arms as a vocation, who gave up the profession for that of the Church,
and prospered remarkably in consequence. St. Felix of Nola affords us
an additional illustration of this fact. This noble young soldier found
no happiness in the business of slaughtering, and all the sophistry
in the world could not persuade him that it was honorable. “It is
a disgusting business,” said the Saint, “and as I can not be Felix
[happy] in performing it, I will see if I can not be Felix in the
Church;” and the punning saint found what he sought.
There is something more wonderful in the conversion of St. Maurus.
He was the son of a nobleman, had St. Benedict for a tutor, and was
destined to the career of arms. The tutor, however, having awoke
him one night, and sent him to pick a monk out of the river, whom
Benedict, in a dream, had seen fall in, Maurus, although no swimmer,
obeyed, walked upon the surface of the water, pulled out the struggling
monk, walked back with him, arm-in-arm, to the shore, and immediately
concluded that he was called to another vocation than that of arms. As
for St. John Calybyte, he would not be a soldier, but ran away from
home before his wealthy sire could procure him a commission, and only
returned to stand, disguised as a mendicant, in front of his father’s
house, where he received alms till he died. A curious example of
idiosyncrasy. St. Honoratus was wiser. He was of a consular family;
but, in declining the military profession, he addressed himself with
sincerity to be useful in the Church; and the well-deserved result
was that he became Archbishop of Arles. St. Anthony, the patriarch
of monks, made still greater sacrifices, and chose rather to be a
hermit than a commander of legions. St. Sulpicius, the Debonnair, was
both rich and good-looking, but he cared less for helmet and feathers
than for cord and cowl, and the archbishopric of Bourges rewarded his
self-denial. There was more than one King Canute too, who, though
not surrendering royalty and generalship of armies, seemed really
more inclined, and indeed more fitted, to be studious monks than
chivalrous monarchs. Wulstan of Worcester was far more decided, for
finding himself, one night, most warmly admiring the young lady who
was his _vis-à-vis_ in a dance, the gallant officer was so shocked
at the impropriety, that he made it an excuse for taking to the cowl
forthwith. He did not so ill by the exchange, for the cowl brought him
to the mitre at Worcester.
St. Sebastian was a far bolder man, seeing that although he hated a
military life, he, to the very utmost, did his duty in that state of
life to which it had pleased God to call him; and if half be true of
what is told of him, there never was knight of the actual days of
chivalry who performed such bold and perilous actions as St. Sebastian.
What was a cavalier, pricking against a dragon, to a Roman officer
preaching Christianity to his men, under Diocletian?
In later days we meet with St. Raymund of Pennafort, the wealthy young
lord, who, rather than serve for pay or plunder, went about teaching
philosophy for nothing. St. John, the Patriarch of Alexandria, might
have been known as a conqueror, but he preferred being handed down,
under the title of the Almoner. He was like that St. Cadoc who chose
rather to be abbot _in_, than prince _of_, Wales. St. Poppo of Stavelo
exhibited similar humility. He was rapidly rising in the Flandrian army
when he suddenly sunk into a cell, and became a sort of Flemish John
Wesley. He preached against all tournaments, but only succeeded in
abolishing the very exciting combats between a knight and a bear, which
were greatly patronized by Flemish ladies, and at which parties staked
great sums upon their favorite animal.
St. Francis of Sales, on the other hand, that gentlemanly saint,
was saved from the knightly career which his noble birth seemed to
promise him, by a vow made by his mother, before he was born. She
was resolved that he should be a saint and not a soldier, and as all
things went as the lady desired, she placed her son in a position
direct for the Church, and the world certainly lost nothing by the
matron’s proceeding. I respect St. Francis of Sales all the more that
he had small human failings, and did not scatter damnation over men
whom he saw in a similar concatenation. Sulpicius Severus was, in many
respects, like him, save that he had some experience of a soldier’s
life. But he laid down the sword for the pen, and gave us that
admirable historical romance, in which he details so graphically the
life of another noble warrior, who quitted the command of soldiers, to
take up the teaching of men--St. Martin of Tours.
There was a lady, St. Aldegonde, of the royal blood of France, in the
seventh century, who at least encouraged young knights to abandon
their fancied vocation, and assume that of monks or friars. She was,
most undeservedly, I dare say, assailed by scandalizing tongues
accordingly. Indeed, I never heard of lady more persecuted in this
way, except perhaps this particular lady’s namesake, who once belonged
to the gay _troupe_ of the Varietés, and to whom the most rattling
of _chansonniers_ alluded, in the line of a song, which put the
significant query of
Que fait Aldegonde avec le monde entier?
One of the most remarkable features in the characters of many of these
young nobles who were disinclined to take up arms, or who laid them
down for the religious vocation, is the dread they entertained of
matrimony. In illustration of this fact, I may notice the case of St.
Silvin of Auchy. There was not a gayer or braver knight at the court of
Childeric II., nor a more welcome wooer among the ladies. In due time
he proposed to a noble maiden, who was in a flutter of happiness at the
thought of carrying off such a bachelor from a host of competitors.
The wedding was brilliant, up to the conclusion of the ceremony. That
over, no persuasion could induce the bridegroom to go to the breakfast.
As he had been brought to the altar, there he was resolved to remain.
He denounced all weddings as wicked vanities, and darting out of the
church-door, left bride and bridal party to take what course they
would. There was no end of conjectures as to the cause of the sudden
fright which had seized upon the young bridegroom. The latter set
it down to inspiration, and as he took to the cowl and led a most
exemplary life, no one presumed to doubt it, except the bride and her
relations.
The case of St. Licinius is easier of explanation. He was the most
rollicking knight-bachelor at the court of Clotaire I. It must,
however, be said for him that he sowed his wild oats early, and fought
none the less stoutly for going to mass daily, and confessing once a
quarter. He was rich, and had a maiden neighbor who was richer. The
families of knight and maiden were united in thinking that the estates
of the two, encircled in one ring fence, would be one of the most
desirable of consummations. The maiden was nothing loath, the knight
alone was reluctant. He too, had his doubts about the excellence of
marriage, and it was only with very considerable difficulty he was
brought to woo the lady, who said “Yes” before the plume in his bonnet
had touched the ground when he made his bow to her. The wedding-day was
fixed, and as the old epitaph says, “wedding-clothes provided.” On the
eve of the eventful day, however, Licinius, on paying a visit to the
bride, found her suddenly attacked with leprosy. The doctor protested
that it would be nothing, but Licinius declared that it was a warning
which he dared not neglect. He looked at the leprous lady, muttered the
word “unpleasant,” and at once betook himself, not to active military
life, but to a religious mission. In this occupation he is alleged to
have performed such miracles as to deserve canonization, if only the
half of them were true.
Now, a bride afflicted with leprosy may fairly be said to be an
unpleasant sight. Licinius may even be considered authorized to
hesitate in performing his promise, if not in altogether declaring off.
We can not say as much in extenuation of another knight who broke his
word to a lady, and was clapped into the Roman calendar of deified men.
This gentleman in question had a rather unchristian-sounding name. He
was called Abraham of Chiduna. At tilt and tournament, and in tented
field, there was no cavalier who sat more perfectly in saddle, or
handled his lance and wielded his battle-axe with more terrible effect.
He was of noble birth, of course; was wealthy, somewhat addicted to
light living, in his salad days, but a man who lived soberly enough
when those were over. He then resolved to marry, and he had the “good
taste,” if one may use a term which, we are told, belongs to the
literary milliner’s vocabulary, to offer himself to, and ask the hand
of a very pious maiden with a highly satisfactory dower. The required
conclusion was soon come to, and one fine spring morning saw the
two principals and their respective friends in church. The knight,
it is true, was the last to arrive, and he had been, previously, as
unwilling to get up and be married, as Master Barnardine was to get
up and be hanged. He was finally brought to the altar, and after some
little delay, such as searching for the ring which he had misplaced,
and only recovered after much search, the nuptial knot was tied. When
this had been accomplished, surrounding friends approached to offer
their congratulations; but the icy Abraham coldly waved them back, and
announced his determination, then and there, to end his short-lived
married state. As he immediately rushed into the wood which was in the
vicinity of the church, there was a universal cry that he contemplated
suicide. The bride was conveyed home amid much sympathy, and a general
but an ineffectual search was made for the “groom.” Yet, not altogether
ineffectual, for at the end of seventeen days he was discovered,
offering up his orisons, in the midst of a marsh. There he had been, he
said, for a fortnight, and there he declared he would remain, unless
those who sought him consented to the terms he should propose. These
were, that he should be allowed to retire to a cell which should be
entirely walled up, save a small square aperture for a window. The
agreement was ratified, and Abraham was shut up according to his
desire; and by a long life of seclusion, passed in preaching to all who
approached the window, and taking in all they brought through the same
aperture, Abraham has had “Beatus” attached to his name, and that name
has been recorded upon the roll of saints.
If there be any reader who objects to this story as unnatural, I would
remark to the same, that similar incidents may be met with in our own
time. In proof thereof I will briefly relate an anecdote which was
told me by the reverend father of a legal knight, who was himself the
officiating minister at the ceremony of which I am about to speak.
To the clergyman of a pretty village in Wales, due notice had been
given, and all preliminary legal observances having been fulfilled, he
awaited in his vestry, ready to marry an ex-sergeant and one of the
girls of the village. The canonical hours were fast gliding away, and
yet the priest was not summoned to the altar. By certain sounds he
could tell that several persons had assembled in the church, and he had
two or three times seen a pretty face peeping in at the vestry-door,
with a look upon it of pleasure to see that he was still there, and of
perplexity as if there was something to be told which only waited to be
asked for. At half-past eleven the face again peeped in, whereupon the
clergyman invited the owner of it to approach nearer. The invitation
was obeyed, and the clergyman inquired the reason for the unusual
delay, remarking at the same time, that if the parties were not
speedily prepared it would be too late to perform the ceremony that day.
“Well sir,” said the nymph, “I was about asking your advice. I am the
bride’s sister; and there is a difficulty--”
“What is it?” asked the priest.
“Just this, sir,” said Jenny. “Sergeant Jones has promised to marry
sister Winnifred if father will put down five pounds. Father agrees;
but he says that if he puts down the money before the marriage, the
sergeant will walk off. And the sergeant will not come up to be married
till the money is put down. So, you see, sir, we are in a terrible
difficulty; and we want you to propose a method to get us out of it.”
“There is nothing easier,” said the minister; “let your father put the
money into the hands of a trusty third person, who will promise to
place it in the sergeant’s possession as soon as he has married your
sister.”
Jenny Morgan saw the excellence of the device in a moment, rushed
back to the bridal parties, and they showed their appreciation of
the clergyman’s suggestion, by crowding to the altar as soon as the
preliminary proceeding recommended to them had been accomplished. At
length the clergyman came to the words, “Wilt thou have this woman to
thy wedded wife?”
“Jack,” said the ex-sergeant, looking round at the stake-holder, “have
you got the cash?”
“All right!” nodded Jack.
“Then I will,” said the sergeant; “and now, Jack, hand over the _tin_.”
The agreement was rigidly fulfilled; but had not the minister thought
of the means which solved the difficulty, Sergeant Jones would have
been nearly as ungallant to his lady as Abraham, Silvin, and Licinius,
had been to theirs.
But to return to Abraham. I have said this knight, on assuming his
monkly character, had caused himself to be walled up in his cell. I
have my suspicions, however, that it was a theatrical sort of wall, for
it is very certain that the saint could pass through it. Now, there
resided near him a lady recluse who was his “niece,” and whose name
was Mary. The two were as inseparable as the priest Lacombe and Madame
Guyon; and probably were as little deserving of reproach. This Mary was
the original of “Little Red Riding Hood.” She used to convey boiled
milk and butter, and other necessary matters to her uncle Abraham.
Now it happened that the ex-knight used also to be visited by a monk
whose name was Wolf, or who, at all events, has been so called by
hagiographers, on account of his being quite as much of a beast as the
quadruped so called. The monk was wont to fall in with Mary as she was
on her way to her uncle’s cell with pleasant condiments under a napkin,
in a wicker-basket. He must have been a monk of the Count Ory fashion,
and he was as seductive as Ponchard, when singing “Gentille Annette”
to the “Petit Chaperon Rouge,” in Boieldieu’s Opera. The result was,
that the monk carried off Mary to a neighboring city--Edessa, if I
remember rightly--and if I am wrong, Mr. Mitchell Kemble will, perhaps,
set me right, in his bland and gentleman-like way. The town-life led
by these two was of the most disgraceful nature; and when the monk had
grown tired of it, he left Mary to lead a worse, without him. Mary
became the “Reine Pomare,” the “Mogadore,” the “Rose Pomponne” of
Edessa, and was the terror of all families where there were elder sons
and latch-keys. Her doings and her whereabouts at length reached the
ears of her uncle Abraham, and not a little astonished were those who
knew the recluse to see him one morning, attired in a pourpoint of rich
stuff, with a cloak like Almaviva’s, yellow buskins with a fall of lace
over the tops, a jaunty cap and feather on his head, a rapier on his
thigh, and a steed between his legs, which curveted under his burden as
though the fun of the thing had given it lightness. At Mary’s supper,
this cavalier was present on the night of his arrival in Edessa. He
scattered his gold like a Crœsus, and Mary considered him worth all
the more penniless knights put together. When these had gone, as being
less welcome, Abraham declared his relationship, and acted on the right
it gave him to rate a niece who was not only an ungrateful minx, but
who was as mendacious as an ungrateful niece could well be. The old
gentleman, however, had truth on his side, and finally so overwhelmed
Mary with its terrible application, that she meekly followed him back
to the desert, and passed fifteen years in a walled-up cell close to
that of her uncle. The miracles the two performed are adduced as proofs
of the genuineness of the personages and their story; matters which I
would not dispute even if I had room for it.
The next knight whom I can call to mind as having been frightened
by marriage into monkery, is St. Vandrille, Count of the Palace to
King Dagobert. During the period of his knightship he was a very Don
Juan for gallantry, and railed against matrimony as conclusively as
a Malthusian. His friends pressed him to marry nevertheless; and
introduced him to a lady with a hundred thousand golden qualities, and
prospects as auriferous as those of Miss Kilmansegg. He took the lady’s
hand with a reluctance that might be called aversion, and which he
did not affect to conceal. When the nuptial ceremony was concluded,
Knight Vandrille, as eccentric as the cavaliers whose similar conduct
I have already noticed, mildly intimated that it was not his intention
to proceed further, and that for his part, he had renounced the
vanities of this world for aye. Taking the lady apart, he appears to
have produced upon _her_ a conviction that the determination was one
he could not well avoid; and we are not told that she even reproached
him for a conduct which seems to me to have been a thousand times more
selfish and inexcusable than that of the clever but despicable Abelard.
The church, however, did not disapprove of the course adopted, and St.
Vandrille, despite his worse than breach of promise, has been forgiven
as knight, and canonized as saint.
Far more excusable was that little Count of Arian, Elzear, the
boy-knight at the court of Charles II., King of Sicily, whom that
monarch married at the age of thirteen years, to Delphina of Glandeves,
a young lady of fifteen. When I say far more excusable, I do Elzear
some injustice, for the boy was willing enough to be wed, and looked
forward to making his lady proud of his own distinction as a knight.
Delphina, however, it was who proposed that they should part at the
altar, and never meet again. She despised the boy, and the little
cavalier took it to heart--so much so, that he determined to renounce
the career of arms and enter the church. Thereby chivalry lost a worthy
cavalier, and the calendar gained a very active saint.
Elzear might well feel aggrieved. There have been knights even younger
than he, who have carried spurs before they were thirteen. This reminds
me of a paragraph in an article which I contributed to “Fraser’s
Magazine,” in March, 1844, under the title of “A Walk across Bohemia,”
in which, speaking of the Imperial Zeughaus at Vienna, I noticed “the
suit of armor of that little hero, the second Louis of Hungary, he
who came into this breathing world some months before he was welcome,
and who supported his character for precocity by marrying at twelve,
and becoming the legitimate bearer of all the honors of paternity as
soon as he entered his teens; who moreover maintained his consistency
by turning a gray old man at sixteen, and finally terminated his
ephemeral course on the field of battle before he became of age.”
Elzear then was not, perhaps, so poor a knight as his older lady seemed
disposed to count him.
I must be briefer with noticing the remaining individuals who either
flung up chivalry for the Church, or who preferred the latter to
following a knightly career. First, there was St. Anscharius, who
after he had made the change alluded to, was standing near the easy
Olas, King of Sweden, when the latter cast lots to decide whether
Christianity should be the religion of the state, or not. We are
told that the prayers of St. Anscharius caused the king to throw
double-sixes in favor of the better cause.
St. Andrew Cossini made an admirable saint after being the most riotous
of cavaliers. So St. Amandus of Nantes won his saintship by resigning
his lordship over men-at-arms. Like him was that St. Romuald of the
family of the Dukes of Ravenna, who, whether fighting or hunting, loved
to retire from the fray and the chase, to pray at peace, in shady
places. St. John of Malta and St. Stephen of Grandmont were men of
the like kidney. St. Benedict of Anian was that famous cup-bearer of
Charlemagne, who left serving the Emperor in hall and field, to serve a
greater master with less ostentation. He followed the example of that
St. Auxentius, who threw up his commission in the equestrian guard of
Theodosius the Younger, to take service in a body of monks.
Many of those who renounced arms, or would not assume military service
when opportunity offered itself, profited personally by the adoption of
such a course. Thus St. Porphyrius was a knight till he was twenty-five
years of age, and he died Bishop of Gaza. The knight St. Wulfran became
Bishop of Sens. St. Hugh won the bishopric of Grenoble, by not only
renouncing knighthood himself, but by inducing his father to follow his
example. St. Norbert became Archbishop of Magdeburg, after leading a
jolly life, not only as a knight but as priest. A fall from his horse
brought him to a sense of decency. A prophecy of a young maiden to
St. Ulric gained him his saintship and the bishopric of Augsburg. Had
she not foretold he would die a bishop, he would have been content to
carry a banner. Examples like these are very numerous, but I have cited
enough.
Few in a worldly sense made greater sacrifice than St. Casimir, son
of Casimir III., King of Poland. He so loved his reverend tutor,
Dugloss, that, to be like him, he abandoned even his chance of the
throne, and became a priest. St. Benedict of Umbria took a similar
course, upon a smaller scale; and not all the persuasions of his nurse,
who ran after him when he ran away from home, could induce him to
be anything but a priest. St. Herman Joseph, of Cologne, showed how
completely he had abandoned the knightly character, when, as monk, he
begged the peasants whom he taught, to be good enough to buffet him
well, and cuff him soundly, as it was impossible for him to have a
sufficiency of kicks and contempt. St. Guthlac, the noble hermit of
Croyland, evinced more dignity in his retirement, and the same may
be said of St. Peter Regalati, and St. Ubaldus of Gabio. The latter
was resolute neither to marry nor take arms. He liked no turmoil,
however qualified. St. Vincent of Lerins _did_ bear arms for years,
but he confessed he did not like the attendant dangers--threatening
him spiritually, not bodily, and he took the cowl and gained a place
in the sacred calendar accordingly. St. Aloysius Gonzaga, whose father
was a prince, was another of the young gentlemen for whom arms had
little attraction. The humility of this young gentleman, however, had
a very silly aspect, if it all resembled what is said of him by Father
Caperius. “He never looked on women, kept his eye strictly guarded,
and generally cast down; would never stay with his mother alone in her
chamber, and if she sent in any message to him by some lady in her
company, he received it, and gave his answer in a few words, with his
eyes shut, and his chamber-door only half open; and when bantered on
that score, he ascribed such behavior to his bashfulness. It was owing
to his original modesty that he did not know by their face many ladies
among his own relations, with whom he had frequently conversed; and
that he was afraid and ashamed to let a footman see so much as his foot
uncovered.” Whatever the soft Aloysius may have been fit for, it is
clear that he was _not_ fit for chivalry. Something akin to him was St.
Theobald of Champagne, who probably would never have been a saint, if
his father had not ordered him to lead a body of troops to the succor
of a beleaguered cousin. Theobald declined, and at once went into a
monastery.