CHIVALRY AND ROMANCE
'Mekely, lordynges gentyll and fre,
Lysten awhile and herken to me.'
HUE DE ROTELANDE.
ONCE upon a time, long long before the Venerable Bede had completed that
famous last chapter in his cell at Jarrow, there lived in the ancient
capital of Sampsiceramus, a holy man named Heliodorus. Now in his youth
Heliodorus (as is not uncommon with the young) had turned his thoughts to
worldly things; and being of a romantic nature, wearied by the eternal
sameness of the books available to him, had conceived the extraordinary
notion of writing an untrue book, a book that should never instruct or
point a moral or show you where you are wrong, but should be all
joyousness and enchantment. Possessed with this great idea, timidly yet
sure of himself, he set to work.
The very first thing he did was sufficiently startling for those days.
Instead of selecting some great man for his central figure and putting
his dialogue into the mouths of learned men, fathers of the church,
philosophers, orators, or famous poets, he chose deliberately a young and
handsome man of no particular learning, and--a woman! It was unheard of!
A book, a voluminous roll closely written, containing nothing but the
adventures of a pair of lovers! Monstrous! Yet it was done at last, and
the roll, finding favour in the eyes of a bosom friend, was quickly
passed from hand to hand. All were entranced by it. Here was a book that
had characters one could understand, for whom one could even feel
affection. The loves of dashing young Theagenes and his dear Chariclea
found an echo in many a youthful breast.
Meanwhile Heliodorus disappears from view, and for many years we hear
nothing of him until suddenly he reappears as a bishop in Thessaly! Now
comes the sequel to his audacious design, but for which it is doubtful if
we should ever have heard of him. A synod was convened, and Heliodorus
was condemned _because in his youth he had written a novel_. He was given
his choice between bishopric and book, to retain the one he must destroy
the other by word as well as by deed.
At first sight the choice appears not difficult to make, for although so
laical and original a work had proved to be popular, yet such popularity
was hardly of a nature to appeal to so devout a Christian as one who had
already attained episcopal rank. But to Heliodorus his work (which may
well have been the employment of some years) stood for all that he held
most dear. It was his conception of the ideal in worldly--as opposed to
spiritual--life. Less austere, perhaps, than many of the fathers of the
early Church whose works had seemed so tedious to him in his youth, his
devoutness was tempered largely with a charity and forgiveness that were
not unworthy of his creed. It was impossible to deny those principles of
chivalric virtue and chastity which his novel preached, so he chose to
stand by his book rather than by his benefice, and quitted Thessaly.
So runs the pleasing tale of Nicephorus. But alas! the relentless voice
of modern research will have it that the real author was not the bishop
at all, but a Sophist who lived in the third century of our era. Be it as
it may, I for my part shall go on believing the old romantic tale until
a better one is invented for the Sophist.
The work itself is called 'Ten Books of Aethiopian History,' for the
first and last scenes are laid in Egypt, but it is better known by the
name of its hero and heroine. Its popularity was immense, and it was soon
translated into 'almost all languages.' Later Pere Amyot published a
version in French for Francis I., who was so delighted with the result
that he made the translator abbe of Belozane. Racine tells us it was this
ancient romance that first fired his imagination with the desire to
write. His tutor discovered him absorbed in its contents, and snatching
it from his hand angrily consigned it to the fire. Racine bought another
copy, which suffered a like fate. But so strong a hold upon him had the
story, that he purchased a third, and devoured it in secret, offering it
to his master with a smile when he had thoroughly mastered its contents.
It seems that this ancient Greek romance was lost for many centuries. At
the sack of Buda in 1526, however, a manuscript of it was discovered in
the royal library, where it had once formed part of the vast library
amassed by Matthias Corvinus, the great King of Hungary. Matthias is said
to have 'spoken almost all the European languages,' so doubtless he had
passed many a pleasant hour with the tale. This manuscript (others have
since been discovered) was printed at Basel 'in officina Ioan Hervagii'
in 1534, a small quarto printed with Greek types.[32]
That the early romances of chivalry possess a charm for the
book-collector it is impossible to deny. They are 'a series of books,'
writes Mr. John Ormsby, 'which, complete, would be a glory to any library
in the world; which, in first editions, would now probably fetch a sum
almost large enough to endow a college; and which . . . . is perhaps
. . . . as worthless a set of books as could be made up out of the refuse
novels of a circulating library.' Times without number they have been
derided and decried, even in the days when they were popular. The curate
of La Mancha was not the only one who disapproved of them. 'In our
fathers tyme,' wrote old Roger Ascham, judging the flock by a few black
sheep, 'nothing was red, but bookes of fayned cheualrie, wherein a man by
redinge, shuld be led to none other ende, but onely to manslaughter and
baudrye.' Possevino, a learned Jesuit and famous preacher of the
sixteenth century, used to complain that for the last five hundred years
the princes of Europe had read nothing but romances. Rene d'Anjou
listened to his chaplain inveighing against Launcelot, Amadis, and the
romances of which he was particularly fond; but, says Villeneuve, while
respecting the preacher for his boldness, the king continued to read
them, and even composed new volumes in imitation of them.[33]
Full of monstrous fictions some of these ancient stories undoubtedly are.
It were foolish to expect that all of them should attain the high level
of those great legends which centre about the Holy Grail. Good things
have ever been imitated indifferently; and it was only the later series
of tales which had to do chiefly with enchantments and fairies and
'giaunts, hard to be beleeved.' But alas! all alike have come under the
ban of those who decry reading for recreation's sake. Good and bad have
been damn'd indifferently. One cannot help wondering however that so much
has been written against them, and that so many have been at pains to
point out their unreasonableness. One would have thought that the very
fact of them _all_ abounding with incidents that are not only impossible
but preposterous, would have given these critics pause, and have urged
them to ask themselves why and wherefore such things were repeated.
To anyone possessed of imagination the answer, of course, is obvious. The
better tales all had the exaltation of the chivalric spirit in view, and
sought to achieve this end by allegory as well as by parable. He must be
a dullard indeed who fails to understand their symbolism. Malory,
describing the entry of Tristram into the field, wishes to impress upon
us the fact that he was indeed a 'preux chevalier, sans peur et sans
reproche,' the model of a Christian knight; so he mounts him on a white
horse and arrays him in white harness, and he rides out at a postern,
'and soo he came in to the feld as it had ben a bryght angel.' Doubtless
those to whom understanding has been denied would argue hotly as to
whether there is any authority for a knight painting his armour white.
What sane man, reading 'The Faerie Queene,' could think that it purported
to depict actual scenes or incidents? Yet time and again the 'sheer
impossibility' of these stories has been urged in condemnation of them.
Truly it is not every man who should turn to these ancient books which
'In sage and solemn tunes have sung
Of Turneys and of Trophies hung,
Of Forests, and inchantments drear,
_Where more is meant than meets the ear_.'
Gavaudan, a troubadour of the twelfth century, meets the undiscerning
critic more than half-way. Let none judge, he writes, till he be capable
of separating the grain from the chaff; 'for the fool makes haste to
condemn, and the ignorant only pretends to know all things, and muses on
the wonders that are too mighty for his comprehension.'
'Romances,' says Sharon Turner, 'are so many little Utopias, in which the
writer tries to paint or to inculcate something which he considers to be
more useful, more happy or more delightful, more excellent or more
interesting, than the world he lives in, than the characters he surveys,
or the events or evils which he experiences.' Yet Dunlop, who examined
the romances of chivalry at some length in his 'History of Fiction,'
seems never to have suspected that these tales were written with any
other intention than to amuse or that the events which they related were
looked upon by their readers as other than facts. For Arthur he has scant
respect, 'nor,' says he, 'as we advance, do we find him possessed of a
single quality, except strength and courage, to excite respect or
interest.' Surely the remark of one who must have been dead to all sense
of imagination and romance--although purporting to be an authority upon
them! The teaching of the whole Arthurian cycle of romances was 'that
noble men may see and lerne the noble actes of chyualrye, the Ientyl and
vertuous dedes that somme Knyghtes vsed in tho dayes, by whyche they came
to honour; and how they that were vycious were punysshed and ofte put to
shame and rebuke.' The quest of the Holy Grail, motive of the most
exquisite series of mystic tales that has ever been written, was, we are
expressly informed, 'the hygh way of our Lord Jhesu Cryst, and the way of
a true good lyver, not that of synners and of mysbelievers.' Godfrey de
Bouillon, the hero of another cycle, was 'moult preudhomme et sage et
moult aymant Dieu et gens d'esglise,' as we read in 'Le Triomphe des Neuf
Preux' (folio, Abbeville 1487). Preposterous tales? Perhaps; yet, as
regards their moral side, not suffering greatly by comparison with our
modern fiction.
Those whose reading is confined to the literature of to-day can have no
idea of the influence which these romances had upon the lives of our
forefathers. It was not merely a system of morality which they taught, it
was a civilisation of a very high order. When we are inclined to mock at
these 'preposterous tales' we should never forget that to them we owe a
debt so immense that we are lost in the contemplation of it. It cannot be
gainsaid that it was as much by the study and teaching of these romances
as it was by the spirit which gave them birth, that our ancestors came to
mould their lives in such a sort as to influence the civilisation of the
whole of the western world.
That the romances were the outcome of chivalry cannot be urged, though
doubtless in a later age they helped to keep the spirit of knighthood
alive. Edward the Black Prince, the very model of mediaeval chivalry,
avowedly studied the ancient romances for patterns. When Pedro the Cruel
had prevailed upon the prince to defend his cause, the princess bitterly
bewailed her husband's decision. 'I see well,' said the prince, to whom
her expressions were related, 'that she wishes me to be always at her
side and never to leave her chamber. But a prince must be ready to win
renown and to expose himself to all kinds of danger, as in days of old
did Roland, Oliver, Ogier, the four sons of Aimon, Charlemagne, the great
Leon de Bourges, Juan de Tournant, Lancelot, Tristan, Alexander, Arthur
and Godfrey whose courage, bravery, and fearlessness, both warlike and
heroic, all the romances extoll. And by Saint George, I will restore
Spain to the rightful heir.'
Occleve, a little later, has no doubt as to the beneficial effects of
perusing the romances. Indeed he goes so far as to exhort his friend, Sir
John Oldcastle, to leave off studying Holy Writ, and to read 'Lancelot de
lake, Vegece, or the Siege of Troie or Thebes.' 'What do ye now,' says
Caxton in 'The Order of Chivalry,' 'but go to the baynes and playe atte
dyse? . . . Leve this, leve it, and rede the noble volumes of Saynt
Graal, of Lancelot, of Galaad, of Trystram, of Perseforest, of Percyval,
of Gawayn, and many mo. Ther shalle ye see manhode, curtosye, and
gentylnesse.'
What other system in this world could have bestowed that absolute
serenity of mind which those who practised chivalry retained amid the
tumults of their life? The Saracens, abashed by the tranquil spirit of
their royal prisoner, Louis IX., mistook his humility for pride. In vain
did they threaten him with torture: the king only replied 'Je suis
prisonnier du Sultan, il peut faire de moi a son vouloir.' And when at
last the Sultan's murderer rushed into his prison, his hands dripping
with blood, and crying, 'What will you give me for having destroyed him
who would have put you to death?' the king was more struck with horror at
the crime than with fear for his own safety, and remained motionless,
disdaining to answer. Thereupon the Saracen, maddened by a tranquillity
which he rightly attributed to the immense power of Christian chivalry,
presented the point of his blood-stained sword to the king's breast,
crying, 'Fais moi chevalier, ou je te tue.' 'Fais toi Chrestien,' replied
the intrepid king, 'et je te ferai chevalier.'
We are accustomed nowadays to look upon chivalry merely as a knightly
institution which had to do solely with tournaments, banquets,
knight-errantry, and the rescuing of encastled maidens. The modern
acceptance of the term omits all those gentle qualities of mind which go
to make the true chivalric disposition. We associate chivalry with 'fair
play' combined with 'manliness'; and humility has no part in it. Indeed
it never enters into our mind that it was a system of 'humanyte,
curtosye, and gentylnesse.' More, it was a religion deeply ingrained in
the hearts of men, a religion which spread through all grades of society,
and one which consisted in the beatifying of the noblest qualities of
human nature; and it has left an indelible mark upon our national
character. Chivalry is not dead to-day as thoughtless people so often
exclaim; it will never die so long as our national characteristics
endure, though to-day it passes under a different name. 'Sport' we call
it now, and we pride ourselves in being 'sporting' even in the hour of
death--witness the countless instances brought about by the late great
war.
Bertrand du Guesclin, one of the greatest and most fearless exponents of
the chivalric spirit, and the Black Prince's most redoubtable enemy, fell
at last into the hands of the English. One day at Bordeaux the Prince
summoned him from his prison, and asked him how he fared. 'Par may foy,
monseigneur,' replied Bertrand, 'il m'ennuye de n'entendre que le chant
des Souris de Bourdeaux; je voudrois bien ouyr les Rossignols de nostre
pais'; but he added that he loved honour better than aught else and never
had anything brought him more glory than his prison, seeing that, as all
the other prisoners had been ransomed, he was kept there only through
fear of his prowess. The Prince of Wales, touched in his honour (or
rather pride) at du Guesclin's words, agreed to liberate Bertrand upon
payment of seventy thousand florins of gold.[34] 'But what was more
extraordinary in this adventure,' says a French chronicler, 'was that the
Princess of Wales gave him thirty thousand, and Sir John Chandos, who had
taken him prisoner, took upon himself to pay what was wanting to make the
sum complete.' 'Sporting,' was it not? Truly we are a marvellous race,
and it is not to be wondered that other nations, from whom this spirit
has long passed away, despair of ever being able to understand us.
England has always been the home of chivalry. La Colombiere in his 'Vray
Theatre d'Honneur et de Chevalerie ou le Miroir Heroique de la Noblesse'
remarks that the greatest number of the old romances have been more
particularly employed in celebrating the valour of the knights of this
kingdom than that of any other; because, in fact, they have always loved
such exercises in an especial manner. 'The city of London,' writes
Francisco de Moraes in the 'Palmerin de Inglaterra,' 'contained in those
days all, or the greater part, of the chivalry of the world.' In
Perceforest a damozel says to his companion 'Sire chevalier, I will
gladly parley with you because you come from Great Britain; it is a
country which I love well, for there habitually (coustumierement) is the
finest chivalry in the world; c'est le pays au monde, si comme je croy,
le plus remply des bas et joyeulx passetemps pour toutes gentilles
pucelles et jeunes bacheliers qui pretendent a honneur de
chevalerie.'[35]
The entire cycle of legends which has the Holy Grail for its centre is
concerned with Britain and Britain alone. Caerleon and Winchester,
Tintagel and Glastonbury, these are the chief stages in this great
romance of perfect knighthood; and whether related by a scribe of
Hainault in the thirteenth century or sung by a Welsh bard before the
Norman Conquest or praised at the court at Paris by the favourite
troubadour of Philip Augustus, it is all one as regards the setting and
the chief characters. 'Whether for goodly men or for chivalrous deeds,
for courtesy or for honour,' wrote the Norman chronicler Wace in the
middle of the twelfth century, 'in Arthur's day England bore the flower
from all the lands near by, yea from every other land whereof we know.
The poorest peasant in his smock was a more courteous and valiant
gentleman than was a belted knight beyond the sea.'
There is a pleasing story which relates how Robert Bruce, marching with
his army in the mountains of Ireland, heard a woman crying during one of
the halts. He inquired immediately what was the matter, and was told that
it was a camp-follower, a poor laundress, who was taken in child-bed; and
as it was impossible to take her with them, she bemoaned her fate in
being left behind to die. The king replied that he is no man who will not
pity a woman then. He ordered that a tent should be pitched for her
immediately, and that she should be attended at once by the other women;
and there he tarried his host until she had been delivered and could be
carried along with them. 'This,' says the Chronicler, 'was a full great
courtesy.' Chivalry? In the very highest sense of the word.
We must be careful lest, losing sight of the many attributes of chivalry,
we incline towards the erroneous view that it was confined entirely to
the upper classes. That the manuscript volumes of the romantic tales
which were so eagerly purchased and treasured by the educated classes
could never possibly come into the hands of the rude illiterate peasants
is a fallacious argument. Scanty indeed would be our folk-lore had it all
been transmitted graphically. Chaucer bears evidence of the widespread
popularity of these heroic tales in his day:
'Alexaundres storie is so commune
That every wight that hath discrecioune
Hath herde somewhat or al of his fortune.'
The incidents of these immortal tales were as well known to the humblest
as to the highest in the land. We have abundant evidence of their
popularity when recounted in front of the fire in hostel or homestead.
Even so late as Milton's day it was the custom to recount knightly
adventures and fairy tales about the evening fireside. When
the live-long daylight fail
Then to the Spicy Nut-brown Ale,
With stories told of many a feat,
How _Faery Mab_ the junkets eat,
. . . . . .
Where throngs of Knights and Barons bold,
In weeds of Peace high triumphs hold,
With store of Ladies, whose bright eyes
Rain influence, and judge the prise,
until at length
Thus done the Tales, to bed they creep,
By whispering Winds soon lull'd asleep.
How great a part of the pleasures of this world have they missed whose
pulses are never stirred by the Spirit of Romance! Content and Peace of
Mind may be had by all who will offer up sacrifices to obtain them; but
Imagination is not to be had at any price unless it be a part of our
birthright. Content may yield a tranquillity of mind that refreshes the
soul, but it is Imagination alone that can produce that spiritual
exaltation which takes our minds from worldly things, carries us
backwards or forwards through countless ages of the past or aeons of
futurity, and enables us to ride in the chariot of Phoebus. It is a
vast library in itself.
'He had small need of books; for many a tale
Traditionary round the mountains hung,
And many a legend, peopling the dark woods,
Nourished Imagination in her growth.'
It was the fortune of our book-hunter once to spend an afternoon in June
upon the downs near Winchester. To southward of the old town there is a
deep grassy hollow, crescent-shaped, its southern slope fringed with
wood; and here in the shade he lay reading the 'Morte d'Arthur' of old
Malory. Coming at length to the Noble Tale of the Sangreal, he read how
King Arthur, having come 'unto Camelot by the houre of undorn on
Whytsonday,' and feasting with the fellowship of the Round Table, was
told of the marvel wrought unto Balin's sword by Merlin.
You will remember that Balin fought unbeknown with his brother Balan,
that each wounded the other unto death, and that they were buried by
Merlin in the same tomb. Then Merlin 'lete make by his subtylyte that
Balyn's swerd was put in a marbel stone standyng up ryght as grete as a
mylle stone, and the stone hoved alweyes above the water, and dyd many
yeres, and so by adventure it swam doun the streme to the Cyte of Camelot
that is in Englysshe Wynchestre.'
To the west the downs slope steeply into the river valley, and set in the
rich green meadows like a skein of silver threads the book-hunter could
discern the Itchen with its attendant rivulets. So he gazed across to the
stream and pondered over this marvellous stone which 'hoved' always above
the water, a sword set in it so that the pommel alone could be seen, 'and
in the pomel therof were precyous stones wrought with subtyle letters of
gold.' It was the symbol which was to prove the youthful Galahad the
_haut prince_ who should achieve the Sangreal.
That same evening, wandering along the river's bank below the city, his
head full of the wondrous tale, an adventure befell him. It was dusk, and
he had crossed the stream at a ford, when suddenly he saw the stone. It
was lying upon its side, not a dozen paces from the water. There was no
doubt whatever about it. It was roughly five feet long, about half as
wide and thick, and of a curious reddish-brown--the colour of dried
blood.
'Sir,' said the squire who brought the news to the King and his Knights,
'there is here bynethe at the Ryver a grete stone which I saw flete above
the water, and therin I sawe styckyng a swerd. The Kynge sayde, I wille
see that marveill. Soo all the Knyghtes went with hym. And whanne they
came unto the ryver they fonde there a stone fletyng, _as hit were of
reed marbel_, and therin stack a fair ryche swerd.'
I confess that not a little awe was mingled with delight as our
book-hunter gazed upon the stone, walked round it, touched it! Then
suddenly away in the old city a bell tolled, and he recollected that it
was Whitsun Eve! That walk home in the twilight was something not easily
to be forgotten, and neither supper nor a pipe could bring him back to
earth and the twentieth century again. Next morning he was up early,
anxious to see if any trace were left of the spot where this marvel had
occurred, for it was scarcely possible that the whole adventure was other
than a dream. But the spot was soon found, and sure enough there was the
stone or peron,[36] and he could examine it in the sunshine at his
leisure. How it got there or whence it came it were impossible to guess;
the chalk for miles around contains nothing but flints, and the peron was
smooth and polished 'as a mill-stone.'
[Illustration: THE PERON]
That Winchester is not Camelot antiquaries have told us often enough. The
city of the Knights may have been in the West Country or in Wales for
aught our bookman cares; but until they can produce a likelier site and a
better peron he will continue to take Sir Thomas's word for it.
One other point. I have said that the stone lay some few paces from the
water. You will notice when you pay a pilgrimage to the stone (it lies at
the ford, hard by a church) that the ground about it is almost level with
the water, so that when the river is in flood the stone must be almost
submerged: in other words, it would then _hove above the water_. It is
easy to see from the bank on the other side that the river has changed
its course by a few yards, leaving the stone now high and dry. If you
dispute this, why then I can only say that the stone, as 'by adventure it
swam down the stream,' must have been cast there by the river when in
flood. That there is a cleft in the stone whence Galahad withdrew the
sword I can neither affirm nor deny; it _may_ have closed up, for with
perons of this nature all things are possible, or the stone itself _may_
have got turned over.[37] At all events I for one shall not be so rash as
to cast suspicion upon so historic a relic.
For those materialists who doubt that such an event ever took place, I
will propound a theory. That the first twelve books of the 'Morte
d'Arthur' were translated from the French by Sir Thomas Malory seems
probable. Caxton says as much in his Preface, and the Epilogue to Book
XII. reads, 'Here endeth the second book of Syr Tristram that was drawen
oute of Frensshe in to Englysshe. But here is no rehersal of the thyrd
book. And here foloweth the noble tale of the Sancgreal that called is
the hooly vessel.' It has been shown[38] that the stories of the Holy
Grail are probably of Welsh origin, and--Sir Thomas is said to have been
a Welshman. Is it possible that he was ever at Winchester, that he
wandered on Whitsun Eve (as did our book-hunter) along the Itchen, that
he came to and roused over the stone (smooth and polished as a
mill-stone), so different from any to be seen hereabout, and that as he
wandered back to Camelot he wove the delicious romance about it? At all
events, if he were ever there, it is at least possible that the spot was
in his mind when adapting the Welsh legends for his book. Mark how well
the events which I relate accord with the topography of the spot. The
stone was 'beneath at the river,' the damozel who comes to view the
marvel 'came rydynge doune the ryver . . . . on a whyte palfroy toward
them,' and there is mention of the river meads. It is hard to believe
that Sir Thomas would definitely assert that Camelot 'is in English
Winchester,' and make it the chief scene of his romance, had he never
visited the town.
The book was finished, Caxton tells us, 'the ix yere of the reygne of
king edward the fourth,' 1469; but was not 'chapytred and emprynted and
fynysshed in th'abbey Westmestre' until 'the last day of July the yere of
our lord M.CCCC.LXXXV.,' 1485. Three weeks later a fateful battle was
fought--that of Bosworth, which placed the crown upon Harry Tudor's head.
The facts that the new king was a great benefactor to Winchester, that he
held the castle to have been built by King Arthur, and that he brought
hither his queen to be delivered of his first-born (whom he named
Arthur), point to something more than a chance connection between the
city and the book.
Henry Tudor was also a Welshman, and possibly Malory was of the king's
acquaintance, if not actually of his retinue. Bale asserts that Malory
was occupied with affairs of state. But conclusions are dangerous things.
The preface to the 'Morte d'Arthur' ascribes the ordering of the book to
Edward the Fourth. '. . . I made a book unto th'excellent prynce and kyng
of noble memorye kyng Edward the fourth. The sayd noble Ientylmen
instantly requyred me t'emprynte thystorye of the sayd noble kyng and
conquerour king Arthur and of his knyghtes, _wyth thystorye of the saynt
greal_, and of the deth and endynge of the sayd Arthur; Affermyng that
. . . there ben in frensshe dyvers and many noble volumes of his actes and
also of his knyghtes.'[39] Which looks rather as if Edward the Fourth
(who had no reason to love the Welsh--you will remember that he had
beheaded Owen Tudor, Richmond's grandfather) had heard of or read
Malory's work, and was anxious to possess it in print, though unwilling
to credit it to a follower of the Lancastrian party. It is a pleasant
field for surmise, and, however wrongly, it is good to picture old Sir
Thomas strolling along those pleasant meads beside the river, weaving his
immortal cycle of tales.
There is a connection somewhere between Malory and Caxton too. In 1469
Malory finished his book, and in March of that year Caxton began to
translate le Fevre's 'Recueil des Histoires de Troyes.' Where and when
did Malory meet Caxton, who lived for some years about that time at
Bruges, discovering that they possessed the same literary tastes? Did
Malory hand the manuscript of his work to Caxton, in the service of the
Duchess of Burgundy, sister of Edward the Fourth, and did the great
printer (or the Duchess) show it to that king? We shall never know, and
only Imagination can fill the gap.
But to continue. It was Whitsunday, and as the last notes of the
voluntary echoed away among those 'antick pillars massy proof' of the
great church, our book-hunter's thoughts turned once more to King Arthur
and his knights. For was it not upon this very day that the vision of the
Holy Grail was vouchsafed to them as they sat at meat within the castle
hall?
'And thenne the kynge and al estates wente home unto Camelot, and soo
wente to evensonge to the grete mynster. And soo after upon that to
souper. . . . Thenne anone they herd crakynge and cryenge of thonder,
that hem thought the place shold alle to dryve. . . . Not for thenne
there was no knyght myghte speke one word a grete whyle. . . . Thenne
ther entred in to the halle the holy graile coverd with whyte samyte, but
ther was none myghte see hit,[40] nor who bare hit. . . . And whan the
holy grayle had be borne thurgh the halle thenne the holy vessel departed
sodenly, that they wyste not where hit becam: thenne had they alle brethe
to speke.'
So the man of books climbed the hill and presently stood within the
beautiful hall with its glorious black marble pillars, sole remnant of
the ancient stronghold. The round table (barbarously painted) now hangs
upon the western wall, but it needed little imagination to picture it set
down in the midst, covered with a fair silken cloth ('the Kynge yede unto
the syege Peryllous and lyfte vp the clothe, and fonde there the name of
Galahad'), and on it set rich flagons and dishes, strangely wrought and
worked with precious stones, and all about the table the famous knights
in costumes strange to our eyes. . . . Launcelot upon the king's
left,[41] now glancing with fatherly pride upon the youthful Galahad
(occupying the Siege Perilous), now smiling up at Queen Guenevere seated
in the gallery with her maidens . . . . the walls hung with coarse
dull-red cloth and bundles of sweet-smelling herbs hanging here and
there, the floor strewn with fresh green rushes, gathered early that
morning in the meadows below . . . . by the king's side a snow-white
brachet, a golden collar about its neck . . . . and so on and so on.
Imagination forsooth! He must be dull indeed who, reading the book and
standing in the hall, cannot picture the scene for himself.
It is useless to declaim that the great hall of the castle was not
completed until the time of Henry the Third, that it did not exist at all
before the Norman Conquest, that the castle occupied by King Arthur is
more likely to have been on the site of the more ancient one which stood
near the river (now known as Wolvesey), and that the great round table
(eighteen feet in diameter, of stout old English oak, cunningly bolted
together) was made during the former king's reign and was never used by
Arthur at all. What are such crude exactitudes to us? As well object to
the heavy plate-armour worn by the knights--everybody knows this to be an
anachronism of nigh a thousand years. Romantic phantasy and scientific
data are as far apart as the poles, and none but a fool would try to
reconcile them. King Arthur feasted in the castle hall, says Malory, and
so far as our book-hunter is concerned he shall feast there as often and
as long as he likes.
There is a romance, too, about the name of this older castle. _Wolvesey_
its scanty ruins are called to-day, and the antiquarians tell us that
this was originally WULF'S EY, or 'the wolf's isle.' Was it once the
scene of a battue by the young bloods of the tribe to drive out some
wolves that had established themselves there, a fierce fight with axes
and spears at close quarters whilst the rest of the tribe lined the
opposite banks and prevented any escape? Or was it the scene of some
homeric combat _seul a seul_? Perhaps some day a wolf's skull
will be dug up there, with a stone axe sticking in it. But the history of
it has gone for ever, had gone, probably, long centuries before King
Kynegils found it a strong site for his castle.
It was at Wolvesey that King Alfred himself is said to have penned some
part of the Saxon Chronicle now treasured in the library of Corpus
Christi College, Cambridge. He was a true book-lover, this great English
king, and it is to the school of illuminators which arose later in the
'new minster' by St. Swithun's that we are indebted for some of the most
beautiful examples of mediaeval art that have come down to us. The Golden
Book of Edgar, Bede's 'Ecclesiastical History'--in the Cathedral
library--and the exquisitely illuminated 'benedictional' of St. AEthelwold
possessed by the Duke of Devonshire, all these were produced before the
end of the tenth century by the artists who laboured so patiently in the
Scriptorium beside those peaceful meadows. For two centuries the
Winchester school of illuminators was renowned throughout the western
world.
It is a pleasant spot, this ancient city of Camelot, and I like to read
that among the aldermen who assembled at the Tun Moot in bygone days were
a pinder, a mole-catcher, and an ale-conner. A stout fellow, this last,
for without his permission not a single barrel of beer could be broached.
The business transacted at the Moot, we are told, was little more than to
receive taxes, provide for the defence of the city, and settle disputes.
After which the aldermen (with the permission of the ale-conner, it is to
be presumed) proceeded to consume the ale allowed to them by custom
immemorial at the rate of two gallons a man at each sitting. _O tempora,
O mores!_
At one time, however, that kill-joy Edgar came near to causing an
insurrection, for he ordained that all drinking-horns should have pegs
set in them at regular intervals and that no man might drink below his
peg. Thus were practically abolished those friendly drinking-bouts
between Danes and English that did so much to rid the town of its
northern intruders. _Floreat Wintonia_, and may it stand for ever to
book-lovers and lovers of romance as the ideal of all that is knightly
and kingly and romantic--and hospitable.
It is to be feared, however, that the Spirit of Romance is now
moribund--if, indeed, it has not already passed away; and with it we are
losing one of the most ennobling qualities in our nature. We pride
ourselves nowadays in living in a 'matter-of-fact' age, by which we mean
a practical, unromantic age. But is it a matter for so much pride after
all? Granted that the benefits which have accrued to mankind during the
past century and a half are worth all the Romance in the world; but is
the relegation of Romance to the domain of History a _sine qua non_ so
far as progress is concerned? In our haste to get on we have tried to
drive Romance and Progress in tandem, with steady-going Progress in the
shafts; but having found that together they need skilful handling, we
have unharnessed the leader and hitched him on behind, to be dragged
along anyhow in our wake.
There must be many who regard the loss of romantic ideals as a matter for
more than passing regret. Reverence, too, not only for our elders and
betters but even for the great works of our predecessors, is going the
way of its cousin, Romance. Recently, rambling over the Hampshire downs,
our bookman toiled up the grassy bosom of this rolling land to a still
loftier height whence on a clear day the Isle of Wight, nigh thirty miles
away, can be distinguished. As he neared the top a mound came into view,
one of those unmistakable monuments raised o'er the graves of the great
chieftains of our ancient race. It was a most impressive spot, the
highest point for many miles round, and the book-hunter wondered who he
was that lay there in solemn majesty keeping watch through the long
centuries over the land that once was his. On approaching closer the
wayfarer was horrified to see that on the top of the mound, in the
centre, there was a deep hole. Its import was obvious. The mortal remains
of one who had lain for centuries in a grandeur befitting his lordly rank
had been torn from their sepulchre, probably by some irreverent commoner,
and were now doubtless exhibited to the vulgar gaze, in a glass case.
Doubtless the ghoul (for he that rifles tombs is none other) who
perpetrated this enormity described himself as an archaeologist. Possibly
he was of gentle birth and had received a University education. If so, so
much the greater his crime, for he could not plead ignorance. Surely no
seriously minded person can urge that the knowledge thus gained as to
ancient methods of burial, age of the remains, and so on, warranted such
sacrilege.[42] We can only hope that the chieftain was granted five
minutes with the archaeologist when that individual at length entered the
land of shadows. Doubtless the archaeologist had no qualms whatever, and
slept soundly in the belief that by his 'researches' he had wrought great
things for mankind; but when he encountered the chieftain it is unlikely
that they would see eye to eye. 'Happy are they who deal so with men in
this world that they are not afraid to meet them in the next,' and
happier still are they who deal so reverently with the earthly memorials
of the dead, that there may be many to speak in their favour when they
approach the Great Tribunal.
[Illustration: THE HALL OF THE KNIGHTS]
This particular form of irreverence, however, has been a byword
throughout all the ages; civilisation and education have done little to
check it, possibly because the romantic spirit which forbids such crimes
is born, not made. King Arthur's bones were dug up in the twelfth
century. 'Mummie is become Merchandise, Mizraim cures wounds, and Pharoah
is sold for balsoms,' wrote Sir Thomas Browne five hundred years later.
In 1788 the massive stone coffin which held the remains of our
illustrious King Alfred was discovered facing the High Altar at Hyde
Abbey, Winchester, whither they had been translated in 1110. The coffin
was broken in pieces, the bones found in it were scattered, and the lead
enveloping the remains was sold by the workmen. A stone from the wrecked
tomb, bearing the name AELFRED, was carried off to Cumberland as a curio.
Hyde Abbey was razed to make way for a county Bridewell. 'At almost every
stroke of the mattock,' relates an eye-witness, 'some antient sepulchre
or other was violated.' Examples of such desecrations can be multiplied
without number. The Great Alaric was wise indeed when he had the course
of a river changed so that his bones, when lying at the bottom of it,
might never be disturbed.
Our ancient laws dealt sternly with this matter. 'If any man shall dig up
a body that has already been buried,' ruled Henry the First, 'he shall be
WARGUS,' that is, banished from his district as a rogue. 'Malice
provoketh not to dig up tombes and graves,' wrote an unknown Elizabethan
scholar, commenting on this; 'and though it should, yet religion doth now
restraine it, by reason it is counted sacriledge to violate anythinge in
churches or churchyards. Covetousness made some to dig up the dead,
because ornaments, jewels, or money, were in times past buried with many;
but now that custome seasing, no man for desire of gaine is invited to
commit this offence, and it now being generally reputed a most vile acte,
no man will presume to transgresse these lawes, and every man is a law to
himself therein.' But in this 'enlightened' age, when we are held to be
above the need of such legislation, there is nothing to prevent the
archaeologist from practising his hobby where and when he please--so long
as he avoids the churchyards. 'Tush,' he cries, 'here lies an ancient
heathen who was not even buried in consecrated ground. We may find some
curious relics buried with him. Up with his bones.'
'Freedom for all men' may be a glorious motto, yet when we view these
crimes (and the carved initials which deface so many of our most sacred
monuments) we cannot but muse that there are many who should never be
free--at least from the restraint of discipline. 'None can love freedom
heartily, but good men: the rest love not freedom, but licence.'[43]
FOOTNOTES:
[32] There are 242 pages in this editio princeps, after which should come
a leaf with (_a_) blank (_b_) device of John Hervey or Hervagius. It was
english'd by Thomas Underdowne, and published in small octavo by Frauncis
Coldocke, at the sign of the greene Dragon in Paules churchyeard, in
1587.
[33] "Il estoit bon musicien, tres-bon Poete Francois et Italien, se
delectant singulierement a lire les belles et naifues rithmes de nos
Poetes Prouencaux . . . . . . . tellement qu'il a compose en son temps
plusieurs beaux et gracieux Romans comme _La conqueste de la douce mercy,
et Le mortifiement de vaine plaisance_ . . . . . Mais sur toutes choses
aimoit il d'un amour passionnez la peinture . . . . . qu'il estoit en
bruit et reputation entre les plus excellents Peintres et Enlumineurs de
son temps." (Nostradamus). He had a fine library which contained all the
most celebrated compositions of the Provencal poets and troubadours.
[34] It was quite a dramatic scene. Bertrand taunted the Prince until the
latter named a sum; and to his surprise De Guesclin at once cried "Done!"
and all at the table sprang to their feet. "Oh Sir," they cried to the
Prince, "what have you done!" "I hold you to your word," cried Du
Guesclin--and so it was. See Hay du Chastelet, Claude Menard, and other
biographers, also the Inventaire des Chartres, tome VI. (See also
footnote on page 216.)
[35] This great romance does not appear ever to have been translated into
English, which is somewhat strange, for its hero, Perceforest, was King
of England, and we are told at the outset that the volume had an English
origin. Philippe Comte de Hainault having accompanied Marguerite daughter
of Philippe III. (_le hardi_) to England in order to be present at her
nuptials with Edward I. (1299), the Count made an excursion to the north
of England. Chancing to harbour at a monastery 'on the banks of the
Humber,' he was shown an ancient manuscript which had been discovered in
a vault under the ancient (? Saxon) part of the building. One of the
monks had translated it into Latin. Philippe borrowed it and took it back
with him to Hainault, where it was reduced into French. It is every whit
as good as the Morte d'Arthur, and still awaits its Malory. The 1531
Paris edition consists of six folio volumes, the page in double columns
of black letter type, with 53 lines to the column. The whole book
contains rather more than six hundred thousand words. Here is a chance
for some enthusiast! At the least he would learn patience,
carefulness--and a deal of mediaeval French.
[36] O. Fr. _pierron_.
[37] That there is a distinct crack on its upper side, you may see from
the photograph here reproduced.
[38] Sir J. Rhys, 'Studies in the Arthurian Legend,' Oxford, 1891, pp.
300-327.
[39] In the list of books at the Louvre belonging to Charles V. of
France, drawn up by Gilles Malet, his librarian, in 1373, there is a
volume 'Du roy Artus, de la Table Ronde, et de la Mort dudit roy, tres
bien escript et enlumine.' It would be interesting to compare this
manuscript (if it is still in existence) with Malory's work, and to see
whether the incident of the _peron_ is described therein.
[40] _i.e._ the golden vessel, because of the samite (silken) covering.
[41] As the table is painted at present, 'S. Galahallt' is upon the
King's immediate left.
[42] Of one of these enterprising antiquaries (a clergyman) it is proudly
related that in the course of _three years_ "he opened no less than a
hundred and six tumuli and graves, and obtained from them a large
proportion of that valuable collection of antiquities now in possession
of Mr. Meyer, of Liverpool." See _A Corner of Kent_, by J. R. Planche,
1864, page 115.
[43] Milton.
[Illustration]