When a knight won his spurs, in the stories of old, He was gentle and brave, he was gallant and bold With a shield on his arm and a lance in his hand, For God and for valour he rode through the land. No charger have I, and no sword by my side, Yet still to adventure and battle I ride, Though back into storyland giants have fled, And the knights are no more and the dragons are dead. Let faith be my shield and let joy be my steed 'Gainst the dragons of anger, the ogres of greed; And let me set free with the sword of my youth, From the castle of darkness, the power of the truth. --When a Knight Won His Spurs by Jan Struthers, (yes, a woman), traditional English folk melody arranged by Ralph Vaughan-Williams, first appeared in Songs of Praise, 1931.
I wrote this this morning. I have set aside what I meant to send you, a proper post. If you’re new, stick around to see what else is going on at Non-Boring History. Today is a little different.
—Annette Laing, PhD
A fairytale. An allegory. A metaphor. As always in this historian’s way. A story.
Fifty years ago, when the piano launched into the opening bars of this most inspiring and yet most secular of hymns in my English school’s morning assembly, my ten year old heart soared. In this new postwar world, I was not relegated to being the damsel in distress in the tower, awaiting rescue. I too could be a knight in shining armor, armed for the battle of life with joy, faith, and youth. I was ready to rumble.
In my teens, I thought of this elementary school hymn, and smirked at the “dragons of anger”: We called scary old women teachers “dragons”, and it was a perfect line. I wouldn't have admitted then what I can now, how much this hymn, steeped in myth and history, continued to move me when I recalled it.
Later, in my darkest moments, assailed by “the dragons of anger, the ogres of greed”, I thought about this hymn.
Long ago, the renegade scholar-gypsy, the former knight,thought sadly that she had lost the sword of her youth. It lay rusty and broken in some Georgia swamp. There, having come to the South of this vast land, having survived a brutal and devastating war as a foot soldier in California, she had launched her toughest campaign, a foolhardy one against massive odds, hugely outnumbered, with only a few uncertain allies. And she had lost. She had fought hard, but inevitably, she was surrounded and overwhelmed, captured, stripped of her armor, and paraded as a humiliated and broken foe. She was never enslaved, though, in mind or spirit, and one day, she escaped.
But now, after years of wandering the wilderness, civilian friends had found her (for some remembered her, others discovered her). They made the weary renegade warrior the present of a shiny new sword, and her shield of faith, which they had polished for her.
Encouraged, she decided to head home for a visit, perhaps to retire among the villagers, perhaps to garden and read. She hoisted herself up once more on her trusty steed, Joy, and set off, excited but nervous, for Academic History Castle, the greatest castle of all, in Madison, Wisconsin.
Even as she approached that once fearsome battlement, she sensed that something was terribly wrong. Dismounting Joy, she walked the rest of the way up the steep stairs to the keep, as daunted as she had ever been, and knocked on the heavy oak doors, where she was cautiously readmitted, and took tea with the kindly old historian who had tentatively welcomed her home.
But as she took in her surroundings, what she found broke her heart. The valiant heroes of old, the knights of whom she had long been in awe, were exhausted, sick, and tired, some old, others old before their time.
As she explored the towers and precincts, she saw that much of the Castle lay in ruins and decay. The historians who remained, those who had not fled for their lives from the ogres and dragons, were discouraged, and seemed too tired to continue the battle.
Even the young enemies who had captured one wing of that legendary fort seemed lost, unsure of what to do with the Castle of which they had triumphantly taken part possession.
She had never felt equal to the battle when she fought long ago. Then, the ogres and dragons had crushed her until all she could do was run for her life, and embark on little adventures that. although they saved a knight or damsel here and there, and while they had brought some joy to others and occasionally even herself, still never seemed quite adventure enough.
She had returned to be with her tribe, to get their support in her old age, only to find they could barely look after themselves. She made them tea. She heard their stories. She felt their love, even as one gently told her she was a head in the clouds idealist as she spoke of fighting back, and others told her sadly the stories of their moments of defeat. They seemed overwhelmed. The knights, they said, were no more.
She looked up at the dusty portraits of historians past, heroes in academic robes. Some were famous, legendary names. Others, less well known, she nonetheless remembered for their kindness to her in her youth.
She picked up her shield of faith in its many forms. She held up her sword, the present from her friends, and saw it was a pen. Of course. The greatest sword of all. She thanked the old historian for the tea, and asked him to be her trusted guide, not to impose on him too much, but to ask him to remind her of the discipline she had forgotten in all those years in the wilderness, or never known as a headstrong young warrior. She comforted the others, and asked for their blessings and, where possible, their practical assistance.
And she set off for one last campaign, on Joy, her steed, slowly gathering a few villagers and townsfolk eager for hope and joy and meaning, as she travelled a war -wearied land. A few at first, not enough for the battle much less the war, but a start, and all good people.
She met knights, not all historians, but all committed to the cause, who were willing to ride at her side, to give it a go, to take up leadership if she fell. And she set off. It was long past time to face up to the ogres and dragons, not to destroy them, but to make them face up to the terrible damage they had done.
The little girl who had once sung with such enthusiasm was now an old woman, and ready to do everything she could to confront evil, and set free the power of the truth.
If it doesn’t mean much now, just set it aside. Stories take on lives of their own.
(Thanks, Barbara, for the youthful version of this beloved hymn. Grown-ups version, men and women both, below)
"Though the knights are no more". I think that was the first line of any song that really thrilled me - I loved singing it.
Oh, Annette ..!
I remember eminent historians from Wisconsin, including Harvey Goldberg, George Mosse, and John Barker (all passed away now). The Humanities Building is literally decaying, and I fear that one of these years I will return and find that it has been replaced by a boring piece of cheap architecture or worse, a parking garage.