Yet when we take from history all that gives it color, vivacity, and charm, we lose perchance more than our mere enjoyment,—though that be a heavy forfeiture,—more than the pleasant hours spent in the storied past. Even so stern a master as Mr. Lecky is fain to admit that these obsolete narratives, which once called themselves histories, “gave insight into human character, breathed noble sentiments, rewarded and stimulated noble actions, and kindled high patriotic feeling by their strong appeals to the imagination.” This was no unfruitful labor, and until we remember that man does not live by parliamentary rule nor by accuracy of information, but by the power of his own emotions and the strength of his own self-control, we can be readily mistaken as to the true value of his lessons. “A nation with whom sentiment is nothing,” observes Mr. Froude, “is on its way to become no nation at all;” and it has been well said that Nelson’s signal to his fleet at Trafalgar, that last pregnant and simple message sent in the face of death, has had as much practical effect upon the hearts and the actions of Englishmen in every quarter of the globe, in every circumstance of danger and adventure, as seven eighths of the Acts of Parliament that decorate the statute-book. Yet Dr. Bright, in a volume of more than fourteen hundred pages, can find no room for an incident which has become a living force in history. He takes pains to omit, in his lukewarm account of the battle, the one thing that was best worth the telling.
It has become a matter of such pride with a certain school of modern historians to be gray and neutral, accurate in petty details, indifferent to great men, cautious in praise or blame, and as lifeless as mathematicians, that a gleam of color or a flash of fire is apt to be regarded with suspicion. Yet color is not necessarily misleading; and that keen, warm grasp of a subject which gives us atmosphere as well as facts, interest as well as information, comes nearer to the veiled truth than a catalogue of correct dates and chillingly narrated incidents. It is easy for Mr. Gardiner to denounce Clarendon’s “well-known carelessness about details whenever he has a good story to tell;” but what has the later historian ever said to us that will dwell in our hearts, and keep alive our infatuations and our antipathies, as do some of these condemned tales? Nay, even Mr. Gardiner’s superhuman coldness in narrating such an event as the tragic death of Montrose has not saved him from at least one inaccuracy. “Montrose, in his scarlet cassock, was hanged at the Grassmarket,” he says, with frigid terseness. But Montrose, as it chances, was hanged at the city cross in the High Street, midway between the Tolbooth and the Tron Church. Even the careless and highly colored Clarendon knew this, though Sir Walter Scott, it must be admitted, did not; but, after all, the exact point in Edinburgh where Montrose was hanged is of no vital importance to anybody. What is important is that we should feel the conflicting passions of that stormy time, that we should regard them with equal sanity and sympathy, and that the death of Montrose should have for us more significance than it appears to have for Mr. Gardiner. Better Froissart’s courtly lamentations over the death of every gallant knight than this studied indifference to the sombre stories which history has inscribed for us on her scroll.
For the old French chronicler would have agreed cordially with Landor: “We might as well, in a drama, place the actors behind the scenes, and listen to the dialogue there, as, in a history, push back valiant men.” Froissart is enamored of valor wherever he finds it; and he shares Carlyle’s reverence not only for events, but for the controlling forces which have moulded them. “The history of mankind,” says Carlyle, about whose opinions there is seldom any room for doubt, “is the history of its great men;” and Froissart, whose knowledge is of that narrow and intimate kind which comes from personal association, finds everything worth narrating that can serve to illustrate the brilliant pageant of life. Nor are his methods altogether unlike Carlyle’s. He is a sturdy hero-worshiper, who yet never spares his heroes, believing that when all is set down truthfully and without excuses, those strong and vivid qualities which make a man a leader among men will of themselves claim our homage and admiration. What Cromwell is to Carlyle, what William of Orange is to Macaulay, what Henry VIII. is to Froude, Gaston Phœbus, Count de Foix, is to Froissart. But not for one moment does he assume the tactics of either Macaulay or of Froude, coloring with careful art that which is dubious, and softening or concealing that which is irredeemably bad. Just as Carlyle paints for us Cromwell,—warts and all,—telling us in plain words his least amiable and estimable traits, and intimating that he loves him none the less for these most human qualities, so Froissart tells us unreservedly all that has come to his knowledge concerning the Count de Foix. Thus it appears that this paragon of knighthood virtually banished his wife, kept his cousin, the Viscount de Châteaubon, a close captive until he paid forty thousand francs ransom, imprisoned his only son on a baseless suspicion of treason, and actually slew the poor boy by his violence, though without intention, and to his own infinite sorrow and remorse. Worse than all this, he beguiled with friendly messages his cousin, Sir Peter Arnaut de Béarn, the commander and governor of Lourdes, to come to his castle of Orthès, and then, under his own roof-tree, stabbed his guest five times, and left him to die miserably of his wounds in a dungeon, because Sir Peter refused to betray the trust confided to him, and deliver up to France the strong fortress of Lourdes, which he held valiantly for the king of England.
Now, Froissart speaks his mind very plainly concerning this base deed, softening no detail, and offering no word of extenuation or acquittal; but none the less the Count de Foix is to him the embodiment of knightly courtesy and valor, and he describes with ardor every personal characteristic, every trait, and every charm that wins both love and reverence. “Although I have seen many kings and princes, knights and others,” he writes, “I have never beheld any so handsome, whether in limbs and shape or in countenance, which was fair and ruddy, with gray, amorous eyes that gave delight whenever he chose to express affection. He was so perfectly formed that no one could praise him too much. He loved earnestly the things he ought to love, and hated those which it was becoming him to hate. He was a prudent knight, full of enterprise and wisdom. He had never any men of abandoned character about him, reigned wisely, and was constant in his devotions. To speak briefly and to the point, the Count de Foix was perfect in person and in mind; and no contemporary prince could be compared with him for sense, honor, or liberality.”
In good truth, this despotic nobleman illustrated admirably the familiar text, “When a strong man armed keepeth his court, those things which he possesseth are in peace.” If he ruled his vassals severely and taxed them heavily, he protected them from all outside interference or injury. None might despoil their homes, nor pass the boundaries of Béarn and Foix, without paying honestly for all that was required. At a time when invading armies and the far more terrible “free companies” pillaged the country, until the fair fields of France lay like a barren land, the Count de Foix suffered neither English nor French, Gascon nor Breton, to set foot within his territories, until assurance had been given that his people should suffer no harm. He lived splendidly, and gave away large sums of money wherever he had reason to believe that his interests or his prestige would be strengthened by such generosity; but no parasite, male or female, shared in his magnificent bounty. Clear-headed, cold-hearted, vigilant, astute, liberal, and inexorable, he guarded his own, and sovereigns did him honor. His was no humane nor tranquil record; yet judging him by the standards of his own time and place, by the great good as well as by the lesser evil that he wrought, we are fain to echo Froissart’s rapturous words, “It is a pity such a one should ever grow old and die.”
The earlier part of the Chronicles is compiled from the “Vrayes Chroniques” of Jean le Bel, Canon of St. Lambert’s at Liège. Froissart tells us so plainly, and admits that he made free use of the older narrative as far as it could serve him; afterwards relying for information on the personal recollections of knights, squires, and men-at-arms who had witnessed or had taken part in the invasions, wars, battles, skirmishes, treaties, tournaments, and feasts which made up the stirring tale of fourteenth-century life. To gain this knowledge, he traveled far and wide, attaching himself to one court and one patron after another, and indefatigably seeking those soldiers of distinction who had served in many lands, and could tell him the valorous deeds of which he so ardently loved to hear. In long, leisurely journeys, in lonely castles and populous cities, in summer days and winter nights, he gathered and fitted together—loosely enough—the motley fabric of his tale.
This open-air method of collecting material can hardly be expected to commend itself to modern historians; and it is surely not necessary for Mr. Green or any other careful scholar to tell us seriously that Froissart is inaccurate. Of course he is inaccurate. How could history passed, ballad fashion, from man to man be anything but inaccurate? And how could it fail to possess that atmosphere and color which students are bidden to avoid,—lest perchance they resemble Tacitus,—but which lovers of “mere literature” hail rapturously, and which give to the printed page the breath of the living past? Froissart makes a sad jumble of his names, which, indeed, in that easy-going age, were spelt according to the taste and discretion of the writer; he embellishes his narrative with charming descriptions of incidents which perhaps never went through the formality of occurring; and he is good enough to forbear annoying us with dates. “About this time King Philip of France quitted Paris in company with the King of Bohemia;” or, “The feast of St. John the Baptist now approaching, the lords of England and Germany made preparations for their intended expedition.” This is as near as we ever get to the precise period in which anything happened or did not happen, as the case may be; but to the unexacting reader names and dates are not matters of lively interest, and even the accuracy of a picturesque incident is of no paramount importance. If it were generally believed to have taken place, it illustrates the customs and sentiments of the age as well as if it were authentic; and the one great advantage of the old over the new historian is that he feels the passions and prejudices of his own time, and reflects them without either condemnation or apology. The nineteenth-century mind working on fourteenth-century material is chilly in its analysis, and Draconian in its judgment. It can and does enlighten us on many significant points, but it is powerless to breathe into its pages that warm and vivid life which lies so far beyond our utmost powers of sympathy or comprehension.
Now, there are many excellent and very intelligent people to whom the fourteenth century or any other departed century is without intrinsic interest. Mr. John Morley has emphatically recorded his sentiments on the subject. “I do not in the least want to know what happened in the past,” he says, “except as it enables me to see my way more clearly through what is happening now.” Here is the utilitarian view concisely and comprehensively stated; and it would be difficult to say how Froissart, any more than Tacitus or Xenophon, can help us efficaciously to understand the Monroe doctrine or the troubles in the Transvaal. Perhaps these authors yield their finest pleasures to another and less meritorious class of readers, who are well content to forget the vexations and humiliations of the present in the serener study of the mighty past. The best thing about our neighbor’s trouble, says the old adage, is that it does not keep us awake at night; and the best thing about the endless troubles of other generations is that they do not in any way impair our peace of mind. It may be that they did not greatly vex the sturdier race who, five hundred years ago, gave themselves scant leisure for reflection. Certain it is that events which should have been considered calamitous are narrated by Froissart in such a cheerful fashion that it is difficult for us to preserve our mental balance, and not share in his unreasonable elation. “Now is the time come when we must speak of lances, swords, and coats of mail,” he writes with joyous zest. And again he blithely describes the battle of Auray: “The French marched in such close order that one could not have thrown a tennis-ball among them but it must have stuck upon the point of a stiffly carried lance. The English took great pleasure in looking at them.” Of course the English did, and they took great pleasure in fighting with them half an hour later, and great pleasure in routing them before the day was past; for in this bloody contest fell Charles of Blois, the bravest soldier of his time, and the fate of Brittany was sealed. Invitations to battle were then politely given and cordially accepted, like invitations to a ball. The Earl of Salisbury, before Brest, sends word to Sir Bertrand du Guesclin: “We beg and entreat of you to advance, when you shall be fought with, without fail.” And the French, in return, “could never form a wish for feats of arms but there were some English ready to gratify it.”
This cheerful, accommodating spirit, this alacrity in playing the dangerous game of war, is difficult for us peace-loving creatures to understand; but we should remember the “desperate and gleeful fighting” of Nelson’s day, and how that great sailor wasted his sympathy on the crew of the warship Culloden, which went ashore at the battle of the Nile, “while their more fortunate companions were in the full tide of happiness.” Du Guesclin or Sir John Chandos might have written that sentence, had either been much in the habit of writing anything,[1] and Froissart would have subscribed cordially to the sentiment. “Many persons will not readily believe what I am about to tell,” he says with becoming gravity, “though it is strictly true. The English are fonder of war than of peace.” “He had the courage of an Englishman,” is the praise continually bestowed on some enterprising French knight; and when the English and Scotch met each other in battle, the French historian declares, “there was no check to their valor as long as their weapons endured.” Nothing can be more vivacious than Froissart’s description of the manner in which England awaited the threatened invasion of the French under their young king, Charles VI.—“The prelates, abbots, and rich citizens were panic-struck, but the artisans and poorer sort held it very cheap. Such knights and squires as were not rich, but eager for renown, were delighted, and said to each other: ‘Lord! what fine times are coming, since the king of France intends to visit us! He is a valiant sovereign, and of great enterprise. There has not been such a one in France these three hundred years. He will make his people good men-at-arms, and blessed may he be for thinking to invade us, for certainly we shall all be slain or grow rich. One thing or the other must happen to us.’”
[1] Du Guesclin never knew how to write.