carried on war with more indifference and cruelty than the Spanish
knights. But war in all times and in all ages has induced the first,
at least, if not the last. I may cite among what may be called the
more recent instances, one that would hardly have occurred, even at
Sebastopol. It is in reference to Schomberg’s army at Dundalk. “The
survivors,” says Leland, “used the bodies of their dead comrades for
seats or shelter; and when these were carried to interment, murmured
at being deprived of their conveniences.” While touching upon Irish
matters, I will avail myself of the opportunity to notice that Irish
knights were sometimes called “iron knee,” “eagle knee,” and “black
knee,” from the armor which was especially needed for that part of
the body, the Irish with their dreadful battle-axes making the sorest
stroke on the thigh of the horseman. The Irish appellation of the
White Knight, was given to the heir of a family wherein gray hairs
were hereditary. The Irish knights, it may be observed, were generally
more religious than the Spanish. The latter were too ready to ascribe
every success to their own might, and not to a greater hand. Even in
the case of St. Lawrence, calmly roasting to death on his gridiron,
the proud Spaniards would not have this patience ascribed to the grace
of God, but only to the true Spanish valor. While speaking of the
burning of St. Lawrence, I will add that St. Pierre quotes Plutarch in
stating, that when the Roman burners had to reduce to ashes the bodies
of several knights and ladies, they used to place one female body among
eight or ten males, fancying that with this amalgamation they would
burn better. The author of the “Harmonies of Nature” makes upon this
the truly characteristic comment, that the Roman fashion was founded on
the notion, that “the fire of love still burned within us after death.”
Reverting, for a moment, to the Spaniards, I may notice a fashion
among them which is worth mentioning. When a Spanish cavalier entered
the presence of a Spanish queen, accompanied by his lady, he did not
unbonnet to his sovereign. He was supposed to be so engrossed by his
mistress as to forget even the courtesies of loyalty.
Brantome, on the other hand, notices kingly courtesy toward a subject.
When describing the battle-acts of the famous M. de Thorannes, he
states that the King in acknowledgment that the battle of Rentz had
been gained chiefly through his courage, took the collar of his own
order from his neck, and placed it on that of the gallant soldier. This
was a most unusual act, according to the showing of Brantome, but
probably not the first time of a similar occurrence. The author just
named complains in piteous terms that, in his time and previously, the
honors of chivalry had been bestowed for anything but knightly deeds.
They were gained by favor, influence, or money. Some set their wives
to exert their fascination over the Christian sovereign, and purchase
the honor at any cost. M. de Chateaubriand gave a house and an estate
for the order of St. Michael. Ultimately, it was conferred on single
captains of infantry, to the great disgust of the better-born gentlemen
who had paid dearly for the honor. Brantome declares that he knew many
who had never been half a dozen leagues from their houses, who wore the
insignia of the order, and who talked of the taking of Loches, as if
they had really been present. He angrily adds, that even lawyers were
made knights, stripping themselves of their gowns, and clapping swords
on their thighs. He appears especially annoyed that the celebrated
Montaigne should have followed a similar example: and he adds with a
malicious exultation, that the sword did not become him half so well as
the pen.
One French Marquis was persecuted by his neighbors to get orders
for them, as if they were applying for orders for the theatre. He
obtained them with such facility, that he even made a knight of his
house-steward, and forced the poor man to go to market in his collar,
to the infinite wounding of his modesty. It was, however, one rule of
the order that the collar should never, under any pretence whatever,
be taken from the neck. The Court had very unsavory names for these
mushroom-knights; and Brantome gives us some idea of the aristocratic
feeling when he recounts, with a horror he does not seek to disguise,
that the order was sold to an old Huguenot gentleman, for the small
sum of five hundred crowns. A cheap bargain for the new knight, seeing
that membership in the order carried with it exemption from taxation.
Luckily for the Huguenot he died just in time to save himself from
being disgraced. Some gentlemanly ruffians had agreed to attack this
“homme de peu,” as Brantome calls him, to pull the order from his neck,
to give him a cudgelling, and to threaten him with another, whenever he
dared to wear the knightly insignia.
Brantome wonders the more at what he calls the abuse of the order as
it had been instituted by Louis XI., on the ground that the old order
of the Star founded by King John, in memory of the star which guided
the Kings to the Cradle of Divinity, had become so common, that the
silver star of the order was to be seen in the hat and on the mantle of
half the men in France. Louis XI., in abolishing the order, conferred
its insignia as an ornament of dress, upon the Chevaliers de Guet, or
gentlemen of the watch, who looked to the safety of Paris when the
stars were shining, or that it was the hour for them to do so. It was
an understood thing with all these orders that if a knight went into
the service of an enemy to the sovereign head of the order, the knight
was bound to divest himself of the insignia and transmit the same
directly to the King.
Before the dignity of the order was humbled, the members took pride in
displaying it even in battle; although they were put to high ransom,
if captured. Some prudent knights, of as much discretion as valor,
would occasionally conceal the insignia before going into fight; but
they were mercilessly ridiculed, when the absence of the decoration
testified to the presence of their discretion. In the earlier years
of its formation, a man could with more facility obtain a nomination
to be captain of the body-guard than the collar of the order of St.
Michael. Louis XI. himself showed a wise reluctance to making the order
common, and although he fixed the number of knights at six-and-thirty,
he would only, at first, appoint fifteen. Under succeeding kings the
order swelled to limitless numbers, until at last, no one would accept
it, even when forced upon them. One great personage, indeed, sought and
obtained it. He was severely rallied for his bad ambition; but as he
remarked, the emblems of the order would look well, engraved upon his
plate, and the embroidered mantle would make an admirable covering for
his mule.
This sort of satire upon chivalry reminds me that a knight could
unknight himself, when so inclined. An instance occurs in a case
connected with Jeanne Darc. The chevaliers of the Dauphin’s army had no
belief in the inspiration of the Maid of Orleans, until success crowned
her early efforts. The female knight, if one may so speak, on the other
hand, had no measure whatever of respect, either for knight or friar,
who appeared to doubt her heavenly mission. I may just notice, by the
way, that a “board” of seven theologians assembled to consider her
claims, and examine the maiden herself. One of the members, a “brother
Seguin,” a Limousin, who spoke with the strong and disagreeable accent
of his birthplace, asked Jeanne in what sort of idiom she had been
addressed by the divine voice, by which she professed to be guided: “In
a much better idiom than you use yourself,” answered the pert young
lady, “or I should have put no trust in it.” Here, by the way, we
have, perhaps, the origin of the old story of the stammering gentleman
who asked the boy if his m--m--magpie could speak? “Better than you,”
said the boy, “or I would wring his neck off.” But to resume. Jeanne
was quite as _nonchalante_ to the knights, as she was flippant to
the friars. She expressly exhibits this characteristic, in the first
council held in her presence within Orleans, when she urged immediate
offensive measures, contrary to the opinion of the knights themselves.
One of the latter, the Sire de Gamache, was so chafed by the
pertinacity of the Pucelle, that, at last, springing to his feet, he
exclaimed:--“Since noble princes listen for a moment to the nonsense of
a low-bred hussy like this, rather than to the arguments of a chevalier
such as I am, I will not trouble myself to give any more opinions. In
proper time and place, my good sword will speak, and perchance I may
prevail; but the king and my honor so will it. Henceforward, I furl and
pull down my banner; from this moment I am only a simple ’squire; but I
would much rather have a noble man for master, than serve under a wench
who, perhaps, has been a--one really does not know what!” and with
these words, he rolled up his banner, placed the same in the hands of
Dunois, and walked out of the tent, not Sir John de Gamache, but plain
John Gamache, Esquire.
A curious result followed. The first attack on the bastion of Tourelles
failed, and Jeanne was slightly wounded and unhorsed. Gamache was
near, and he dismounted and offered her his steed. “Jump up,” cried
the good fellow, “you are a gallant lass, and I was wrong in calling
you ugly names. I will serve and obey you right willingly.” “And you,”
said Jeanne, “are as hearty a knight as ever thwacked men or helped a
maid.” And so were they reconciled, and remained good friends to the
end;--which was not long in coming.
Knights, irregularly made so, were unknighted with little ceremony.
Although each duly dubbed knight could confer the same honor on any
deserving such distinction, it was necessary that the individual
about to be so honored should be a gentleman. In France, if this
rule was infringed, the unlucky knight had his spurs hacked off, on
a dunghill. Occasionally the unknighted person was fined. It may be
observed, however, that the king might make a knight of a villain, if
the sovereign were so minded. That is, a king could raise any of his
own subjects to the rank, if he thought proper. Not so with sovereigns
and persons not their subjects. The Emperor Sigismund, for instance,
when visiting Paris, in 1415, knighted a person who was below the rank
of gentleman. The French people were indignant at this, as an act of
sovereignty in another monarch’s dominions. If this chevalier was not
unknighted, the reason, probably, was that the Emperor might not be
offended. It is said, that in Naples it has never been necessary for a
man to be noble, a gentleman in fact, in order to be a knight. This may
readily be credited. In Naples the fact of a man being a brute beast
does not incapacitate him from exercising the office even of a king.
After all, there appears to have been some uncertainty in the
observance of the law on the subject. In England the custom which
allowed knights to dub other knights, very soon fell into disuse, so
that there are fewer examples of unknighting in this country than in
France, where the custom prevailed down to the middle of the sixteenth
century; and its abuses, of course, rendered the unmaking of illegally
constituted knights, if not common, at least an occasional occurrence.
Henry III., as I have said in another page, summoned tenants _in
capite_ to receive knighthood from himself, and authorized tenants of
mesne lords to receive the honor from whom they pleased. But there
must have been considerable disrating of these last distinguished
persons, or such an abuse of creation, so to speak, that the privilege
was stopped, except by special permission of the king. Some places,
in France, however, declared that they held a prescriptive right for
burgesses to receive knighthood at the hands of noblemen, without the
royal permission. Hallam, quoting Villaret, says that burgesses, in the
great commercial towns, were considered as of a superior class to the
roturiers, and possessed a kind of demi-nobility.
Ridiculous as modern knights, whether of town or country, have been
made upon the stage, it is indisputable that in some cases the ridicule
has not been what painters call “loaded,” and the reality was in itself
a caricature. I have read somewhere of one city gentleman, who was
knighted during his shrievalty, and who forthwith emancipated himself
a little from business, and aired his chivalrous “sir” in gay company.
He was once, however, sorely puzzled on receiving a note of invitation
from a lady whose soirées were the especial delight of her guests,
and whose note ended with the initials, so absurdly placed at the
termination of an invitation in English. R. S. V. P., “réponse, s’il
vous plait.” The newly-coined knight, after allusions to the pressure
of business, accepted the hospitality offered him through the note,
remarking at the same time, that “all work and no play made Jack a dull
boy,” and that he knew nothing more to his taste, after a long day’s
application, than what her ladyship’s note appeared to present to him
in the initials at its foot; namely, a Regular Small Vist Party. If
this anecdote be not apocryphal, I suspect that the knight’s remark may
have sprung less from ignorance than humor, and that his reading of the
initials was meant as a censure upon an absurd fashion.
While speaking of city knights at home, and their humor, I will
avail myself of the opportunity to give an instance of wit in a poor
chevalier of the city of Paris, whose whole wealth consisted of a few
unproductive acres near the capital, and whose son had just married
a wealthy heiress of very low degree. “Il fait bien,” said the old
knight, “il fume mes terres!”
This was hardly courteous; but elevated courtesy was never wanting
among true knights, in the very rudest of times.
Strange contrasts of feeling were sometimes exhibited. Thus, when the
English were besieging Orleans, they grew suddenly tired of their
bloody work, on Christmas-day, and asked for a truce while they ate
their pudding. The request was not only readily granted, but the French
knights, hearing that the day was dull in the English camp, obtained
the permission of the bastard Dunois, to send over some musicians to
enliven the melancholy leaguers. The band played lustily during the
whole period of the truce, but the last notes had scarcely ceased, and
the “Godons” as Jeanne Darc rather corruptively called our great sires,
who were too much addicted to swearing, had hardly ceased uttering
their thanks for the musical entertainment, when their cannonade was
renewed by the besiegers with such vigor, that the French knights
swore--harmony had never before been paid in such hard coin.
There was little ill-feeling consequent upon this. The pages in either
army were allowed to amuse themselves by slaying each other in a two
days’ duel, presided over by the respective generals-in-chief. This was
chivalrous proof that neither party bore malice, and they beat out each
other’s brains on the occasion, in testimony of universal good-will,
with as much delighted feeling as if they had all been Irishmen. A
further proof of absence of individual rancor may be seen in the fact,
that Suffolk sent a gift of pigs, dates, and raisins, for the _dessert_
of Dunois; and the latter acknowledged the present by forwarding to
the English general some fur for his robe--Suffolk having complained
bitterly of the cold of that memorable February, 1429.
This reminds me of a similar interchange of courtesy between French
and English antagonists, in later times. When brave Elliot was
defending Gibraltar from gallant Crillon, the former, who never
ate meat, suffered greatly (as did his scurvy-stricken men) from a
scarcity of vegetables. Crillon had more than he wanted, and he sent
of his superabundance, most liberally, to the foe whom he respected. A
whole cart-load of carrots and compliments made general and garrison
glad, and Elliot was as profuse in his gratitude as he was bound
to be. It may be remembered that similar exchanges of courtesy and
creature-comforts took place at Sebastopol. Sir Edmund Lyons sent
Admiral Nachimoff a fat buck, a gift which the large-minded hero of the
Sinope butchery repaid by a hard Dutch cheese. It may be said too that
the buck would have been more appropriately sent to the half-starved
English heroes who were rotting in the trenches.
There were some other naval knights of old, touching whom I may here
say a word.
The history of the sea-kings or sea-knights, whose noble vocation it
was to descend from the north with little but ballast in the holds
of their vessels, and to return thither heavily laden with plunder
and glory, is tolerably well known to the majority of readers. The
story of the Flemish pirates, who, nearly eight centuries ago, carried
terror to, and brought spoil from the Mediterranean, is far less
familiar. This story is well illustrated in the “Biographie des hommes
remarquables de la Flandres Occidentale,” of whom the authors are M.
Octave Delepierre, the accomplished Belgian consul in this country, and
Mr. Carton.
The period is a warm June evening of the year 1097. Off the coast of
Cilicia, two large vessels, belonging to the Emperor Alexis Comnenus,
and manned by Constantinopolitan Greeks, were surrounded and attacked
by ten fast-sailing but small vessels, belonging to the dreaded “Greek
Pirates,” whose name alone brought terror with the sound. On the prow
of each light bark was a rudely sculptured figure of a lion; from the
summit of the tall mast was displayed a green pennant, which was never
hauled down, for the good reason that the pirates never attacked but
where success seemed certain; and if defeat menaced them they could
easily find safety in flight.
There was scarcely a place on the coast which they had not, for ten
years past, visited; and many merchants purchased exemption from attack
by paying a species of very liberal black mail. It was beneath the
dignity of an emperor to buy safety from piratical rovers, and they had
little respect for his vessels, in consequence.
M. Delepierre informs us that these Flemish pirates had been,
originally, merchants, but that they thought it more profitable to
steal than to barter; and found “skimming the seas,” as the phrase
went, far more lucrative than living by the dull precepts of trade.
Their three principal chiefs were Zegher of Bruges, Gheraert of
Courtrai, and Wimer (whose name still lives in Wimereux) of Boulogne.
The force they had under them amounted to four hundred intrepid men,
who were at once sailors and soldiers, and who are described as being
so skilful that they could with one hand steer the ship, and with the
other wield the boarding-hatchet. It will be seen that our Laureate’s
exhortation to knavish tradesmen to lay down their weights and their
measures, and to mend their ways by taking to the vocation of arms,
had here a practical illustration. In the present case, M. Delepierre
suggests that the pirates were, probably, not less honest men than
the Greeks. The latter were ostensibly on their way to succor the
Crusaders, but Alexis was a double dealer, and occasionally despatched
forces against the infidel, which forces turned aside to assault those
Christian neighbors of his, who were too powerful to be pleasant in
such a vicinity, and to get rid of whom was to be devoutly desired,
and, at any cost, accomplished. The foreign policy of Alexis was as
villanously void of principle as that of any government under a more
advanced period of Christian civilization.
The Greek crews had been summoned to surrender. Gheraert of
Courtrai had called to them to that effect through his leathern
speaking-trumpet. He probably knew little of Greek, and the Orientals
could not have comprehended his Flemish. We may conclude that his
summons was in a macaronic sort of style; in which two languages were
used to convey one idea. The Hellenes replied to it, however it may
have sounded, by hurling at the Flemings a very hurricane of stones.
The stout men from Flanders were not long in answering in their turn.
“They put into play,” says M. Delepierre, “their mechanical slings.
These were large baskets full of stones fastened to the end of an
elevated balance, the motion of which flung them to some distance.
They had other means of destruction, in enormous engines, which hurled
beams covered with iron, and monster arrows wrapped in flaming rosin.
With scythe-blades attached to long poles, they severed the ropes and
destroyed the sails, and then flinging out their grapnels they made off
with their prize.”
To this point the present battle had not yet come. It had lasted
an hour, the Greeks had suffered most by the means of attack above
noticed; and they had inflicted but trifling injury, comparatively,
upon the men of the green pennant. They refused, however, to surrender,
but prepared to fly. Wimer saw the preparatory movement, and, in a loud
voice, exclaimed:--“A dozen divers!”
Twelve men, quitting their posts, leaped over the side of the boat,
carrying enormous _tarières_ (augers) with them. They disappeared
beneath the waves; appeared for a moment or two again above the
surface, in order to draw breath; once more plunged downward; and,
finally, at the end of ten minutes, climbed again into their small
vessel, exclaiming, “Master, it is done!”
The twelve divers had established twelve formidable leaks in the larger
of the two Greek vessels, and as it began to sink, the crew agreed to
surrender. The Green Pirates seized all that was on board that and
the other ship. In the latter, stripped of everything of value, they
allowed the two Greek crews to sail away; and then proceeded toward the
coast with their booty, consisting of rich stuffs, provisions and arms.
There was far more than they needed for their own wants; and so, for
the nonce, they turned traders again. They sold at a good price what
they had unscrupulously stolen, and the profits realized by the Flemish
rovers were enough to make all honest, but poor traders, desire to turn
corsairs.
Zegher ascended the Cydnus, in order to pay a professional visit to
Tarsis, and was not a little surprised, on approaching the city, to
see formidable preparations made to resist him. On drawing closer,
however, the pirate-leader found that Tarsis was in possession of the
army of Flemish crusaders under the great Count Baldwin; and each party
welcomed the other with joyous shouts of “Long live Flanders!” “Long
live the Lion!” The arrival of the fleet was of the greatest advantage
to the Flemings, who, though they had suffered less than the French,
Italian, and German legions, by whom they had been preceded, and had
been progressively triumphing since they had landed, needed succors
both of men and material, and lo! here were the Green Pirates ready to
furnish both, for a consideration. There was abundance of feasting that
night, and a very heavy sermon in the morning.
Baldwin was himself the preacher. His style was a mixture of exhorting
with the threatening; and he was so little complimentary as to tell the
Green pirates that they were nothing better than brigands, and were
undoubtedly on their way to the devil. He added that he would have
treated them as people of such a character, going such a way, only
that they were his countrymen. And then he wept at the very thought
of their present demerits, and their possible destiny. This practice
of weeping was inherited by knights from the old Greek heroes, and
a chevalier in complete steel might shed tears till his suit was
rusty, without the slightest shame. The exhortation continued without
appearing to make any sensible impression upon the rovers. Baldwin,
however, pointed his address at the end, with an observation that if
they would join him in his career of arms, he would give them lands
that should make lords of the whole of them. Upon this observation the
Green Pirates, with a little modest allusion to their unworthiness,
declared that they were eager, one and all, to turn crusaders.
Each man attached a small green cross, in cloth, to the top of his
sleeve; and joyfully followed Baldwin to the field. The count was no
more able to keep his word than a recruiting sergeant who promises a
recruit that he shall be made a field-marshal. Nor was he to blame, for
the greater part of his new allies perished; but enough were left to
make a score of very doughty knights.
Admirable sailors were the Northmen, especially the Anglo-Normans,
whether with respect to manœuvring or courage. “Close quarters” formed
the condition on which they liked to be with an enemy. “Grapple and
board” was their system as soon as they had created a little confusion
among the enemy with their cross-bows and slings. The “mariners” in
those days fought in armor, with heavy swords, spears, and battle-axes.
They were well furnished too with bags of quick-lime, the contents of
which they flung into the eyes of their adversaries, when they could
get to windward of them, an end which they always had in view.