"Some say that the age of chivalry is past, that the spirit of romance is dead. The age of chivalry is never past, so long as there is a wrong left unredressed on earth"
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Chivalry gets smuggled back into relevance here by redefining it as unfinished moral work, not medieval cosplay. Kingsley starts with a familiar Victorian lament - romance is dead, the world is disenchanted - then flips it with a preacher’s sleight of hand: if injustice exists, chivalry cannot be “past” because its job description is eternal. It’s a rhetorical move that turns nostalgia into obligation. The point isn’t to rescue courtly manners; it’s to conscript the listener into action.
The sentence structure does a lot of the persuading. “Some say” invokes a vague chorus of skeptics, making the cynicism feel common but also flimsy. Then comes the hard conditional: “so long as.” That phrase makes chivalry less a historical era than a standing contract with reality. “Wrong left unredressed” is legalistic, almost bureaucratic language, pressed into moral service; it implies both an objective injury and a duty to repair it. Kingsley sidesteps debates about whether romance is silly by anchoring “romance” in repair work.
Context matters: Kingsley was a Church of England clergyman and a prominent moral voice in mid-19th-century Britain, a period anxious about industrial brutality, class conflict, and the spiritual costs of modernity. This kind of language offers a Christianized heroism fit for an age of factories and reforms: sanctify the impulse to protect, shame complacency, and make virtue feel less like private piety than public intervention. Chivalry, in his telling, isn’t an aesthetic; it’s an alibi for refusing to look away.
The sentence structure does a lot of the persuading. “Some say” invokes a vague chorus of skeptics, making the cynicism feel common but also flimsy. Then comes the hard conditional: “so long as.” That phrase makes chivalry less a historical era than a standing contract with reality. “Wrong left unredressed” is legalistic, almost bureaucratic language, pressed into moral service; it implies both an objective injury and a duty to repair it. Kingsley sidesteps debates about whether romance is silly by anchoring “romance” in repair work.
Context matters: Kingsley was a Church of England clergyman and a prominent moral voice in mid-19th-century Britain, a period anxious about industrial brutality, class conflict, and the spiritual costs of modernity. This kind of language offers a Christianized heroism fit for an age of factories and reforms: sanctify the impulse to protect, shame complacency, and make virtue feel less like private piety than public intervention. Chivalry, in his telling, isn’t an aesthetic; it’s an alibi for refusing to look away.
Quote Details
| Topic | Justice |
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