Passing on to later times, those of James II., I may observe that Poor Nat Lee, when mad, said of a celebrated knight of this time, Sir Roger Lestrange, that the difference between the two was that one was Strange Lee, the other Lestrange. “You poor in purse,” said Lee, “as I am poor in brains.” Sir Roger was certainly less richly endowed mentally than the poet, but he had one quality which a knight of old was bound to have, above most men who were his contemporaries—namely, intense admiration for the ladies. This gallantry he carried so far that when he was licenser of books, it is said that he would readily wink at unlicensed volumes, if the printer’s wife would only smile at him.
Though not exactly germane to the immediate subject of Sir Roger, I will notice here that it was the custom for children, as late as the reign of James II., on first meeting their parents in the morning, to kneel at their feet and ask a blessing. This was an observance seldom omitted in the early days of chivalry by knights who encountered a priest. We often hear praises of this filial reverence paid by errant knights to the spiritual fathers whom they encountered in their wanderings.
Another social custom connected with chivalry was still observed during this, and even during the reign of William III. It is noticed by Dryden, in the dedication to his “Love Triumphant,” in the following words:—“It is the usual practice of our decayed gentry to look about them for some illustrious family, and then fix their young darling where he may be both well-educated and supported.” The knightly courage and the education were not always of the highest quality, if we might put implicit faith in the passage in Congreve’s Old Bachelor, wherein it is said, “the habit of a soldier now-a-days as often cloaks cowardice, as a black coat does atheism.” But the stage is not to be taken as fairly holding the mirror up to nature; and for my part, I do not credit the assertion of that stage-knight, Sir Harry Wildair, that in England, “honesty went out with the slashed doublets, and love with the close-bodied gown.” Nor do I altogether credit what is said of Queen Anne’s time, in the Fair Quaker of Deal, that “our sea-chaplains, generally speaking, are as drunk as our sea-captains.”
William III. knighted many a man who did not merit the honor, but he was guilty of no such mistake when he laid the sword of chivalry on the shoulders of honest Thomas Abney, citizen of London. Abney was one of those happy architects who build up their own fortunes, and upon a basis of rectitude and commonsense. In course of time, he achieved that greatness which is now of so stupendous an aspect in the eyes of the Parisians; in other words, he became Lord Mayor of London. The religious spirit of chivalry beat within the breast that was covered with broadcloth, and Sir Thomas Abney humbled himself on the day on which he was exalted. He had been “brought up” a dissenter, but he certainly was not one when he became sovereign of the city in the year 1700. He was none the less a Christian, and it is an exemplary and an agreeable trait that we have of him, as illustrated in his conduct on the day of his inauguration. The evening banquet was still in progress, when he silently withdrew from the glittering scene, hurried home, read evening prayers to such of his household as were there assembled on the festive day, and then calmly returned and resumed his place among the joyous company.
This knight’s hospitality was of the same sterling quality. Who forgets that to him Dr. Watts (that amiable intolerant!) was indebted during thirty years for a home? The Abney family had a respect for the author of “the Sluggard,” which never slept. It almost reached idolatry. I have said thirty years, but in truth, Dr. Watts was at home, at the hearth of Sir Thomas, during no briefer a period than six-and-thirty years. The valetudinarian poet, the severity of whose early studies had compelled him to bid an eternal vale to the goddess of health, was welcomed by the knight, with an honest warmth born of respect for the worth and genius of a kind-hearted man who “scattered damnation” in gentle rhymes, and yet who would not have hurt a worm. In the little paradise where he was as much at ease as his precarious health would allow, it is astonishing with what vigor of spirit and weakness of phrase the good-intentioned versifier thrust millions from the gates of a greater paradise. Such at least was my own early impression of the rhymes of the knight’s guest. They inspired much fear and little love: and if I can see now that such was not the author’s design, and that he only used menace to secure obedience, that thereby affection might follow, I still am unable to come to any other conclusion, than that the method adopted is open to censure.
He sat beneath the knightly roof, without a want unsupplied, with every desire anticipated; exempted from having to sustain an active share of the warfare in the great battle of life, he was beset by few, perhaps by no temptations; and free from every care, he had every hour of the day wherein to walk with God. His defect consisted in forgetting that other men, and the children of men, had not his advantage, and while, rightly enough, he accounted their virtue as nothing, he had no bowels of compassion for their human failings. It is well to erect a high standard, but it is not less so to console rather than condemn those who fall short of it. “Excelsior” is a good advice, on a glorious banner, but they who are luxuriously carried on beneath its folds should not be hasty to condemn those who faint by the way, fall back, and await the mercy of God, whereby to attain the high prize which they had for their chief object. I should like to know if Sir Thomas ever disputed the conclusions adopted by his guest.
This mention of the metropolitan knight and the poet who sat at his hearth, reminds me of a patron and guest of another quality, who were once well known in the neighborhood of Metz;—“Metz sans Lorraine,” as the proud inhabitants speak of a free locality which was surrounded by, but was never in Lorraine.
The patron was an old chevalier de St. Louis, with a small cross and large “aîles de pigeon.” The guest was the parish priest, who resided under his roof, and was the “friend of the house.” The parish was a poor one, but it had spirit enough to raise a subscription in order to supply the altar with a new ciborium—the vessel which holds the “body of the Lord.” With the modest sum in hand, the Knight of St. Louis, accompanied by the priest, repaired to Metz, to make the necessary purchase. The orthodox goldsmith placed two vessels before them. One was somewhat small, but suitable to the funds at the knight’s disposal; the other was large, splendidly chased, and highly coveted by the priest.
“Here is a pretty article,” said the chevalier, pointing to the simpler of the two vessels: “But here is a more worthy,” interrupted the priest. “It corresponds with the sum at our disposal,” remarked the former. “I am sure it does not correspond with your love for Him for whom the sum was raised,” was the rejoinder. “I have no authority to exceed the amount named,” whispered the cautious chevalier. “But you have wherewith of your own to supply the deficiency,” murmured the priest. The perplexed knight began to feel himself a dissenter from the church, and after a moment’s thought, and looking at the smaller as well as the simpler of the two vessels, he exclaimed—“it is large enough for the purpose, and will do honor to the church.” “The larger would be more to the purpose, and would do more honor to the Head of the Church,” was the steady clerical comment which followed. “Do you mean to say that it is not large enough?” asked the treasurer. “Certainly, since there is a larger, which we may have, if you will only be generous.” “Mais!” remonstrated the knight, in a burst of profane impatience, and pointing to the smaller ciborium, “Cela contiendroit le diable!” “Ah, Monsieur le Chevalier,” said the priest, by no means shocked at the idiomatic phrase. “Le Bon Dieu est plus grand que le diable!” This stroke won the day, and the goldsmith was the most delighted of the three, at this conclusion to a knotty argument.
George I. was not of a sufficiently generous mind to allow of his distributing honors very profusely. The individuals, however, who were eminently useful to him were often rewarded by being appointed to enjoy the emoluments, if not exercise the duties of several offices, each in his own person. At a period when this was being done in England, the exact reverse was being accomplished in Spain. Thus we read in the London Gazette of March 29 to April 1, 1718, under the head of Madrid, March 21, the following details, which might be put to very excellent profit in England in these more modern times:—