same portrait-gallery for pictures of the innkeepers, the fishermen, the town-criers, the merchants, the nurses, the lawyers, and the artists of the different periods. They are all drawn from the life, and are warranted likenesses. But at present we have said enough.

BIOGRAPHY GONE MAD.

At certain intervals, ever since the days of Solomon, it has been found necessary, as a matter of sheer duty, to lift the voice of warning against that much study which wearies the flesh, and the making many books of which there is no end. It is now several years since a strong protest was raised in this Magazine against the too common and most reprehensible practice of raking among dead men’s ashes, and violating the confidences of the living, for no higher purpose than the gratification of biographic weakness and vulgar curiosity. Man is indeed, as Goethe has said, ever interesting to man, and no species of bookmaking finds readier excuses than biography. But man ought also to be sacred to man; and of all the injuries that can be inflicted on a dead man’s memory, none is more cruel than the act of the friendly ghoul who unnecessarily recalls him from the silence of the grave. _Corruptio optimi est pessissima._ Biography, well done, is one of the most instructive and interesting kinds of composition; ill done, it is about the worst. We call it ill done, either when a good subject is marred in the handling, or when the choice is an unworthy one. The number of men whose lives are worthy to be recorded for an ensample to mankind is really small. In saying so we are far from meaning to express a contemptuous opinion of human nature. Some of the best men that ever lived were those whose lives had fewest incidents, and offered the scantiest materials for the ingenuity of the bookmaker. Happy, it is said, is the nation whose annals are dull—happy also the man whose life escapes the chronicler, who passes at the end of his day’s work into the silent land, to enjoy “No biography, and the privilege of all the weary.”