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THE GIFT OF 
 
 T. F. CRAN E, 
 
 Professor of the Romance Languages and Literatures, 
 1894 
 
Cornell University Library 
 PC 3306.P93 
 
 Troubadours and trouveres. 
 
 3 1924 027 291 271 
 
?f3 
 
Cornell University 
 Library 
 
 The original of tliis bool< is in 
 tine Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924027291271 
 
Troubadours and Trouveres. 
 
 ii3eto ann ©ID. 
 
 By HARRIET W. PRESTON, 
 
 AUTHOR OF *'ASPENDALE," ** LOVE IN THE NINETEENTH CENTURY," 
 TRANSLATOR OF " MIREIO,'' ETC, 
 
 BOSTON: 
 
 ROBERTS BROTHERS. 
 
 1876. 
 
Copyright, 1876, 
 By Roberts Brothers. 
 
 Cambridge : 
 Press of John Wilson ^ Son. 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 ' I ^HE slight and desultory sketches which 
 follow do not aim at any thing like a 
 complete illustration of the poetry of Provence, 
 whether new or old. I have merely followed, 
 in their preparation and arrangement, the lead 
 of my own awakening interest ; and I can only 
 hope that the reader may like to retrace the 
 same rather devious path with me. In pursuing 
 it, I have become extremely interested in the 
 whole subject of the origin and growth of mod- 
 ern versification ; of that rhymed and accented 
 poetry in which the finest thought and the most 
 ardent emotion of all the European races has 
 naturally expressed itself for fully a thousand 
 years. When I began to study the versification 
 of Fr^d^ric Mistral's " Mireio " with a view to 
 tra;nslation, I was immediately struck by what 
 
iv PREFACE. 
 
 I may call its picturesqueness, the affluence and 
 melody of its rhymes, its variety and marked 
 beauty of rhythm. These qualities I also found 
 in the works of Mistral's brother poets, espe- 
 cially in Aubanel; and they seemed the more 
 remarkable^ because fpr the moment I compared 
 that work only with other modern French poe- 
 try, which, ever since the despotic days of 
 Racine and the G-rand Monarque, has been so 
 particularly colorless, and poor both in rhythm 
 and rhyme. But, in truth, the Provencals had 
 only reclaimed their birthright. Rhymed and 
 accented verse, characterized by the very quali- 
 ties which make their own and all modern verse 
 most admirable, appears in the Romance poetry 
 of the twelfth century in all the irrecoverable 
 perfection of a first full blossoming. To France 
 and that century also belong the celestial melo- 
 dies of Adam of Saint Victor and Hildebert of 
 Tours and the monumental hymn of Bernard 
 of Cluny, — three of the greatest masters of the 
 sacred Latin poetry of the Middle Age, — 
 which likewise had become in the main a poetry 
 
PREFACE. V 
 
 of rhyme and accent. And France in those days 
 was England, and England, France ; so that all 
 theirs is also, in a peculiar manner, ours. It is, 
 therefore, through the Latin hymns of the med- 
 iaeval church, that tlie genealogy is to be traced 
 of those poetic forms which the Troubadours 
 brought to ourselves, and their followers, the 
 Minnesingers, diffused through eastern Europe. 
 But when we have followed this clew as far 
 back as the fourth century and the rhymed 
 hymn of Damasus, Bishop of Rome, on the 
 martyrdom of Saint Agatha, we are stopped 
 by a new wonder. How brief, comparatively, 
 although full of unparalleled revolution and 
 destruction, the interval between the date of 
 this hymn and the time when the only poetry 
 known to Roman, and therefore to any, letters, 
 was that quantitative verse, the structure and 
 the beauties of which, wonderful though they 
 be, are as entirely distinct from those of modern 
 poetry as if it had originated in another planet ! 
 Yet the new verse must have had some antece- 
 dent. How was the seeming chasm between 
 
vi PREFACE. 
 
 the new and the old to be bridged, and eon- 
 timiity established? 
 
 It was at this stage of the inquiry that I per- 
 ceived the impossibility of discussing the ques- 
 tion fully in the limits of a preface, which I had 
 once thought to do. I believe, however, that 
 the true reading of the riddle is the one indi- 
 cated by Dean Trench in the very interesting 
 introduction to his collection of sacred Latin 
 poetry. The quantitative poetry of classic Rome 
 was itself exotic. The rough hexameters of 
 Lucretius, the lovely hexameters of Virgil, the 
 varied measures of Horace, and the elegiacs of 
 Ovid were none of them native growths of the 
 Roman soil. They were transplanted from 
 Greece ; they attained in their new home a 
 rapid and graceful, but never robust, growth ; 
 and they were, of course, the instruments of the 
 cultured classes only. Under the shadow of 
 this adopted and cultivated poesy, there lived 
 through all the period of its dominion, away in 
 the provinces and among the common people 
 everywhere, an humble growth of popular song 
 
PREFACE. vii 
 
 and proverb, whicli knew nothing of artificial 
 quantities and arbitrary caesuras, but was simply 
 and often rudely rhymed and accented, after the 
 manner of the poetry which we know best. 
 And when the foreign graces of Eoman letters 
 perished with the general collapse of Roman 
 civilization, this lowly, indigenous poetry es- 
 caped by its very insignificance, and began to 
 grow. Moreover, to the early Christian writers, 
 the classic measures were all so replete with 
 Pagan associations, that they turned instinc- 
 tively for the expression of Christian thought 
 and feeling to simpler, more primitive, and, as 
 it seemed to them, less contaminated, forms. 
 And here a question occurs concerning the 
 characteristics of all exotic poetry ; that is to 
 say, all poetry, the forms of which are borrowed 
 from a foreign tongue. Has it not its peculiar 
 beauties, as well as its necessary defects ? 
 Does the large Latin element in the English 
 language make the native Latin poetical forms 
 more natural and facile to us than they are to 
 the Germans, for example ? And does this ac- 
 
Viii PREFACE. 
 
 count for the undoubted superiority in music of 
 modern English to modern German verse ? And, 
 if so, how does it happen that tliere are so few 
 Latin words in the most musical English poetry, 
 and that our sweetest and most satisfying rhymes 
 are invariably Saxon ? 
 
 I can (Sonceive no more fascinating subject for 
 patient inquiry and copious illustration than this 
 of the origin and development of modern poeti- 
 cal forms. I have myself a half-formed purpose 
 of sometime deyoting to it the volume which it 
 deserves; but, if this purpose is never accom- 
 plished, I shall at least cherish the hope that 
 the experiments in metric version, and possibly 
 some of the fragmentary discussions and sug- 
 gestions in the pages that follow, may be of 
 trifling value to the future historian of modern 
 verse by way of memoirs pour servir. 
 
 ■ Hakeiet "W. Pkeston. 
 
 Boston, Not. 13, 1876. 
 
C O N T E N^ T S. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Prefacb iii 
 
 Mistral's Calendau 1 
 
 Theodore Aubanjel 43 
 
 Jacques Jasmin. 1 85 
 
 Jacqdes Jasmin. II 115 
 
 The Songs of the Troubadours. 1 151 
 
 The Songs of the Troubadours. II. ... 194 
 
 The Arthukiad 232 
 
TROUBADOURS AND TROUVERES. 
 
 MISTRAL'S CALENDAU. 
 
 "l^riNE years after the appearance of Mireio, 
 Fr^d^ric Mistral published simultaneously 
 at Avignon and at Paris, and in parallel Proven- 
 9al and French, a second poem of heroic propor- 
 tions, entitled Calendau. The critics, who bad 
 been quite thrown off their guard by the strange- 
 ness and the sweetness, the innocent ardor and 
 frank garrulity, of the earlier poem, were far more 
 wary in their reception of its successor. Their 
 verdict was unanimously and even emphatically 
 favorable ; but it was still a verdict, not a star- 
 tled cry of admiration. Calendau won priceless 
 praise ; but it created comparativelj' no excite- 
 ment, was pot long talked about, and never, we 
 believe, translated. 
 
 It is proposed to give some account of this 
 riper and more formal production of M. Mistral's 
 genius, which, if it have not quite the wayward 
 1 
 
2 TROUBADOURS AND TROUVERES. 
 
 and fascinating audacity of its elder, does yet give 
 evidence of immense vigor in its author, and of 
 a wealth of imagination sufficiently rare ; while 
 it seems to include almost all of legendary and 
 picturesque Provence not portrayed, or at least 
 touched with light, in the previous work. 
 
 The reader of Calendau must begin by dis- 
 abusing himself of the idea that the sensations 
 which he received from Mir^io are to be pre- 
 cisely repeated. Nothing, indeed, is in the 
 nature of things more unlikely than that we 
 shall be twice surprised by the same person, 
 in the same way. The curious ndivetS of the 
 former tale is abandoned, perhaps deliberately, 
 along with the rather transparent pretence of 
 singing for " shepherds and farmer-folk alone." 
 The usual reading public is addressed in Cal- 
 endau, and means not wholly unusual are em- 
 ployed to excite and detain our interest. 
 
 In the first place, the lovers in Calendau are 
 not children. They are young, indeed, to judge 
 by our slow Northern standards ; but they are, 
 to all intents, man and woman, and the lady at 
 least has lived and suffered much when we see 
 her first. Then, it is not a story of to-day, and 
 
MISTRAL'S CALENDAU. 3 
 
 there can be no doubt that the romantic charm 
 of Mireio is perpetually enhanced by the wonder 
 that so artless and idyllic a life as the one there 
 described can be lived anywhere at the present 
 time. The date of Calendau's adventures is 
 placed a hundred years back, and very skilfully. 
 In the dark and desperate times which preceded 
 the outbreak of the first great revolution in 
 France, rapine and bloodshed, flight, treachery, 
 and siege, were matters of frequent occurrence, 
 and the wildest incidents were unhappily proba- 
 ble. Moreover, the shadows of even one century 
 are suificient to confuse the wavering line be- 
 tween nature and the supernatural, and thus to 
 afford all needful latitude to an imagination 
 which, although capable, as we know, of a most 
 winning playfulness, does yet appear to be es- 
 sentially sombre. And this introduction of a 
 semi-supernatural element, together with the 
 stress continually laid on the ancient literature 
 and mediaeval honors of Provence, impart to 
 Calendau a kind of transitional character, which 
 is far from impairing its interest. The work 
 seems, whether the author intended it or no, 
 almost to bridge the strange chasm between 
 
4 TROVBADODRS AND TROUVERES. 
 
 the old Provengal poetry and the new, and to 
 give an effect of continuity to the unique and 
 brilliant literature of Southern France. And if 
 the fresh realism of Mir^io be not here, and we 
 deem this a little more like ordinary books than 
 the other, that very likeness is also of use some- 
 times, as affording us a distinct and accurate 
 measure of the poet's own undeniable origin- 
 ality. 
 
 He opens his poem conventionally with an 
 allusion to his earlier effort, and in the same 
 metre : — 
 
 I, who sang once the love and sorrow sore 
 Of a young maiden, now essay once more — 
 God helping me — to tell a tale of love; 
 How a poor fisherman of Cassis strove 
 And suifered, till he won a shining crown, 
 Stainless delights, and honor, and renown. 
 
 There follows an invocation to the spirit of 
 
 Provence, as illustrated in the famous past, and 
 
 theii the opening scene of the story, which is 
 
 characterized by a suppressed fervor, a kind of 
 
 silent intensity of light and color and emotion, 
 
 hardly to be paralleled in English verse : — 
 
 One STumner day, from a high mountain seat, 
 Rock-built and with the blossoming heather sweet, 
 
MISTRAL'S CALENDAU. 5 
 
 Two lovers watched the white caps come and go 
 Like lambs upon the shining sea below, 
 While the note only of the woodpecker 
 Startled the silence of the noontide clear. 
 
 Cornice-like hung in air the narrow ledge, 
 The dark pines thronged beneath; but, from the edge, 
 One saw the sun-touched faces of the trees . 
 Laugh to the laughter of the Southern seas. 
 White on the beach gleamed Cassis: far away 
 Sparkled Toulon, and the blue Gardiole' lay 
 
 Cloud-like along the deep. So spake the youth 
 Unto the maiden: " Never, in good sooth, 
 Did hare or pigeon eager huntsman tire 
 Like thee ! Have I not won at thy desire 
 Fortune and fame, and wrought all prodigies ? 
 Poor dreamer, whom my dream for ever flies ! " 
 
 And he goes on to describe, in ardent fashion, 
 the impossibilities he would yet undertake for 
 the sure hope of winning her. The lady answers 
 with tears in her divine eyes, owning for the first 
 time, seemingly, that she loves him, and him 
 alone, but hinting at some insurmountable ob- 
 stacle to their union. Her lover interrupts her 
 with a burst of impetuous gratitude for her con- 
 fession : — 
 
 1 La Garduelo. A mountain chain bordering on the sea be- 
 tween Cassis and Marseilles. 
 
6 TROUBADOURS AND TROUVEEES. 
 
 " Why should not then our joy be perfected ? 
 
 We love, we are young, we are free as birds 1 " he said. 
 
 " Look! how the glowing nature all around 
 
 Lies in the soft arms of the Summer bound. 
 
 Courts the endearments of the tawny queen, 
 
 And drinis the breath of her dark beauty in ! 
 
 " The azure peaks, the faint, far hills, lay bare 
 Their beating bosoms to the radiant air. 
 The changeful sea below us, clear as glass, 
 Hinders the ardent sun-rays not to pass 
 Into its deepest depth ; and joys no less 
 Of Bhone and Var, to feel the mute caress. 
 
 " Nay, do not speak! ' But hark how earth and sea 
 Have both one language ; how exultantly 
 They tell the passionate need they have of love ! 
 Dost tremble sweet ? I bid thy fear remove. 
 Come, let me lead' thee to the altar straight. 
 Life at its longest is too brief." " Oh, Fate! 
 
 " Oh, cruel star! " brake forth the woman's wail. 
 " Thou must not! Cease, in God's name, lest I fail 
 To keep my truth." 
 
 And after murmuring something of dishonor 
 to an ancient and unstained name, she breaks 
 off with a passionate prayer that the sombre 
 woods and mountain solitudes about her may 
 continue to shelter her, as they have hitherto, 
 from the wrath of her enemies, and the seduc- 
 tions of her own heart. There follows a pict- 
 
MISTRAL'S CALENDAU. 7 
 
 ure of the two lovers, without which the reader 
 
 can hardly form a clear idea of their personal- 
 
 ity:- 
 
 She sprang upon her feet, inspired, erect. 
 
 Oh, beauteous was her head ! and well bedecked 
 
 By its dense coronal of shining hair, 
 
 Whereof the twin-coils were as broom-boughs fair 
 
 With yellow flower ; and from her eye sincere 
 
 Storms might have fled, and left the heavens clear. 
 
 White were her teeth, as the fine salt of Berre,i 
 
 And shy, at times, the lofty glances were 
 
 Of the proud orbs, whose wondrous hue recalled 
 
 The steadfast splendors of the emerald. 
 
 And desert sunshine faint reflected shone 
 
 In the warm tint her peach-like cheeks upon. , 
 
 So towered the lithe, tall shape, divinely molded 
 By the white linen robe her limbs that folded. 
 While at her knees, her rapt love listening, 
 As in the blue he heard an angel sing, 
 Leaned on his elbow with up-gazing eyes. 
 And he — he too — was made in splendid wise: 
 
 With supple limbs, yet strong as sail-yards be 
 (A score of years, or barely more, had he), 
 And large eyes sad with love, and black as night; 
 The down upon his lip was soft and light 
 As on vine branches. 
 
 ' The salt obtained from the salt-mines of Berre, a small 
 village near Aix, is considered the finest in France. 
 
8 TROUBADOURS AND TROUVERES. 
 
 He renews his suit in the most fervid and per- 
 suasive terms ; and, when he is again tenderly 
 repulsed, grows keenly reproachful, and hints 
 at toils and sufferings undergone for her sake, 
 which he scorns to dwell upon in detail. Is she 
 a woman, he demands at length, or is she Ester- 
 ello, the fairy who is said to haunt that mountain 
 region, teasing men with her loveliness, luring 
 them to her pursuit, but always eluding them 
 in the end ? And she replies, in sad jest, that 
 she is Esterello; and can never reward, however 
 she may return, any mortal love. Then she in- 
 vites him to a grotto hard by, where the stalac- 
 tites weep perpetual pearls. 
 
 " And this, my friend," she in her dreamy way, 
 
 " Is Esterello's palace! Look, I pray, 
 
 At these fair hangings^! God himself," said she, 
 
 " Wrought all this foliage of white jewelry 
 
 The rainfall feeds. Wilt try my leaf couch here? 
 
 My only seat, — but heights are ever drear. 
 
 " Is it not sweet here? This most quiet spot 
 The raging heats of summer enter not, 
 But all is cool." He took the leafy seat; 
 She dropped upon her knees beside his feet ; 
 And the strange light that flooded all the place 
 Clothed them, as in one garment, with its rays. 
 
MISTRAL'S CALENDAU. 9 
 
 In tills becoming attitude the lady tells her 
 true story. She was, by birth, a princess of 
 Baux, the last representative of one of the most 
 ancient and illustrious houses in Provence. In 
 her impoverished orphanhood, — for only the 
 Castle of Aiglun had descended to her out of 
 all the vast possessions of her family, — she had 
 had many suitors, and had fixed her choice 
 upon the least worthy. He was a stranger of 
 brilliant and commanding, but always sinister, 
 appearance, whom, when benighted in a great 
 storm, she had received into her castle, who 
 had described himself to her as Count Severan, 
 an adventurer of high birth, Avith a large secret 
 following, by the help of which he intended one 
 day to avenge upon a corrupt government the 
 wrongs of their beautiful province, and who had 
 completely subjugated the fancy of the young 
 girl. Their banns were hastily published, and 
 the night of their wedding-feast arrived ; but, as 
 the bridegroom presented the guests, one after 
 another, by high-sounding but wholly unfamiliar 
 names, the bride poted with terror that they had 
 more the air of come (that is, the overseers of 
 gangs of galley slaves) than of gentlemen. A 
 
10 TROUBADOURS AND TROUVERES. 
 
 scene of furious revelry ensued ; but, while the 
 bridegroom was in the midst of a pompous 
 oration, there forced his way into the brilliant 
 hall an unbidden guest. 
 
 He stopped midway of his insensate boast ; 
 
 For in the open doorway'rose a ghost, 
 
 An old, most miserable, coarse-clad man, 
 
 Down whose gaunt cheeks the gi'imy sweat-drops ran, 
 
 The threshold crossed of that high banquet-hall, 
 
 And stood, a loathly shape, before us all. 
 
 White turned the bridegroom, and a deadly ray 
 Leaped from his eyes as he the steps would stay 
 Of the strange comer ; but it might not be. 
 Forward he came silently, solemnly, 
 - As when God takes a beggar's shape sometimes 
 The rich man to confound amid his crimes. 
 
 With slowly-trailing steps he neared the host, 
 
 And scanned him long, with lean arms tightly crossed; 
 
 Till on the breast of each expectant one, 
 
 Great terror fell as with a weight of stone. 
 
 An icy wind blew from the night, and flared 
 
 The festal lamps, and at last some one dared 
 
 To break the silence with a brutal sneer: — 
 
 " Ho for a famine, this cursed land to clear 
 
 Of beggar vermin ! or in four more days 
 
 We are devoured! " " What dost thou in this place, 
 
 And with this bridal pair, old fool? " they cried. 
 
 The insulted stranger not a word replied. 
 
MISTRAL'S CALENDAU. 11 
 
 Then some began to jeer Ms hairless pate, 
 His bloodshot eyes, and heavy, shambling gait: 
 " Were it not better, thou ill-omened bird. 
 To hide thy glum face in thy hole? " He heard, 
 And still unmurmuring each affront he took. 
 Yet on the host bent one beseeching loot. 
 
 But others: " Come, old fellow, these fine folk 
 Are not worth minding! They must have their joke, 
 But do thou glean about the board! Make haste. 
 And snatch a joint or carcass where thou mayst; 
 Look ! Are thy jaws not equal to a chine 
 Of pork? Or wilt toss off a cup of wine? " 
 
 " Nay, masters," answered wearily and slow 
 The wan intruder; "you'll not tempt me so. 
 For I want no man's leavings. I am here 
 To seek my son. " " His son? 'Tis mighty queer! 
 Why, pray, should this old snakeskin vender's son 
 Be haunting the fine lady of Aiglun? " 
 
 There was a base doubt in the mocking look 
 Of them, which stung, and I could illy brook. 
 But still they plied him : " Tell us which he is, 
 This son of thine, and tell the truth in this. 
 Or from the gargoyle of the highest tower 
 Of old Aiglun thou'lt dangle in an hour! " 
 
 Then the old man: " Behold, I am denied! 
 
 Spurned like the sweepings of the floor aside ! 
 
 Now shall ye hear the raven croak! " quoth he, 
 
 And rose up in his rags right awfully. 
 
 ' ' Hold ! ' ' cried the count, ' ' out with him from the haU ! ' ' 
 
 Stony his face, and pallid as the wall. 
 
12 TROUBADOURS AND TROUVERES. 
 
 ' ' Fall on him, valets ! Hunt the spectral thing ! " 
 
 Two tears, that I can yet see glistening, 
 
 Hot, bitter tears, in aged eyes and weak, 
 
 Rose, and rolled down the beggar's furrowed cheek. 
 
 Heart-rending memory! Pale as death we grew, 
 
 While he took up his broken tale anew. 
 
 " I am, like Death," he moaned, " of all forgot! 
 Yet comes he to the feast, though bidden not. 
 Oh, ay, and woe is me! I fain once m.ore 
 Would see my son. He drives me from his door. 
 ' Fall on him ! Hunt him ! ' says he in his ire ; 
 Thou haughty bridegroom, I am stiU thy sire." 
 
 The beggar then turns upon the horrified 
 bride, and denounces his unnatural child to her 
 as a base-born churl, a common robber, a mur- 
 derer. None dares dispute, or seeks to detain 
 him as he turns to leave the hall, save the lady 
 herself, who, in her first revulsion of feeling, 
 springs forward, calling the old man father, and 
 praying him to stay. He puts her aside with a 
 pitying prophecy, and she swoons away. Awak- 
 ing late in the night, she finds herself in her 
 own chamber, with only her old nurse mourn- 
 ing over her. The castle is still. She collects 
 her thoughts ; realizes the ruin that has befallen 
 her life ; thanks God that she is, at least, the 
 wife of Severan only in name ; and resolves to 
 
MISTRAL'S CALENDAU. 13 
 
 fly, leaving her ancestral home in the possession 
 of the banditti below. After long wanderings 
 and many privations, she had made herself a 
 kind of hermitage on this Mount Gibal, at the - 
 southern extremity of Provence, where she had 
 ever since lived a mysterious and ascetic life, 
 accounted a supernatural being by the peas- 
 antry who caught occasional glimpses of her. 
 Here Calendau, the brave young fisherman from 
 Cassis on the beach below, had long since found 
 and loved, and sought to woo her, although 
 himself regarding her with a kind of supersti- 
 tious awe. Hence, after the fantastic fashion 
 of the ladies of old, she had sent him forth to 
 deeds of high emprise, which he had achieved 
 one after another ; returning to lay his trophies 
 at her feet, and only now, after many such 
 adventures, to learn that his lady returned his 
 love, and to hear her tragic story. 
 
 She ceased. As one ■who from an evil dream 
 Awakes, Calendau rose, fist clenched, a gleam 
 Of fury in his eyes. " No longer fear 
 Thy bandit lord; but think that I am here, 
 Adore, and will release thee! He or I, 
 I swear it by the fires of hell, shall die." 
 
14 TROUBADOURS AND TROUVERES. 
 
 • 
 But she: " Ah no! Thine eyes affright me more 
 Than ever he. Go not ! Stain not with gore 
 Om- sinless love! " " Nay, but his life must end! " 
 " Am I not then thy sister, thy sweet friend? 
 Oh, leave me not! " He answered sullenly, 
 " I have one only word: The wretch shall die, — 
 
 " Being a robber and accurst. And, oh! 
 
 Thou knowest full well whether I love or no." 
 
 " I will no murderer's love ! All undefiled 
 
 The hand I take must be." He said, and smiled, 
 
 " Princess, fear not ! This hand hath ne'er a stain, 
 
 And white for thy dear sake it shall remain. 
 
 " Not as a felon will I seek his death. 
 
 But as one brave another challengeth, 
 
 I will appease my wrath ! Alone, breast bare, 
 
 I will go down into the tiger's lair, — 
 
 God grant my foot slip not ! — and once within 
 
 Will smite amid his band this new Mandrin.^ 
 
 " Farewell, my queen! " He said, and made one dash, 
 Swift as the swamp-fire's gleam, the lightning's flash, 
 Forth of the grot, then paused. She, at his side, 
 " Thou goest to thy death! " in anguish cried. 
 " Cannot love stay thee? Art thou mad to brave 
 Twenty fierce outlaws in their highland cave? " 
 
 1 Mandrin, a famous brigand chief, was born in 1715, at 
 SainteEtienne-de-Geoire, in Dauphiny, and broken on the 
 wheel at Valence, in 1755. 
 
MISTRAL'S CALENDAU. 15 
 
 ' ' Yea, were there twenty thousand in then- stead, 
 I would not strike my sail! Behold," he said, 
 " Love is my strength, — what better following? " 
 Adown the mount he plunged with valiant spring, 
 Flung back his vest as the bold Gascons do. 
 And turned him to far lands and conflicts new. 
 
 The third canto opens with a rapid account 
 of Calendau's journey across Provence. It is a 
 series of pictures, each brilliant, distinct, and 
 harmonious in coloring ; a lovely panoramic view. 
 M. Mistral had shown himself a master of this 
 kind of painting in those cantos of MirSio which 
 describe the muster of the farm laborers, and the 
 flight of the heroine across La Crau and Cam- 
 argue. We cull a stanza here and there. 
 
 Afar over the sage-flelds hummed the bees, 
 Fluttered the birds about the sumac-trees. 
 How lucid was the air of that sweet day ! 
 How fair upon the slopes the shadows lay ! 
 The ranged and piUared rocks seemed to upbear 
 Levels of green land, like some altar-stair. 
 
 O'er the sheer verge the golden pumpkin hung 
 His heavy head, the rock-born aloes flung 
 Its flowery rays abroad like God's own lustre. 
 Deep in the dells, fuU many a coral cluster 
 The barberry ripened. The pomegranate red 
 Keared like an Indian cock its crested head. 
 
16 TROUBADOURS AND TROUVERES. 
 
 As Calendau drew near his lady's ancestral 
 home, he asked of all he met the way to the 
 Castle of Aiglun. 
 
 "^O cheery plowman, in thy furrow toiling, 
 O merry pitch-man, thy sweet resin boiling. 
 How far from this to old Aiglun? " he cried. 
 " Climb, gallant, climb! " the laborers replied; 
 " Then down the deepest chasm, if so be 
 .The horrid heights no terror have for thee." 
 
 So he went down the deep, chill, darksome vale. 
 The frowning precipice well-nigh made fail 
 Even his high heart. There' the unwilling day 
 On snake and lizard flings one noontide ray, 
 Then hides behind the cliff. The gorge along 
 Tumbles in foam the angry Esteron. 
 
 Presently, however, the defile widened ; giv- 
 ing to view an open space, where Calendau came 
 suddenly upon the self-styled count himself, 
 surrounded by some thirty or forty of his fol- 
 lowers, both men and women. The outlaws 
 were reposing after the fatigues of the chase, 
 and taking their noonday lunch upon the sunlit 
 turf. The intruder is of course ordered to 
 stand and deliver ; but his beauty attracts the 
 women, and his boldness the men. The count 
 
MISTRAL'S CALENDAU. 17 
 
 himself sees in the audacious stranger a possible 
 recruit ; and the end of it all is that he is invited 
 to share their repast, on condition that he will 
 tell his story, and declare his business there. 
 Calendau asked no better. His tale, he says, 
 is one of love, and of many labors wrought in 
 the hope of rendering himself worthy of his 
 lady's distinguished favor. Some say that lady 
 is a fairy, Esterello by name ; and it is certain 
 that she lives alone in a wild solitude, that her 
 beauty is more than human, and her thoughts 
 and visions too high for earth. At all events, 
 he will call her Esterello. 
 
 The next six cantos are occupied chiefly with 
 Calendau's recital of his own exploits. After 
 each feat performed, he seeks his lady in her 
 retreat, but finds her for a time ever harder and 
 harder to win. The strenuous and often rude 
 action of the hero's narrative is beautifully 
 broken and relieved by the moonlight quiet and 
 mystery of these scenes upon the mountain. 
 Other themes are also introduced, which both 
 lighten the monotony of grotesque or stern ad- 
 venture, and assist in preserving the continuity 
 of the main story : the irrepressible comments 
 
 2 
 
18 TROUBADOURS AND TROUVERES. 
 
 of Calendau's listeners ; the wonder and some- 
 times incredulity of the men ; the sentimental 
 admiration of the women ; and, on the part of 
 Severan himself, the secret suspicion, early- 
 aroused and constantly strengthened, that Cal- 
 endau's austere and angelic lady-love is none 
 other than his own fugitive bride, of whom he 
 had never been able to obtain a trace. He 
 chooses, however, to allow the young enthusiast 
 to finish his tale, both that he may become pos- 
 sessed of the fullest possible information, and 
 also that he may have time to mature some 
 perfectly effectual plan of vengeance on the 
 two. 
 
 Calendau begins by telling them that his own 
 birth was humble. He came of honest and 
 thrifty fisherfolk from Cassis, on the Mediter- 
 ranean coast, and he cannot help lingering lov- 
 ingly over some of the details of his simple early 
 life. 
 
 " I would you onoe had seen the goodly sight, 
 The Cassis men under the evening light ! 
 And in the cool, when they put out to sea, 
 Hundreds of fishing craft go silently 
 And lightly forth, like a gi-eat flock of plover, 
 And spread abroad the heaving billows over. 
 
MISTRAL'S CALENDAU. 19 
 
 " And the wives linger in the lone doorways, 
 Watching, with what a long and serious gaze I 
 For the last glimmer of the swelling sail. 
 And if the sea but freshen, they turn pale; 
 For well they know how treacherous he is. 
 That cruel deep, — for all his flatteries. 
 
 " But when the salt sea thunders with the shocks 
 Of rude assault from the great equinox, 
 And bits of foundered craft bestrew the shores, 
 Then can we naught but close our cottage doors, 
 And young and old about the warm fireside 
 Wait the returning of the summer-tide. 
 
 " Ah! those were evenings, — when the autumn gales 
 Blew loud, and mother mended the rent sails \ 
 With homespun thread ; ay, and we youngsters too 
 Were set to drive the needle through and through 
 The gaping nets, and tie the meshes all 
 There where they hung suspended on the wall. 
 
 " And in his tall chair by the ingle nook 
 My father sat, with aye some antique book 
 Laid reverently open on his knee. 
 And ' Listen, and forget the rain,' quoth he, 
 Blew back his mark, and read some tale divine 
 Of old Provengal days, by the fire-shine." 
 
 But Calendau asks pardon for dwelling on 
 these scenes of childhood. Manhood had begun 
 for him when he met his lady in the forest. He 
 
20 TROUBADOURS AND TROUVERES. 
 
 had first thought to win her with gold, and had 
 undertaken to make himself rich by the difficult 
 and dangerous tunny-fishing of the Mediter- 
 ranean coast, in which immense fortunes are 
 sometimes made. The fifth canto of the poem, 
 La Madrago, describes this exciting sport. The 
 sketch is one of great power, and has a kind of 
 restless brilliancy. Many local legends and 
 wild superstitions of the coast are introduced ; 
 yet it is intensely real. We give the passage 
 which describes Calendau's crowning success : — 
 
 " But when with dawn the pallid moon had set, 
 The whole unnumbered shoal into the net 
 Came pouring. Ah, but then I was elate! 
 Drunk with my joy, thought I had conquered fate ; 
 ' Now, love,' I said, ' thou shalt have gems and gems; 
 I'U spoil the goldsmiths for thy diadems ! ' 
 
 " Love is the sun, the king of all this earth: 
 He fires, unites, fulfils with joy, gives birth, 
 Calls from the dead the living by the score, 
 And kindles war, and doth sweet peace restore. 
 Lord of the land, lord of the deep, is he, 
 Piercing the very monsters of the sea 
 
 ' ' With fire-tipped arrows. Lo the tunny yon ! 
 Now in one silver phalanx press they on ; 
 
MISTRAL'S CALENDAU. 21 
 
 Anon they petulantly part and spring, 
 And plnnge and toss ; their armor glittering 
 Steel-blue upon their crystal field of fight, 
 Or rosy underneath the growing light. 
 
 " 'Twas nuptial bliss they sought. What haste! What 
 
 fire! 
 With the strong rush of amorous desire 
 Spots of intense vermilion went and came 
 On some, like sparkles of a restless flame, 
 A royal scarf, a livery of gold, 
 A wedding robe, fading as love grew cold. 
 
 " So at the last came one prodigious swell; 
 
 And the last line, that seemed invincible. 
 
 Brake with the pressure, and our boats leaped high. 
 
 ' Huzza! the prey is caged! ' we wildly cry; 
 
 ' Courage, my lads, and don't forget the oil! 
 
 The fish we have, — let not the dressing spoil! 
 
 " ' 'Bout ship! ' We bent our shoulders with a will; 
 Our oars we planted sturdily but still ; 
 And the gay cohort, late alive with light. 
 Owned, with a swift despair, its prisoned plight; 
 And, where it leaped with amorous content, 
 Quivered and plunged in fury impotent. 
 
 " ' Now then, draw in ! But easy, comrades bold; 
 We are not gathering figs ! ' ' And aU laid hold 
 
 1 Eico n'es pas dejigo bourjassoto. A popular proverb signi- 
 fying " It is no trivial matter." The bourjassoto is a species of 
 black flg. 
 
22 TROUBADOURS AND TROUVERES. 
 
 With tug and strain to land the living prize, 
 Fruit of the treacherous sea. In ecstasies 
 Of rage our victims on each other flew, 
 Dashing the fishers o'er with bitter dew. 
 
 " Too like, too like our own unhappy people. 
 Who, when the tocsin clangs from tower and steeple 
 Peru to freedom and the land we cherish. 
 Insensate turn like those foredoomed to perish,. 
 Brother on brother laying reckless hand, 
 TiU comes a foreign lord to still the land. 
 
 " Yet had we brave and splendid sport, I ween; 
 For some with tridents, some with lances keen, 
 FeU on the prey. And some were skilled to fling 
 A winged dart held by a slender string. 
 The wounded wretches 'neath the wave withdrew, 
 Trailing red lines along the mirror blue. 
 
 " Slowly the net brimful of treasure mounted; 
 Silver was there, tm-quoise and gold uncounted, 
 Kubies and emeralds million-rayed. The men 
 Flung them thereon like eager children when 
 They stay their mother's footsteps to explore 
 Her apron bursting with its summer store 
 
 " Of apricots and cherries." 
 
 The wealth thus suddenly acquired, Galendau 
 spends with ostentatious profusion. He ap- 
 points a fete at Cassis, to be celebrated with 
 public games, boat-racing, and trials of strength, 
 
MISTRAL'S CALENDAU. 23 
 
 and promises largess to the crowd. He then 
 buys the costliest trinkets, fit only for a queen's 
 casket, and proceeds to ofPer them to his Ester- 
 ello, by whom they are refused with a sort of 
 gentle disdain. She reminds him that she has 
 no further use for jewelry; and that the field 
 flowers are, for her, a far more appropriate gar- 
 niture ; and she reproves his shallow confidence 
 and youthful vanity. Still further mortification 
 awaits him at the Cassis /eie, to which the next 
 canto is devoted, and where he had anticipated 
 a public ovation ; but where certain comrades, 
 who are jealous of his prosperity, overcome him 
 by treachery in the games, and poison the minds 
 of his townsfolk against him. Wounded and 
 sore, both in body and mind, he repairs again 
 to his fair recluse, and this time she is kinder. 
 
 " I came once more unto my lady's eyrie, 
 
 Heart hot with sense of wrong and limbs a-weary, 
 
 And oh, the rest I found there, and the babn! 
 
 Coolness as of clear water, and a calm 
 
 Celestial. ' Oh entreat me pityingly, 
 
 My strange white Fay,' I said; ' no gems have I 
 
 " ' For thee to-day. One only laurel-bough, 
 Thick set with thorns, is all I offer now ; ' 
 
24 TROUBADOURS AND TROUVERES. 
 
 And so I dropped under the shady trees, 
 
 And told her of my hard-won victories — 
 
 All barren — and my shame ; and she, grave-eyed, 
 
 Looked up and listened from the grass beside." 
 
 Then she tells him a thrilling story, or rather 
 chants him a ballad, out of that legendary lore 
 of Provence with which her memory is stored, 
 and on which, in her solitude, her imagination 
 is ever brooding. We give it entire : — 
 
 At Aries, in the Cariovingian days. 
 
 By the swift Rhone water, 
 A hundred thousand on either side, 
 Christian and Saracen fought till the tide 
 
 Ran red with the slaughter. 
 
 May God f oref end such another flood 
 
 Of direful war ! 
 The Count of Orange, on that black mom, 
 By seven great kings was overborne, 
 
 And fled afar, 
 
 Whenas he would avenge the death 
 
 Of his nephew slain. 
 Now are the kings upon his trail ; 
 He slays as he flies; like fiery haU 
 
 His sword-strokes rain. 
 
MISTRAL'S CALENDAU. 25 
 
 He hies him into the Aliscamp,' 
 
 No shelter there 1 
 A Moorish hive is the home of the dead; 
 And hard he spurs his goodly steed 
 
 In his despair. 
 
 Over the mountain and over the moor, 
 
 Flies Count GuiUaume; 
 By sun and by moon he ever sees 
 The coming cloud of his enemies ; 
 
 Thus gains his home, 
 
 Halts, and lifts at the castle gate 
 
 A mighty cry. 
 Calling his haughty wife by name: 
 " Guibour, Guibour, my gentle dame, 
 
 Open! 'TisI! 
 
 " Open the gate to thy GuiUaume. 
 
 Ta'en is the city 
 By thirty thousand Saracen, 
 Lo ! they are hunting me to my den. 
 
 Guibour, have pity! " 
 
 But the countess from the rampart cried: 
 
 "Nay, chevalier, 
 I ■will not open my gates to thee ; 
 For, save the women and babes," said she, 
 
 " Whom I shelter here, 
 
 1 The Aliscamp ; that is, Elysii Campi, — an ancient ceme- 
 tery near Aries, supposed to have been consecrated by Christ 
 in person. 
 
26 TROUBADOURS AND TROUVERES. 
 
 " And the priest who keeps the lamps alight, 
 
 Alone am I. 
 My brave Guillamne and his barons all 
 Are fighting the Moor by the Aliscamp wall, 
 
 And scorn to fly! " 
 
 " Guibour, Guibour, it is I myself ! » 
 
 And those men of mine 
 (God rest their souls!) they are dead," he cried, 
 " Or rowing with slaves on the salt sea^tide. 
 
 I have seen the shine 
 
 " Of Aries on fire in the dying day; 
 
 I have heard one shriek 
 Go up from all the arenas where 
 The nuns disfigure their bodies fair, 
 
 Lest the Marran wreak 
 
 " His brutal will. Avignon's self 
 
 WiU fall to-day! 
 Sweetheart, I faint; oh, let me ia 
 Before the savage Mograbin 
 
 Fall on his prey! " 
 
 " I swear thou liest," cried Guibour, 
 
 " Thou base deceiver! 
 Thou art perchance thyself a Moor 
 Who whinest thus outside my door, — 
 
 My Guillaume, never! 
 
 " Guillaume to look on burning towns, 
 
 And fired by — thee ! 
 Guillaume to see his comrades die, 
 Or borne to sore captivity. 
 
 And then to flee! 
 
MISTRAL'S CALENDAU. 27 
 
 " He knows not flight ! He is a tower 
 
 Where others fly! 
 The heathen spoiler's doom is sure, 
 The virgin's honor aye secure, 
 
 When he is by!" 
 
 Guillaiime leapt up, his bridle set 
 
 Between his teeth. 
 While tears of love, and tears of shame, 
 Under his burning eyelids came. 
 
 And hard drew breath, 
 
 And seized his sword, and plunged his spurs 
 
 Eight deep, and so 
 A storm, a demon, did descend 
 To roar and smite, to rout and re"nd, 
 
 The Moorish foe. 
 
 As when one shakes an almond-tree, 
 
 The heathen slain 
 Upon the tender grass fall thick, 
 Until the flying remnant seek 
 
 Their ships again. 
 
 Four kings vrith his own hand he slew, 
 
 And when once more 
 He turned him homeward from the fight, 
 Upon the drawbridge long in sight 
 
 Stood brave Guibour. 
 
 " By the great gateway enter in, 
 
 My Lord! " she cried. 
 And might no further welcome speak, 
 But loosed his helm, and kissed his cheek. 
 
 With tears of pride. 
 
28 TROUBADOURS AND TROUVERES. 
 
 The docile Calendau goes on his way inspired 
 and heartened. His next feat is to scale Ven- 
 tour, the most precipitous peak in Provence, 
 hitherto considered inaccessible ; and he signal- 
 izes his achievement by felling a grove of larches 
 on the very crest of the mountain. The diffi- 
 cult ascent is very graphically described : — 
 
 " Savage at once and sheer, yon tower of rocks; 
 To tufts of lavender and roots of box 
 I needs must cling; and as my feet I ground 
 In the thin soil, the little stones would bound 
 With ringing cry from ofi the precipice, 
 ' And plunge in horror down the long abyss. 
 
 " Sometimes my path along the mountain face 
 Would narrow to a thread : I must retrace 
 My steps and seek some longer, wearier way. 
 And if I had turned dizzy in that day, 
 Or storm had overtaken me, then sure 
 I had lain mangled at thy feet, Ventour. 
 
 " But God preserved me. Rarely as I strove 
 With only death in view, I heard above 
 Some solitary sky-lark wing her flight 
 Afar, then all was still. Only by night 
 God visits these drear places. Cheery hum 
 Of insect rings there never. All is dumb. 
 
 " Oft as the skeleton of some old yew, 
 
 In a deep chasm, caught my downward view, 
 
MISTRAL'S CALENDAU. 29 
 
 ' Thou art there! ' I cried; and straightway did discover 
 - New realms of wood towering the others over, 
 A deeper depth of shadows. Ah, methought 
 Those were enchanted solitudes I sought ! 
 
 " From sun to sun I clambered, clinging fast 
 Till all my nails were broken. At the last — 
 The utter last, oh palms of God! — -I caught 
 The soft larch-murmur near me, and, distraught, 
 Embraced the foremost trunk, and forward fell. 
 How broken, drenched, and dead, no words can teU! 
 
 " But sleep renews. I slept; and with the dawn 
 A fresh wind blew, and all the pain was gone, 
 And I rose up both stout of limb and glad; 
 Bread in my sack for nine full days I had, 
 A drinking-flask, a hatchet, and a knife 
 Wherewith to carve the story of my strife 
 
 " Upon the trunks. Ah ! fine that early breeze 
 On old Ventour, rushing through all the trees ! 
 A symphony sublime I seemed to hear. 
 Where all the hiUs and vales gave answer clear, 
 Harmonious. In a stately melancholy 
 From the sun's cheerful glances hidden wholly 
 
 " By the black raiment of their foliage 
 
 The larches rose. No tempest's utmost rage 
 
 Could shake them; but, with huge limbs close entwined, 
 
 Mutely they turned their faces to the wind; 
 
 Some hoar with mould and moss, while some lay prone 
 
 Shrouded in the dead leaves of years agone. 
 
30 TROUBADOURS AND TROUVERES. 
 
 " A sudden fear assailed my spirit bold : 
 ' kingly trees ! ' I cried; ' O hermits old! 
 All hail, and pardon ! And thou too, Ventour, 
 Long steeled the tempest's torment to endure, 
 Wilt thou not howl in all thy caves to-day 
 Because thy stately crown is rent away 1 ' 
 
 " But now the deed is done, the battle dared. 
 Mightily swings the axe, and rent and scared 
 Are the millennial slumbers of the place 
 Mightily cleaves the iron relentless ways 
 Along the wood, and every resinous scale 
 Weeps drops of gold ; but these shall not avail 
 
 " To stay the slaughter. A heart-rending shriek 
 Springs, as the great trunk parts, from root to peak; 
 From bough to bough quivers a dying groan, 
 As falls the monarch headlong from his throne, 
 And thunders down the vale, spreading about 
 Tumult and din, as of a water-spout." 
 
 Not content with the havoc thus wrought in 
 the forest solitudes, and the consternation ex- 
 cited in the valley below, and heedless even of 
 the blandishments of a certain lady of Maltbrun, 
 who desires to regale and refresh him in her 
 highland castle after his exploit, Calendau next 
 assails what is called the Honeycomb-rock, — a 
 series of clefts and fissures where the mountain 
 bees have been for ages depositing their honey 
 
MISTRAL'S CALENDAV. 31 
 
 undisturbed, — and barely escapes with his life 
 from the consequences of this last piece of bra- 
 vado. But when he approaches Esterello once 
 more, bearing a larch bough and a slice of honey- 
 comb as his trophies, he finds her rather amused 
 than overawed by his latest achievement. She 
 cannot help praising his prowess, and half re- 
 lenting to his fantastic fidelity ; but she declares 
 her fervent and somewhat mystical belief, that 
 the solitudes of Nature are sacred, and that he 
 who wantonly invades and violates them de- 
 serves a severe p'unishment. She reminds him 
 once more that her beloved heroes of old fought 
 to redress human wrong, and mitigate human 
 suffering, and tries to awaken him to a higher 
 ideal of life and love. Count Severan can hardly 
 restrain himself at this stage of the story. 
 
 " ' Go then in peace,' she said, ' and if one day 
 A man and knight indeed thou com'st my way, 
 Then,' -^ with a sudden smile, — '■'■ then I will tell 
 Whether I found thy honey sweet ! ' Ah well, 
 Bright seemed the word, and kind, and the day bright, 
 And the birds sang, and the stream leapt in light. 
 
 " ' So, at the last, thou hadst her ? ' Severan 
 Burst forth. ' Thy tale is growing tedious, man.' 
 
82 TROUBADOURS AND TROUVERES. 
 
 ' Pardon, my gracious lord ! ' Calendau cried, 
 ' And deign a little longer to abide ; 
 'Twere base to cheat your honor of the rest, 
 Seeing my story's end will be its best! ' " 
 
 In the eighth canto, Calendau signalizes his 
 devotion to a loftier ambition, by interposing 
 between two hostile bands of freemasons, whom 
 he finds one day engaged in a fierce and san- 
 guinary fight ; and, finally, by common consent 
 of the parties, arbitrating and restoring peace 
 among them. The theme hardly seems a very 
 poetic one, but it is treated with the dignity 
 which never forsakes Mistral ; a deal of strange 
 and sombre history, or rather mythology, is in- 
 troduced, and the rival claims and bizarre pre- 
 tensions of the children of Hiram and Solomon 
 are detailed with a certain weird pomp. Again 
 Severan interrupts Calendau's narrative fiercely 
 and scornfully, and with a wrathful side-glance 
 at the listeners who hang upon his lips. 
 
 " At least they named thee their Grand Chief, I hope, 
 Their master, king, — -whate'er they call it, — pope," 
 Hissed Severan. " Nay," -was the tranquil word, 
 " Nor pope, nor king, nor general; but, my lord, 
 Provence and Aquitaine, do not forget, 
 Will one day give me a name nobler yet, — 
 
MISTRAL'S CALENDAU. 33 
 
 " ' He who won Esterello.' " " Oh, have done! " 
 The huntresses 'gan clamor, all as one ; 
 "i^or look that look that freezes all our blood 1 " 
 For now, with lifted eyes the hero stood, 
 And sweet and misty was their gaze afar, 
 Like his who sees a vision or a star. 
 
 And now Calendau goes on to relate how he 
 addressed himself to the most perilous and un- 
 selfish of all his undertakings ; the achievement 
 of which brings the reader to the commence- 
 ment of the story. There was a certain brigand 
 named Marco Mau, the pest and terror of all 
 southern Provence, much as Severan himself 
 was of the north. No hearth or home or sanc- 
 tuary, or life of man or chastity of woman, was 
 safe from the violent assaults of this ruffian and 
 his armed band ; and him Calendau, at the head 
 of a small picked company, tracked, defied, be- 
 sieged in his stronghold, and finally slew. Of 
 course, he won the enthusiastic gratitude of his 
 towns-people and countrymen in general, and 
 they became eager to make amends for all the 
 pett}' jealousies of the past, and whatever injus- 
 tice they had previously done him. In the great 
 city of Aix he was received like a prince, and 
 rare civic honors were bestowed upon him. And 
 
84 TROUBADOURS AND TROUVtRES. 
 
 when he enters the lists at the FIte-Dieu, and is 
 proclaimed victor in one after another of the 
 strange, antique games which characterize that 
 festival, the enthusiasm of the people mounts 
 to the highest pitch, and Calendau himself is 
 filled with a sacred ^oj and gratitude, as unlike 
 as possible to the vain exultation of his earlier 
 days. He knows that his present honors and 
 popularity have been well won, by hard and 
 beneficent service, and he thinks his Esterello 
 must approve him at the last. We are now at 
 the crisis of the story, and the interest deepens 
 rapidly. 
 
 " What maudlin tales these foreigners do spin! 
 Is it not supper-time ? " once more brake in 
 Count Seyeran. " Come hurry to the end! 
 For whither, boaster, does thy prowess tend ? 
 Thou hast not won her yet! So much I know, — 
 And others will yet reap where thou didst sow! "' 
 
 '"Will reap!' What mean you, scoundrel? stoiin and 
 
 war! " 
 Cried the young fisher, in tones louder far 
 Than e'en the bandit's, and more awesome still ; 
 " But I have won her! Laugh or weep who will! 
 My plume is flying free, and I can guide 
 Full well the stormy clouds whereon I ride! 
 
MISTRAL'S CALENDAU. 35 
 
 " I would that you had seen my lady bright, 
 As once again I climbed her balmy height. 
 ' To-day they named me Chief of Youth,' I said. 
 Flamed in her cheeks two roses of deep red. 
 And her throat swelled, and in her glorious eyea 
 I saw the lucent, loving tears arise. 
 
 " Ay, and I drank those tears ! And from that hour, — 
 
 Whether it be yon nectar's wondrous power, 
 
 I know not, — but my doubts, my fears, are dead. 
 
 The flowers bloom, look you, wheresoe'er I tread ; 
 
 And wheresoe'er I turn my blessed vision, 
 
 The land is all one scene of peace Elysian. 
 
 " The sky seems vaster than it did of old; 
 And I can hear the concords manifold 
 In Ifature's varying voices. And I know 
 Why the winds cry aloud or whisper lo'sj; 
 Why strives the angry sea, and by what token. 
 Weary and sad, retires with pride all broken. 
 
 " For, hearken what she said, this queen of mine: 
 ' Now is my soul, Calendau, wholly thine. 
 Only my body must I keep mine own ; 
 But thee I love, my knight, and thee alone! 
 'Twere sweet, — and why stay I my steps like this. 
 Nor rush with open arms to utmost bliss? 
 
 " ' Now shalt thou know! A treacherous bond,' cried she, 
 
 ' And yet invincible, constraineth me: 
 
 I am an outlaw's wife.' " " Ho! not so fast ! " 
 
 The huntsmen jeered. " The rocket bursts at last 
 
 But the poor women trembled where they sate, 
 
 Yearning o'er him who thus had sealed his fate. 
 
36 TROUBADOURS AND TROUVERES. 
 
 While he — Calendau — cast Ms cap aside, 
 
 Leapt Tip, " And that same impious bond," he cried, 
 
 " By the good grace of God, I break to-day! 
 
 Yet if I fall, let not my slayer say 
 
 I am abased; for what I have, I ween, 
 
 Is bliss enough, — an ocean deep, serene, 
 
 " As heaven itself ! E'en Death shall powerless prove, 
 
 And break his horns against our mig£ty love. 
 
 Pair as the day my lady's body is. 
 
 And yet the whitest pearl of rich Ganges 
 
 A boar may swallow. She I dare call mine 
 
 Is but the angel whom that pearl doth shrine. 
 
 " The low, the evanescent love of sense 
 Is but a madness : it has long gone hence. 
 I love my sister's soul, and enter there. 
 And come and go, and all I see is fair. 
 Oh, never painter lived who coiild retrace, 
 Even in symbol, that angelic grace! 
 
 " ye unspeakable joys of the spirit. 
 Ye are the paradise true souls inherit ! 
 Ye are indeed the purifying fires 
 "Wherein love loseth all its low desires. 
 O oneness wonderful ! Accord complete. 
 Tender and piercing, sad because so sweet ! 
 
 " Death shall erelong to marble turn our frames; 
 But the twin thought of us, the inseparate flames 
 Of divine essence, by the self-same road 
 Shall journey to the Infinite of God! 
 The one adored, the one who doth adore. 
 Giving and taking blessing evermore." 
 
MISTRAL'S CALENDAU. 37 
 
 Thus the enraptured youth, like the brave sower 
 Who goes forth full of hope the rude fields o'er, 
 And sows broadcast, on aU the stony plain 
 And hard, his sacred and life-giving grain. 
 Large drops his forehead beaded; but his smile 
 With faith was radiant and content the whUe. 
 
 And they who heard him dumbly felt a thrill, 
 Bom of that zeal divine, unwonted steal 
 Through all their frames, and hearkened eagerly 
 As the mule pricks his ears when he sees fly 
 The sparks from off the anvil. But the view 
 Of that clear river of love, for ever new, 
 
 Incapable of stain, marriage of soul 
 
 Made but for heaven, that smiles at Death's control, 
 
 Stirred to its utmost spite one felon heart; 
 
 And scowling Severan, where he sat apart, 
 
 While hate burned like a blister at his breast, 
 
 Brooded revenge with feverish unrest ; 
 
 Yet held, as with a leash, his passions in, 
 Muzzled like ravening dogs, until his spleen 
 Took shape. " Calendau hath won all things now. 
 The aureole is growing round his brow; " 
 So his thought ran. " Of heaven he is sure, 
 And there of honor bright and favor pure. 
 
 " He hath her soul! He is become as God! 
 Now, though the lightning lay its fiery rod 
 Upon him, and his frame be ground to dust, 
 He is not dispossessed of that fair trust: 
 He hath her soul, and what to him is death? 
 Ha! ha! I'll break the sword and leave the sheath I 
 
38 TROUBADOURS AND TROUVERES. 
 
 " By the insidious poison of a bliss 
 
 More deadly than all pain, that soul of his 
 
 I wiU make one corruption ! Ay, the germ 
 
 Of yonder tree of life shall feed the worm ! 
 
 And were thy baser passions tighter reined 
 
 Than now, proud youth, thy doom were still ordained." 
 
 With this infernal thought the count arose, 
 Blandly a signal gave, and all of those 
 About set forth together for Aiglun, 
 Climbing the tortuous torrent-side. The sim 
 Set suddenly behind the mountain-wall. 
 And swift and sombre 'gan the night to fall. 
 
 Tin from the east the early moon did peep, 
 As a maid, risen from her couch of sleep. 
 Her lattice opes, the coolness to inhale. 
 The crickets chirred incessant in the vale; 
 And, where the onion-fields lay black in shade, 
 The courtil-mole trilled forth her long roulade. 
 
 Barely from far above the piercing cry 
 Of some belated quail fell mournfully, 
 Or a young partridge in the vale astray 
 Whimpered afar. And cooler grew alway 
 The air, until the deep'ning shades of night 
 Were cloven by the bat's precipitous flight. 
 
 The eleventh canto, The Orgie, is devoted to 
 the fulfihnent of Severan's sinister design, and 
 it reveals a wholly new aspect of M. Mistral's 
 versatile genius. The inconceivable luxury of 
 
MISTRAL'S CALENDAU. 39 
 
 the bandit's castle, the costly profusion of the 
 garden feast, the music, the tempered light, the 
 heavy odors, and the artfully intensified beauty 
 of the women, whom Calendau seemed hardly 
 to have heeded before, — are all described in dic- 
 tion infinitely voluptuous, and with an effect of 
 sensuous splendor and enchantment hardly at- 
 tainable in a Northern tongue. The revelry, 
 restrained at first to a certain languorous meas- 
 ure, grows faster, while from time to time the 
 lurid scene is relieved by glimpses of the sum- 
 mer night scenery, with what effect those will 
 readily understand who remember the peaceful 
 light of sunset sky and sea around the fierce 
 duel of the rivals in Mirdio. 
 
 There were swift cloiads abroad that night, and dark, 
 Hiding the moon at times. The restless spark 
 Of myriad fiie-flies, like an emerald shower, 
 Quivered in all "the air. And hour by hour 
 Warmer the night turned, and heat lightnings parted 
 From the far heights, and through the ether darted. 
 
 And if the mad mirth failed, at intervals 
 Sounded distinctly all the waterfalls 
 And tinkling fountains ; and anon there came 
 Dashes of cooling spray to cheeks aflame. 
 For a cascade that plunged adown the hill, 
 By art compelled, with many a silver riU 
 
40 TROUBADOURS AND TROUVERES. 
 
 Threaded the pleasance ; seeming now asleep, 
 Then, hurrying to a verge, with one gay leap, 
 Dispersed in diamond rain, it passed from view. 
 Only the grass below right verdant grew. 
 And loveliest flowers, jasmine and the tuberose, 
 Freighted the dark with sweets, — how sweet to those 
 
 Hot revellers! And the cantharides 
 
 Shook their keen odors from the great ash-trees. 
 
 At last the host: " And are ye satisfied 
 
 With feasting? Ho then for a dance! " he cried. 
 
 " Young, rosy limbs in play I hold a sight 
 
 Aye worth the rapture of a gallant knight." 
 
 There followed one of those intoxicating and 
 lascivious dances indigenous in the neighbor- 
 hood of Marseilles, and parent of the Carma- 
 gnole and more modern abominations. In the 
 midst of it, Calendaa finally shakes off his gath- 
 ering stupor, and challenges Severan to instant 
 and mortal combat. A scene of frightful con- 
 fusion ensues ; but the struggle is, of course, a 
 brief one : Calendau is overpowered by numbers, 
 bound, and flung into a dungeon, and his torture 
 exquisitely enhanced by the assurance that 
 Severan and his troop, following the clue fur- 
 nished by Calendau 's story, will set forth that 
 very night to capture and bring back, alive or 
 dead, the lost lady of Aiglun. From this dun- 
 
MISTRAL'S CALENDAV. 41 
 
 geon lie is released, at early daybreak, by For- 
 tuneto, the youngest, fairest, and tenderest of 
 the unhappy slaves whose allurements he had 
 resisted the night before, and he flies to the 
 defence of his lady. He is only just in season. 
 The " cornice-like ledge," where we saw them 
 first, forms a kind of natural fortress ; and there 
 the young lover, informed with the valor of ten, 
 holds the troop at bay for one long twenty-four 
 hours, and at last disables so many that they re- 
 treat, but • only to set fire to the woods that 
 girdle the mountain. A terrible night ensues, 
 during which the two can do no more than wait 
 for death together ; but, when the first rays of 
 dawn are struggling with the lurid flames and 
 stifling smoke, the bells are suddenly heard to 
 ring V in Cassis and all along the shore. The 
 rumor has spread that Calendau, the darling 
 and benefactor of the coast, is in uttermost peril ; 
 and the whole population turns out to fight the 
 flames. The strange battle is made sufiiciently 
 thrilling and dubious, although the reader fore- 
 knows its end. Severan is killed by the fall of 
 a burning trunk, and — 
 
 Two thousand souls, a people in its might, 
 Engage the roaring fires in sturdy fight, 
 
42 TROUBADOURS AND TROUVERES. 
 
 Felling a pathway to the mountain-crest, 
 Just as the sun leaps up to flood the east 
 With radiance ; and the child of yonder wave 
 And the white fairy of the highland cave — 
 
 He with his nostrils wide to the pure mom, 
 She with the torrent of her bright hair borne 
 Downward, like jujube flowers — stand'forth together. 
 The glory of the blue bejewelled weather 
 Flung like an arch triumphal o'er the twain. 
 Hand in hand on the height they hear again 
 
 And yet again exultant shouts ascending — 
 Two thousand voices in one pagan blending — 
 " Hail to Calendau! who hath brought renown 
 And praise of men to our poor fishing-town 1 
 Who hath won Esterello ! Plant the may 
 For him who is our consul from to-day! " 
 
 The happy crowd therewith in triumph bear 
 Forth of their citadel the rescued pair, 
 The tried, the true, the blest beyond desire; 
 While the sun, which is God's own realm of fire, 
 Goes up his dazzling way with blessing rife. 
 Calling new lovers and new loves to life. 
 
 So happily ends the poem. The brief abstract 
 here given conveys a very inadequate idea of 
 the abundance of incident, the range of tone, 
 and the immense variety of action by which it 
 is characterized. Where nearly every page is 
 strikingly picturesque, selection becomes a diffi- 
 cult task. 
 
THEODORE AUBANEL : A MODERN 
 PROVEN9AL POET. 
 
 ' I ^HE ideal Mutual Admiration Society has 
 its head-quarters in the south of France. 
 Such clumsy endorsements as people with a 
 common literary cause elsewhere afford one an- 
 other are contemptible indeed beside the fervent 
 felicitations, the ascriptions of honor, the pra3'ers 
 for a, common immortality, the vows of eternal 
 faith and mutual self-abasement, to which the 
 JFelibres of the Bouches-du-Rh6ne are treated 
 among themselves. The felibres are the whole 
 school of modern Provengal poets of which 
 Joseph Roumanille is founder and master, and 
 Fr^d^ric M\stT:a\. facile princeps ; and no Gentile 
 seems to know precisely why they are called or 
 call themselves by this name. The very ety- 
 mology of the word is disputed ; some asserting 
 that it means merely quifacit libros, others that 
 it is homme defoi libre, and that the word, from 
 being applied to the apostles in ancient prayers, 
 
44 TROUBADOURS AND TROUVERES. 
 
 has been adopted by the apostles of the Proven- 
 cal revival, as indicating the breadth of their own 
 views, and the novelty — if the word may be 
 pardoned — of their literary and perhaps political 
 departure. It should be said, however, that 
 this last is not the explanation of a friend, but 
 of a deserter, M. Eugene Garcia, who is the 
 author of a very curious and not very amiable 
 little book entitled, " Les Fran§ais du Noi-d et du 
 Midi," and whom M. Mistral himself does not 
 hesitate to call " The Judas of our little church." 
 The etymology is not perhaps of very much 
 account. These men are self-styled felibres; 
 and the felibre Anselme Matthieu sings to the 
 felibre Joseph Roumanille, and the felibre Theo- 
 dore Aubanel to the felibre Jan Brunet, and 
 all together, as well they may, hymn the praises 
 of M. Mistral, who, in his turn, invokes them 
 all (and the faithless G.arcin among them), like 
 a choir of masculine Muses, in the fifth canto 
 of Mir^io ; while to one of them, Theodore 
 Aubanel, who forms the subject of this article, 
 and who undoubtedly ranks next to Mistral 
 in originality and beauty of gifts, the latter has 
 furnished a more formal and' very characteristic 
 
THEODORE AUBANEL. 45 
 
 introduction to the world. Nor, with the glow- 
 ing pages before me of Mistral's fanciful preface 
 to Aubanel's poems, can I bring myself to pref- 
 ace the versions which I have made from the 
 less famous minstrel by any dry record of the 
 few known facts of his history. I prefer to let 
 the one poet present the other, as he did to the 
 French public, and must beg the kindly reader 
 to regard this new candidate for favor, and his 
 sad and simple story, less through the dim 
 medium of my own translations than by the 
 rose-light of the generous praises of his enthusi- 
 astic superior. Aubanel's book is called " La 
 Miougrano Entredouberto : The Opening — or 
 Half Open — Pomegranate." The coincidence 
 of the name with that of one of Browning's early 
 volumes, and of Mistral's interpretation of it 
 with Miss Barrett's of the latter, is a little 
 singular. This is the Avant-propos. 
 
 " The pomegranate is by nature wilder than 
 other trees ; it loves to gi-ow in the broad sunshine 
 among heaps of stones, afar from men and near 
 to God. There, solitary as a hermit and brown 
 
46 TROUBADOURS AND TROUVERES. 
 
 with the sun, it shyly unfolds its blood-red 
 flowers. Love and sunlight fertilize the blos- 
 soms, and in their rosy cups mature a thou- 
 sand coral seeds, a thousand pretty sisters nest- 
 ling under the same coverlet. 
 
 " The swollen pomegranate keeps concealed, 
 as long as may be, under its rind the beautiful, 
 rosy grains, — the beautiful, bashful sisters. 
 But the wild birds of the oak-barrens cry to 
 the pomegranate-tree, ' What wilt thou do with 
 thy seeds? Autumn and winter will soon be 
 here to drive us across the hills and over the 
 sea. Shall it be said, thou wild pomegranate- 
 tree, that we left Provence without seeing the 
 birth of thy coral seeds, the eyes of thy bashful 
 daughters ? ' 
 
 " Then the pomegranate-tree, to satisfy the 
 eager birds, slowly opens its fruit. The ver- 
 milion grains flash in the sun ; the timid girls 
 with their rosy cheeks peep out of the window. 
 The giddy birds assemble in flocks and gayly 
 feast upon the fair coral seeds ; the giddy 
 suitors devour with kisses the fair, bashful 
 maidens." 
 
THEODORE AUBANEL. 47 
 
 " Theodore Aubanel — and when you have 
 read his book yon will say the same — is a wild 
 pomegranate-tree. The Provencal public, which 
 liked his earliest songs so well, has been sajdng 
 of late, ' What is our Aubanel doing, that we 
 no longer hear his voice ? ' 
 
 " Aubanel was singing in secret. Love, that 
 sacred bee whose honey is so sweef in its own 
 time and place, and which, when crossed, can 
 sting so sharply, — love had buried in his heart 
 a keen and pitiless arrow. The unhappy passion 
 of our friend was hopeless ; his malady without 
 remedy. His beloved, the maiden who had 
 crossed the clear heaven of his youth, — alas, 
 she had become a nun ! 
 
 " The poor soul wept seven years for his lady 
 and is not yet consoled. 
 
 " To drive away the fever which consumed 
 him, he left Avignon, committing himself to 
 God. He saw Rome; he saw Paris; with the 
 barb still in his side, he came back to Provence. 
 He climbed mountains — Sainte Baume, Ven- 
 tour, the Alps, the Alpilles. But his rose had 
 
48 TROUBADOURS AND TROUVERES. 
 
 shed its leaves ; thorns only remained, and none 
 might strip them off." 
 
 in. 
 
 " Nevertheless, from time to time the swell- 
 ings of his passion overflowed in poesy. He 
 had taken for his motto, — 
 
 " ' Quau canto 
 Soun mau encanto.' ' 
 
 And whenever he felt a stab of regret the poor 
 child gave a cry. 
 
 " And these plaints, these cries of love, at the 
 earnest instance of us his friends, — the birds of 
 the oak-barrens, — Theodore Aubanel has con- 
 sented to publish under the charming title of 
 the ' Book of Love.' 
 
 '" The ' Book of Love ' is thus, strange to say, a 
 song in good faith, a genuine flame. The story, 
 as I have said, is perfectly simple. It is that 
 of a youth who loves, who languishes afar from 
 his beloved, who suffers, who weeps, who makes 
 his moan to God. Holding his story sacred, he 
 has not changed it. All is here as it happened, 
 1 He who sings enchants or charms away his sorrow. 
 
THEODORE AUBANEL. 49 
 
 or better than so, for from his virgin passion, 
 his weariness and despondency, his weeping 
 and his cries, a book all nature has arisen, — 
 living, youthful, exquisite." 
 
 rv. 
 
 " If ever in April you have passed along the 
 hedge-rows, you know the odor of the haw- 
 thorn. It is both sweet and bitter. 
 
 " If ever in early May you have scented the 
 evening coolness under the light green trees, 
 you know the song of the nightingale. It is 
 clear and vivid, impassioned and pure, plaintive 
 but full of power. 
 
 " If ever in June, you have seen the sun set 
 from the ramparts of Avignon, you know how 
 the Rhone shines under the old bridge of Saint 
 Bdn^zet. It is like the mantle of a prince, red 
 and radiant, torn with lances, — it floats, it 
 flames. 
 
 " I can think of no better comparison for the 
 " Book of Love.' Nor do I. think it too much 
 to say that the coral seeds of the opening pome- 
 granate will henceforth be the lover's chaplet 
 
 in Provence." 
 
 4 
 
60 TROUBADOURS AND TROUVERES. 
 
 T. 
 
 " After the ' Book of Love ' comes the ' In- 
 tergleam.' 
 
 " It is quite natural. If you have a hedge of 
 roses, lilacs, or myrtle, it is hardly possible but 
 that it should be interspersed with shoots of 
 blackthorn, periwinkle, and honeysuckle. And 
 observe the sea, when it is beaten and churned 
 and tormented by the north-wind ; there will be 
 found, amid the tumultuous billows, bright rip- 
 ples which reflect the sun. 
 
 " So, amid the impassioned love-songs of 
 Theodore Aubanel, there are a few pleasant, 
 peaceful, consoling strains. So in the tempest 
 of his emotions there are transient gleams of 
 fair weather. 
 
 " Truly the lucid interval is short. But the 
 more severe the attack, the more vigorous the 
 reaction. The strain is broken; or at least 
 the young man believes for an. instant that it 
 is so, and lo, with what ardor he drinks at the 
 cool springs of serene, majestic Nature ! He 
 quaffs the sunshine like a lizard; his nostrils 
 expand to the soft breathings of the forest airs. 
 
THEODORE AUBANEL. 51 
 
 Does he sing of reapers ? He seems himself to 
 grasp the sickle. Of fishermen ? 'T is he who 
 flings the net. And if he celebrates nuptials, he 
 fairly leaps with joy. You would say that he 
 was himself the bridegroom." 
 
 VI. 
 
 " But the lightning of the storm-cloud is only 
 temporary. The trouble of the heart again makes 
 darkness in the soul. 
 
 " When Raimbaud de Vacqueiras was so 
 madly enamoured. of Beatrix, the sister of Mar- 
 quis Boniface de Montferrat, and dared not tell 
 her so, this is the song which he made in his 
 despair : -»- 
 
 " ' No m'agrad ivems ni pascora 
 M clar tfems, ni folh de garrics ; 
 Car mos enans mi par destrics 
 E totz miei major gautz dolors ; 
 E son m.altrach tut rmki leger 
 E desesperat miM esper; 
 Qu' aissi m' sol amor e domnfeis 
 Tener gai coma I'aiga 1' pels : 
 E pois d'amdui me soi partitz 
 Com horn, eissilhatz e marritz 
 
52 TROUBADOURS AND TROUVERES. 
 
 Tot autre bida m' sfembla mortz 
 E tot autre joi desconortz.' ^ 
 
 " So might Aubanel of Avignon have said. 
 When Zani, the brunette, fled from Avignon, 
 as the tender and virginal snow vanishes from 
 the hill before the breath of the fine days, — fled 
 in fear from the burning breath of her felibre, 
 his heart fainted within him. And now, if you 
 care to know, all sunshine became heavy mist 
 to him, all merriment sad, all life death. Then 
 in the gloom of his spiiit, tear by tear, he wrote 
 the ' Book of Death.' The seven sorrows are 
 there ; the seven knives of the Pieta have 
 pierced the pages. All that suffers is as his own 
 soul ; all that causes suffering, his mortal hor- 
 ror. And so harrowing, so harsh, so real are 
 the pictures which he paints, that it would seem 
 as if tlie poet, violently robbed of his love (like 
 a tree whose spring buds have been torn away), 
 
 1 Neither winter nor Easter pleases me, nor clear weather, 
 nor foliage of the oak. For my gains seem to me crosses, and 
 all my greatest joys pains. And all my idle hours are anguish, 
 and all my hopes despair. Ordinarily, love and gallantry are to 
 rae as the water to the fish. But now, since I have lost these 
 two, like a miserable and exiled man, I find all other life death, 
 and all other joy desolation. 
 
THEODORE AUBANEL. 53 
 
 had resolved to be avenged for his cruel fate, by- 
 chastising all the instruments of cruelty, — all 
 the tyrannies in the world." 
 
 vn. 
 
 " So much by way of explaining the principle 
 on which this volume is divided. I have not 
 taken my place upon the threshold to say ' Come 
 and see ! ' nor to laud that which can speak for 
 itself. And we poets are neither gold nor sil- 
 ver; it is impossible that we should please all. 
 I would merely point the way of refreshment 
 to those who thirst." (Fr^d^ric Mistral.) 
 
 And now for some specimens of the " Book of 
 Love." Each song has a motto from some old 
 poet, usually Provencal or Italian. A line from 
 Countess Die heads the first : " E membre nos 
 qual fo V comensamens de nostr' amor."^ 
 
 Hast thou, lite me, the thought before thee 
 
 Forever of a morning fair, 
 When, by a -wayside oratory, 
 
 Thou didst put up thy simple prayer; 
 
 1 Remember how our love began. 
 
54 TROUBADOURS AND TROUVERES. 
 
 A prayer of faith and sweetness olden, 
 And I, who chanced to pass that way, 
 
 Unto thy angel voice beholden, 
 Was fain, heart-full, my steps to stay ? 
 
 Here, by the quiet water kneeling. 
 Where the old willow leans to drink, 
 
 •'Fair cross and dear," thou saidst, appealing, - 
 The place is vocal yet, I think I 
 
 " O sacred rock of ours, 
 
 Fair cross and dear. 
 Are not the wild- wood flowers 
 
 All offered here ? 
 
 " Wilt thou not, Jesus, hear 
 
 Tllfe song-bird small? 
 Thou whose blood runneth clear. 
 
 Like brooks, for aU ? 
 
 " Thou, who didst overcome 
 
 Dark purgatory, 
 Lead us into thy home ! 
 
 Lend us thy glory! " 
 
 This was the end. Then I, heart-laden 
 And fearful, drew the cross anigh. 
 
 " That was a lovely prayer, O maiden, 
 Wilt thou not teach it me ? " said I. 
 
 And, lady, thou didst not repel me. 
 But sti-aightway turned with aspect sweet, 
 
THEODORE AUBANEL. 55 
 
 Thy simple orison to tell me, 
 t As a bird doth its song repeat. 
 
 An ancient prayer, and good ! Ah, surely 
 
 The men of old were hoKest ! 
 I say it oft, I say it purely, 
 
 I think of thee, and I am blest. 
 
 There follow a few happy little lyrics, one 
 rapturous, another dreamy. The poet sings of 
 his lady's smile ; he sings of her quiet grace in 
 the dance ; he sings, with a touch of awe, of 
 her readiness for all good works, as in this pe- 
 culiar and lingering stanza : — 
 
 This is a sorry world, and some are tired of living; 
 
 So may the dear Lord go with thee 
 Wherever mourners are ! Thou dost assuage their grieving ; 
 
 Thou lovest all in misery. 
 
 y 
 
 The oli and gray who travel wearily. 
 
 All who lack bread, and aU who strive and sigh, 
 
 Each motherless little one. 
 Mothers whose little ones are in the sky, — 
 No pain is pain the while that thou art by ! 
 
 Thou sayest, " Poor dear ! " in such a tone ! 
 
 Then the poet's key changes, and he suddenly 
 breaks into passion in a song beginning, " Thy 
 
66 TROUBADOURS AND TROUVERES. 
 
 little warm, brown hand — give it me!" and 
 furnished with a motto from that fiery and ill- 
 fated troubadour, Guillaume de Cabestaing. But 
 equally abrupt is the ensuing transition. The 
 next motto is that line fr9m the " Inferno " which 
 we all know : " We read no more that day." 
 And this is the number : — 
 
 " 'T is the last time!" " What meanest thou? " "Imust 
 go!" . . . 
 " Whither? " " Ah yes, I am to be a nun." 
 " What sayest thou, dear? Why dost thou fright me so? 
 Thou must be ill ! Thy youth is scarce beg^n ! 
 Beware of thy own heart, my little one ! 
 Thou art not ill? Then thou hast struck me dead ! " 
 'T was our last day indeed, and this is all we said ! 
 
 And now the songs of sorrow begin ; at first 
 fragmentary and bewildered, and afterwards 
 either fierce in their resistance to pain, or breath- 
 ing a deep and quiet despondency like the 
 following : — 
 
 Far, far away across the sea. 
 
 In the still hours when I sit dreaming, 
 Often and often I voyage in seeming; 
 
 And sad is the heart I bear with me 
 
 Far, far away across the sea. 
 
THEODORE AUBANEL. 57 
 
 Yonder, toward the Dardanelles, 
 I follow the vessels disappearing, 
 Slendep masts to the sky uprearing; 
 
 Follow her, whom I love so well, 
 
 Yonder toward the Dardanelles. 
 
 With the great clouds I go astray; 
 .These by the shepherd wind are driven 
 Across the shining stars_ of heaven 
 In snowy flocks, and go their way; 
 And with the clouds I go astray. 
 
 I take the pinions of the swallow, 
 For the fair weather ever yearning, 
 And swiftly to the sun returning; 
 
 So swiftly I my darling follow 
 
 Upon the pinions of the swallow. 
 
 Homesickness hath my heart possessed, 
 For now she treads an alien strand ; 
 And for that unknown fatherland 
 
 I long, as a bird for her nest. 
 
 Homesickness hath my heart possessed. 
 
 From wave to wave the salt sea over, 
 
 Like a pale corpse I alway seem 
 
 On floating, in a deathlike dream. 
 Even to the feet of my sweet lover, 
 From wave to wave the salt sea over. 
 
58 TROUBADOURS AND TROUVkRES. 
 
 Now am I lying on the shore 
 
 Till my love lifts me mutely weeping, 
 And takes me in her tender keeping, 
 And lays her hand my stiU heart o'er, 
 And calls me from the dead once more. 
 
 I clasp her close and hold her long, 
 " Oh, I have suffered sore," I cry, 
 " But now we will no longer die! " 
 
 Like drowning men's my grasp is strong; 
 
 I clasp her close and hold her long. 
 
 Far, far away across the sea. 
 
 In the still hours when I sit dreaming, 
 Often and often I voyage in seeming; 
 
 And sad is the heart I bear with me 
 
 Far, far away across the sea. 
 
 Twice the poet makes his way into chambers 
 which his lady has inhabited at different times 
 before she forsook the world. In one he be- 
 seeches the little mirror to show him once more 
 the pictures it has reflected so often : his lady 
 at her toilette, at her prayers, " reading in the 
 old prayer-book of her grandfather until she 
 marks the place with a blessed spray and kneels 
 and talks a long while to God," plaiting her 
 abundant hair, or in all the simple glories of 
 
THEODORE AUBANEL. 59 
 
 her gala-day dress. Upon the wall of the other 
 he leaves this verse inscribed : — 
 
 Ah, chamber poor and small! 
 However canst thou hold so many memories? 
 Passing thy siH, each pulse -within me cries, 
 " They come ! those two bright girls men used to call 
 Julia and Zani! " Then my heart replies 
 
 " Nay, all is over — aU! 
 Here never more sleep lights on their young eyes, 
 For heaven hides one — and one, a convent wall." 
 
 Presently other troubles overtake the poet. 
 The home of his boyhood is desolated by his 
 mother's death, and he sets forth on a series of 
 aimless journeyings, from the record of which 
 I quote : — 
 
 Aye, since my mother died and Zani went away, 
 I wander high and low; I wander all the day; 
 No comrade at my side my own sad whim to g^ide. 
 Until Avignon's towers once more I have descried. 
 
 Then turn I, smitten by a sudden bitterness. 
 Why should I seek again the home of my distress? 
 Now I can pass no more before my darling's door. 
 Nor feel my mother's arms around me as of yore. 
 I '11 seek some other land, if one perchance there be, 
 Whose children do not mourn eternally. 
 
60 TROUBADOURS AND TROUVERES. 
 
 So ever since the dawn thou hast travelled heedless on. 
 And at eventide thou comest unto a hamlet lone, 
 Deep in some unknown valley, very green and fair; 
 Abeady, through the dusk, tremble the stars in air; 
 The dog begins to bay, and the homely fowl to talk ; 
 And the house-mother, yonder beside the garden-walk 
 Tying her golden lettuce, pauses and lifts her eyes. 
 " Give thee good even, friend! " and " Good even! " she 
 
 replies. 
 " Whither so late ? " " I 'm weary, and have missed my 
 
 road," thou sayest; 
 " Might I rest under thy roof ? " " Ay, surely, that thou 
 
 mayest!- 
 Enter, and sit thee down! " Then she heaps the hearth 
 
 with boughs. 
 And a garment of red firelight makes merry all the house. 
 " Yon whistle is my man's! He will soon be coming up 
 From the plowing ; wherefore, friend, we will together 
 
 sup! " 
 She scans her stew, and cuts her loaf, and makes all haste 
 
 to bring. 
 In her goodly copper jug, fresh water from the spring, 
 Calling her scattered brood ere the door-sill she has 
 
 crossed. 
 They come. The soup is poured; and while it cools, the 
 
 kindly host 
 Brings thee his home-made wine. Then offers each his 
 
 plate, — 
 Sire, grandsire, mother, child, — and thou sharest their 
 
 estate, 
 Eatest their bread, and art no longer desolate ! 
 
THEODORE AUBANEL. 61 
 
 Sleep lies in wait for all or ever the meal is o'er. 
 
 So the housewife lights a lamp and brings thee, from her 
 store, 
 
 A sheet of fair white linen, — sweet and coarse and clean. 
 
 The languor of the limbs is the spirit's balm I ween; 
 
 Oh, good it is to sleep in the sheep-fold on the ground. 
 
 Dreamless under the leaves, with the dreamless flock 
 around. 
 
 Until the goat-beUs caU thee! Then to live as shep- 
 herds do, 
 
 And smell the mint all day as thou liest under the blue. 
 
 But if the poet found temporary rest of body 
 and soul by the homely hospitable firesides of 
 his native land, it was far otherwise when he 
 had extended his wanderings to foreign coun- 
 tries and stood awe-stricken amid the ruins of 
 the Eternal City. Then his heart-sickness re- 
 turned upon him overpo weringly ; and he sang, — 
 
 Kome, with thine old red palaces arow, 
 And the great sunlight on thy highways beating, 
 Gay folk, and ladies at the windows sitting, — 
 They may be fair, — I am too sad to know ! 
 
 I have climbed Trajan's column, and saw thence 
 The Quirinal here, and there the Vatican, 
 The Pope's green gardens; how the Tiber ran 
 YeUow under its bridges, far, far hence; 
 
62 TROUBADOURS AND TROUVMES. 
 
 And, lifted mountain-like the pines above, 
 Saint Peter's awful dome. — Ah me, ah me! 
 Saint Peter of Ayignon I would see 
 Blossom with slender spire from, oiit its grove ! 
 
 Here were Rome's ancient ramparts, — quarried stone 
 Crumbling, flre-scarred, with brambles matted thick; 
 There, the huge Coliseum's tawny brick. 
 The twin arcs hand in hand. But there is one 
 
 In mine own country, I saw clearer yet. 
 Thou art the Aries arena in my eyes, 
 Great ruin ! And my homesick spirit cries 
 For one I love, nor ever can forget. 
 
 And still, as from my watch-tower, I discerned, 
 Out in the waste Campagna, errant flocks 
 Of horned bulls tossing their fierce, black locks 
 As in our own Camargue, the thought returned, 
 
 Why dost thou not forget? Thou thought'st to leave 
 By land, by sea, some portion of thy woe; 
 But time is wasting, and thy life wears low, 
 And ever more and more thou seem'st to grieve. 
 
 With the first return of spring after his mis- 
 fortunes, the poet finds himself back in Provence, 
 lying by a brookside, while there rings in his 
 ears that charming verse from the " Rouman de 
 Jaufr^ " in which the birds " warble above the 
 young' verdure, and make merry in their Latin : " 
 
THEODORE AUBANEL. 63 
 
 Violets tint the meadows o'er, 
 Swallo-ws have come back once more, 
 And spring sunshine like the former, 
 
 But rosier, warmer ; 
 Leafage fair, the plane-tree decking. 
 Shadows all the wood-ways flecking: 
 
 Mirth unrecking. 
 
 Heavy heart, 
 Here hast thou no part ! 
 
 On the green bank of the river 
 Low I lie, while o'er me quiver 
 Lights and odors, leaves and wings, 
 
 All glad things. 
 Blossoms every bough are haunting, 
 Everywhere is laughing, chanting, 
 
 No joy wanting: 
 
 Heavy heart. 
 Here hast thou no part I 
 
 In and out each rustic porch. 
 Flocks of maidens, fair and arch, 
 Full as nightingales of song. 
 
 Fritter, throng. 
 Chase each other, pull the clover; 
 Each hath tales of her own lover 
 
 To tell over: 
 
 Heavy heart. 
 Here hast thou no part ! 
 
 Now, for very mirth of soul, 
 They wiU dance the farandole. 
 Dance on, mad-caps, never noting 
 Hair loose floating; 
 
64 TROUBADOURS AND TROUVilRES. 
 
 Rosy-faced your races run, 
 Through the dwarf-oaks in the sun: 
 
 Heed not one, 
 
 Heavy heart. 
 That hath here no part. 
 
 Two and two, with hands entwining. 
 Dance, until the moon is shining! 
 I and mine dance never more. 
 
 That is o'er. 
 O my God, the sweet brown face ! 
 Shall yon dreary convent-place 
 
 Quench its grace? 
 
 Heavy heart. 
 Here hast thou no part ! 
 
 And so on, for more pages than one cares to 
 quote, or even to read consecutively, tuneful 
 though they are. The fancies are infinite, but 
 the mode never changes, nor the theme. Quaint 
 little pictures of Proven9al life keep flitting 
 across the background of Aubanel's sorrow, their 
 brightness intensified by the surrounding gloom, 
 — as when the sunshine falls on a landscape 
 from behind a storm cloud. At last there comes 
 a motto from the " Imitation," — " Quia sine do- 
 lore, non vivitur in amore,^'' — followed by a sort 
 of prayer recording the poet's rather forlorn en- 
 deavor to reconcile himself to the strange system 
 
THEODORE AUBANEL. 65 
 
 of chastening and disappointment whicli he finds 
 prevailing in the world. And so ends the " Book 
 of Love." 
 
 In the series of twelve poems which M. Mistral 
 has rather fantastically christened the "Entre- 
 luisado," or " Intergleam," or "Lucid Interval," 
 the poet tells us little about himself, but we learn 
 to love him better, perhaps, than before, for the 
 real breadth and warmth of his human sym- 
 pathies. Some of his themes are homely almost 
 to the verge of coarseness, and treated with a 
 frankness quite troublesome to reproduce. The 
 attempt is made with two of them. The first is 
 called 
 
 THE TWINS. 
 
 What sayest thou? there are two more now, 
 And we were beggars before? Hey-day! 
 'T is God hath sent the twain, I trow, 
 
 And shall they not be welcome, pray? 
 Two boys ! But 't is a pretty brood ! 
 
 Observe how sweet they are ! Ah, well, 
 Soon as the birdling breaks the shell 
 The mother still must give it food ! 
 
 Come, babies, one to either side! 
 Mother can bear it, 
 Never fear it ! 
 Her boys shall aye be satisfied! 
 5 
 
66 TROUBADOURS AND TROUVilRES. 
 
 There '11 never be too many here ; 
 
 I 'd rather count my flock by pairs ! 
 I always find it time of cheer 
 
 When a new baby hither fares. 
 Two? Why, of course! I ask you whether 
 
 My pair the cradle more than fills? 
 
 And, by and by, if God so wills, 
 Can they not go to school together? 
 Come, babies, etc. 
 
 My man 's a fisher. He and I 
 
 Have had seven children. And, indeed, 
 God helps poor folk amazingly — 
 
 Not one has ever died of need! 
 And now, what do you thmk? Our kids 
 
 Have only had those fishing-nets 
 
 Out yonder, of my B^n^zet's, 
 And my own milk, for all their needs. 
 Come, babies, etc. 
 
 Sometimes the blessed nets wiU break; 
 
 God sends too many fish, I say. 
 And then must I my needle take 
 
 And mend, some livelong, leisure day. 
 He sells them living, then. Such freaks ! 
 
 They fairly leap the basket out ! 
 
 And this is why, beyond a doubt, 
 My young ones have such rosy cheeks. 
 Come, babies, etc. 
 
THEODORE AUBANEL. 67 
 
 In summer, when the streams are low, 
 
 And naught to catch the Rhone along. 
 My man outstrips them all who row 
 
 From Barthelasse to Avignon ; 
 And makes our living thus, instead; 
 
 There is no wolf beside our door. 
 
 But in the cupboard aye a store, 
 And every hungry mouth is fed. 
 Come, babies, etc. 
 
 Are they so marvellous, my twins? 
 
 Is one by one the usual way 
 With mothers? Well, that only means 
 
 I am of better race than they! 
 Two in ten months! Come, Ben6zet, 
 
 Here's work for thee, my brave old man. 
 
 What I have done, not many can; 
 So haste and fill the blessed net I 
 Come, babies, etc. 
 
 My gossips murmur solemnly, 
 
 " Nora, thou canst not rear them both. 
 They 'U drain thy life, as thou wilt see; 
 
 Put one away, however loath! " 
 Put one away! That would be fine! 
 
 I will not, — so ! Come, dearies, come ; 
 
 In mother's arms there aye is room. 
 Her life 's your living, lambkins mine ! 
 Come, babies, etc. 
 
68 TROUBADOURS AND TROUVilRES. 
 
 The other, which is addressed to Mme. Cecile 
 Brunet, the wife of one of the sacred felihres, 
 is, in the original, wonderfully like a "Nativity" 
 by some innocent old master. It seems a " Na- 
 tivity " of the Dutch school, however, and the 
 wonder is that the author of the sad and tender 
 lyrics in the " Book of Love " can write of any 
 thing with so small an admixture of sentiment. 
 In this case only I have departed from the metre 
 of the original to the extent of shortening each 
 line by one foot. I did not know how else to 
 indicate, in our comparatively stiff and sober 
 tongue, the habyishness, the nursery-rhyme char- 
 acter, of the original. 
 
 Room for this tiny creatvire ! 
 
 /Ere any neighbor goes, 
 Let her scan each pretty feature, — 
 Wee mouth and comic nose. 
 
 Take, grandame, the new-comer, 
 And strike it to bring its breath! 
 
 He 's red as plums in summer, 
 But a lusty cry he hath ! 
 
 The mother is glad and weak; 
 
 She smiles amid her pain. 
 Lay the babe against her cheek ; 
 
 It will make her well again ! 
 
THEODORE AUBANEL. 69 
 
 And where is the father? Fiel 
 
 A man with bearded lips 
 To hide him away and cryl 
 
 But 't is for joy he weeps. 
 
 And tears are good, I know; 
 
 And laughter is good. By these 
 We stay life's overflow, 
 
 The full heart getteth ease. 
 
 Here comes a maiden small 
 
 "Would kiss her baby brother; 
 But the cradle is too tall — 
 
 Ay, let her have it, mother! 
 
 The house from sill to loft 
 
 Is full of merry din; 
 And the dresser, scoured so oft. 
 
 And the old faience, shine clean. 
 
 And every way at once 
 
 (None kinder and none sweeter) 
 Our busy Mary runs ; 
 
 Joy makes her footsteps fleeter. 
 
 Till the guests are gathered all, 
 
 Kinsmen and sponsors twain, 
 And for Saint Agricol 
 
 Departs our happy train. 
 
 Choose, maids, your gallants brave! 
 
 Be ready, lads, I pray ! 
 That clerk nor chaplain grave 
 
 May wait for as to-day. 
 
70 TROUBADOURS AND TROUVMES. 
 
 State-robed in nurse's arms, 
 
 Baby before us goes. 
 Oh, scan Ms infant charms, — 
 
 Wee mouth and comic nose ! 
 
 Equally artless and realistic, and wholly local 
 in their coloring, are a " Song of the Silk-Spin- 
 ners," and a " Song of the Eeapers," — the latter 
 dedicated to M. Mistral. There is also a pict- 
 ure of a ProveuQal salon, which is rendered 
 quite as much for its indirect interest as for its 
 intrinsic grace. Observe the essentially musical 
 manner in which the two phrases of the simple 
 theme are repeated and varied. 
 
 TO MADAME . 
 
 lady, many a time, at sober eventide, 
 In yon cosey bower of thine, the blaziaig hearth beside, 
 Thou hast given me a place. And sure, no otherwhere 
 Are kinder folk or brighter fires than there! 
 
 And at five of summer morns I have risen many a time 
 With thee the airy heights of Font Segune to climb; 
 Of fairy Font Segune, delightsome castle, hung. 
 High like a linnet's nest, the trees among. 
 
 And so, when winter reigned, I have warmed me at thy 
 
 blaze ; 
 And so, when summer burned, I have walked thy shady 
 
 ways; 
 
THEODORE AUBANEL. 71 
 
 And oft beside thy board, with those little ones of thine, 
 I have eaten of thy bread and drunk thy wine. 
 
 And were the nights not fair with wit, 
 When those same crackling boughs were lit? 
 And thou, my lady, thou didst sit 
 
 Queen of the home and of us all? 
 There flashed the needle's tiny steel, 
 There was there laughter, peal on peal, 
 And Jules replied to Roumanille, 
 
 And Aubanel did challenge Paul. 
 
 There gentle damsels came and lent 
 
 The graces of their merriment ; 
 
 Their beauty made our hearts content, — 
 
 The angel of the hearth, Clarice, 
 The angel of the poor, Fiflne, 
 Whose white hands tend the peasant's wean, 
 And make the beds all cool and clean, 
 Where little sufferers lie at ease. 
 
 Oh, sweet under the foliage. 
 When tropic heats of summer rage. 
 Of birds to list the gossip sage, 
 
 To list the laughing fountain's tune; 
 And when the glowing day is dead, 
 And dusky forest ways we tread. 
 With the full moonshine overhead. 
 
 Still is it fair at Font Segune. 
 
72 TROUBADOURS AND TROUVMES. 
 
 And yet I reckon this the best, 
 To sit thine honored table guest ; 
 And, 'mid the fire of friendly jest, 
 
 To click the glass of good old wine ; 
 To take the bread thy friendly hand 
 Hath cut; and half to understand. 
 That cordial eyes on every hand 
 
 Do brighter for my coming shine. 
 
 So all that helps us live, and tunes our courage higher, — 
 
 Sweet looks of kindliest charity. 
 Good shade, good hope, good faith, good cheer, good fire, — 
 
 Dear lady, I have found with thee ! 
 
 It were not easy then to tell the whole, — 
 If but my lips could sing, as can my soul ! 
 
 Upon the serenitj'- of these domestic and rural 
 pictures descend, or are raade to descend, ab- 
 ruptly, the chills and terrors of the " Book of 
 Death." In this final section is undoubtedly in- 
 cluded the most powerful writing of our author. 
 It opens with a wild and dreary song entitled 
 " All-Saints Day," which is interesting as present- 
 ing an almost unique picture of late autumn in 
 the South. 
 
THEODORE AUBANEL. 73 
 
 Withered fields and wailing cry 
 
 Of poplars high, 
 Wildly flinging their leaves around, 
 While the fierce mistral bends like a 'withe 
 
 The stem so lithe. 
 And the tempest mutters along the ground. 
 
 Not a spear of golden grain 
 
 On all the plain! 
 Ants are in their holes once more. 
 Even the snail draws in his horns, 
 
 And returns 
 To his house, and shuts the door. 
 
 On the holm-oak no cicala 
 
 Holdeth gala ! 
 Dim with frost his mirrors i now; 
 Little rustics make their moan 
 
 For mulberries gone 
 And birds' nests vanished from the bough. 
 
 Sudden flights of larks are loud 
 
 In the cloud, 
 Muttering terror and dismay. 
 Huntsmen's echoing shots resound 
 
 AH around, 
 And their dogs for ever bay. 
 
 1 The two shining and sonorous membranes under the ab- 
 domen of the cicala, which produce the noise known as its 
 song, are called in Proven9al mirau or mirrors. 
 
74 TROUBADOURS AND TROUVMES. 
 
 On the hillock there is ruin 
 
 Past UBdoing. 
 Axes ringing on the oak: 
 While the charcoal-burner's fire 
 
 Mounteth higher, 
 As the north-wind lifts the smoke. 
 
 Lambs to highland pasture straying, 
 
 Or delaying 
 In the mead, are met no more. 
 Covered are they from the cold 
 
 In the fold. 
 And the shepherd props the door. 
 
 Thrifty men ply hammer and plane, 
 
 Else they drain, 
 By the ingle, many a flask. 
 Girls, under the grain-stack's lee, 
 
 Busily 
 Braid the garlic for their task. 
 
 AU the woods are sere and dun. 
 
 Where the sun 
 Sinks the leafless boughs behind. 
 Where the vineyard's prunings lie 
 
 Silently, 
 Toiling women fagots bind. 
 
 But the poor are they who gather 
 Dead wood, rather. 
 
 Or for bark the forest range ; 
 
 Else in scanty rags and dreary, 
 Barefoot, weary. 
 
 Stroll the hamlet, haunt the grange. 
 
THEODORE AUBANEL. ^ 75 
 
 Comes a little shiTering maid, 
 
 Half afraid, 
 Opes a pallid hand and thin. 
 She 's an orphan, and, indeed, 
 
 Faint for need: 
 Drop, I pray, an abns therein! 
 
 When beside the oven bright, 
 
 Loaves are white. 
 Think of her whose man is dead, 
 Who hath bolted flour no more 
 
 In her store ; 
 Nay, whose oven hath no bread. 
 
 Southward, hark, the floods are falling, 
 
 Thunder calling; 
 Swells the Rhone in the black- weather. 
 Hark! the footfall of Death's feet, 
 
 Coming fleet. 
 Young and old to reap together! 
 
 After this ominous and melancholy prelude, 
 comes a poem entitled " The Famine," a plain- 
 tive biit somewhat monotonous dialogue be- 
 tween two hungry babies and the mother who 
 is vainly trying to hush them asleep without 
 their supper. The next, " The Lamp," is the 
 watch of a mother by her dead child. The 
 next is very curious in its solemnity. It is 
 called " Lou Tregen." 
 
76 TROUBADOURS AND TROUVkRES. 
 
 THIRTBEN. 
 
 " Touch, for your life, no single viand costly! 
 
 Taste not a drop of liquor where it shines ! 
 Be here but as the cat who lingers ghostly 
 
 About the flesh upon the spit, and whines; 
 Ay, let the banquet freeze or perish wholly. 
 
 Or ever a morsel pass your lips between ! 
 For I have counted you, my comrades jolly. 
 
 Ye are thirteen, all told, — I say thirteen ! " 
 
 " Well, what of that? " the messmates answered lightly; 
 
 "So be it then! We are as well content ! 
 The longer table means, if we guess rightly. 
 
 Space for more jesters, broader m.erriment." 
 " 'T is I will wake the wit and spice the folly! 
 
 The haughtiest answer when I speak, I ween. 
 And I have counted you, my comrades jolly! 
 
 Ye are thirteen, all told, — I say thirteen ! " 
 
 " So ho! thou thinkest then to quench om- laughter? 
 
 Thou art a gloomy presence, verily! 
 We wager that we know what thou art after! 
 
 Come, then, a drink! and bid thy vapors fly! 
 Thou shalt not taint us with thy melancholy " — 
 
 " Nay, 'tis not thirst gives me this haggard mien.. 
 Laugh to your hearts' content, my comrades jolly; 
 
 Still I have counted, and ye are thirteen / " 
 
 " Who art thou then, thou kiU-joy? What 's thy nature, 
 And what thy name, and what thy business here? " 
 
THEODORE AGBANEL. 77 
 
 " My name is death! Observe my every feature. 
 
 I w^aken longing and I carry fear. 
 Sovereign am I of mourners and of jesters ; 
 
 Behind the living still I walk unseen, 
 And evermore make one among the f easters 
 
 When all their tale is told, and they thirteen." 
 
 " Ha ! art thou Death ? I am well pleased to know thee, ' ' 
 
 A gaUant cried, and held his glass aloft; 
 " Their scarecrow tales, Death, small justice do thee: 
 
 Where are the terrors thou hast vaunted oft? 
 Come, feast with me as often as they bid thee! 
 
 Our friendly plates be laid with none between." 
 " Silence! " cried Death, " and follow where I lead thee, 
 
 For thou art he who makest us thirteen." 
 
 Sudden, as a grape-cluster, when dissevered 
 
 By the sharp knife, drops from the parent bough, 
 The crimson wine-glass of the gallant wavered 
 
 And fell ; chill moisture started to his brow. 
 Death crying, " Thou canst not walk, but I can carry," 
 
 Shoiildered his burden with a ghastly grin. 
 And to the stricken feasters said, " Be wary! 
 
 I make my count oft as ye make thirteen." 
 
 It is but just to Aubanel to say that the tinge 
 of burlesque, which all our efforts have hardly 
 been equal to excluding from this imperfect 
 version, is nowhere in the original, which is of 
 a truly childlike gravity and intensity. It seems 
 
78 TROUBADOURS AND TROUVilRES. 
 
 always difficult for one who uses our language 
 to depict superstition pure and simple with 
 entire seriousness; and this is, perhaps, espe-- 
 cially true of the American. The most ardent 
 advocates among us of the various forms of 
 " spiritualism " in religion, and quackery in 
 medicine, are ever driven to make a show of 
 supporting their vagaries by a vast pretence of 
 scientific arguments, very falsely so called. We 
 are, as a nation, wofully wanting in the grace 
 of credulity, which few men can make more 
 engaging than the Proven9al poets. I have 
 space for but two more of our author's efforts, 
 or rather for xaj own inadequate reproduction 
 of them. The first shall be the famous " Neuf 
 Tlierraidor." Famous it may fairly be called, 
 since every one of tlie author's European critics 
 singles it out for mention, some of them in 
 terms of extravagant praise. It is easier, how- 
 ever, to account for its fascination to a Gaul, 
 than to approach in English its very ghastly 
 ndivetS. 
 
THEODORE AUBANEL. 79 
 
 THE NINTH OF THEEMmOE. 
 
 " Thou with the big knife, whither away? " 
 " Headsman am I, with folk to slay! " 
 
 " But all thy vest is dabbled with gore, 
 And thy hands, — O headsman, wash them, pray." 
 " Wherefore? I shall not have done to-day! 
 
 I have heads to sever, a many more ! " 
 
 " Thou with the big knife, whither away? " 
 " Headsman am I, with folk to slay! " 
 
 " Ay, ay! but thou art a sire as well! 
 Hast fondled a babe, aiid dost not shrink, 
 Nor need so much as a maddening drink, 
 
 Mother and child at a stroke to feU? " 
 
 " Thou with the big knife, whither away? " 
 " Headsman am I, with folk to slay! " 
 
 •' But all the square with dead is strewn, 
 And the living remnant kneel and sue ! 
 Art a man or a devil? Tell us true ! " 
 
 •' I 've a stint to finish ! Let me alone ! " 
 
 " Thou with the big knife, whither away? " 
 " Headsman am I, with folk to slay! " 
 
 " Oh, what is the flavor of thy wine? 
 
 And why is the foam on thy goblet red? 
 
 And teU us, when thou bakest thy bread 
 Dost thou the savor of flesh divine? " 
 
80 TROUBADOURS AND TROUVilRES. 
 
 " Thou -with the big knife, whither away? " 
 " Headsman am I, with folk to slay! " 
 
 " Dost thou sweat? Art thou tired? Why, rest a bit! 
 
 Let not thy shuddering prey go free ! 
 
 For we have no notched knife like thee, 
 And this is a woman ! Prithee, sit ! " 
 
 " Thou with the big knife, whither away? " 
 " Headsman am I, with folk to slay! " 
 
 " Ha! she is off! And the turn 's thine own! 
 On the wooden pillow, musty and black. 
 Thy cheek shall lie, and thy sinews crack. 
 
 And thy head — why, headsman, it hath flown! " 
 
 " Sharpen the notched knife anew! 
 Sever the head of the headsman too ! " 
 
 There is a long and somewhat elaborate tril- 
 ogy concerning the " Massacre of the Inno- 
 cents," of which the numbers are entitled, 
 " Saint Joseph's Day," " The Massacre," and 
 " The Lamentations," which I leave untouched ; 
 and the last specimen selected shall be the poem 
 with which this strange little volume concludes, 
 and where the singer finds again something of 
 the pious and plaintive sweetness of his earlier 
 notes. It is an invocation to an African Ma- 
 donna, dedicated to Mgr. Pavy, the Bishop of 
 Algiers, and records the fulfilment (perhaps by 
 
THEODORE AUBANEL. 81 
 
 way of contributions to the Algerian chapel) 
 of some vow once made with reference to the 
 poet's unhappy passion. The metre is interest- 
 mg, as presenting two among the many varie- 
 ties attempted by the Provencals on the original 
 strophe of " Mir^io," that most rich and musical 
 stanza so singularly adapted to the genius of the 
 modern Langue d'oc.^ 
 
 OUB LADY OF AFRICA. 
 
 Oh, long with, life-blood waterfed, 
 Old Afric, soon or late, that seed shall fructify; 
 Saints' blood and warriors' hath for aye 
 Made roses beautiful and red, 
 That ever blow God's altar by. 
 
 ^ Dr. Edward Bohmer, Professor of the Eomance Lan- 
 guages in the Unirersity of Halle, in a small volume entitled 
 " The Provencal Poetry of the Present," and full of genial and 
 intelligent criticism, says : " This strophe of Mistral's is not 
 entirely his own invention. The number of lines, the succes- 
 sion of rhymes, and the relative position of the masculines and 
 feminines, are to be found in the ' Paouro Janeto ' of the Mar- 
 quis de la Faire-Alais, and in a poem by the same, addressed 
 to Jasmin, as the last part of a longer strophe, whose feminine 
 lines are of the same length as Mistral's. The latter length- 
 ened both the masculine verses to Alexandrines, and thus gave 
 epic repose to the energetic and impetuous movement of the 
 verse." ("Provencalische Poesie der Gegenwart,"p. 36.) The 
 reader is referred to the preface to the American edition of 
 " Mirbio " for an attempt to imitate this stanza in English, and 
 to Dr. Bohmer's volume for another, hardly more successful, 
 to render It into German. 
 
 6 
 
82 TROUBADOURS AND TROUVMES. 
 
 O Rose of Afrie, Lady blessfed, 
 Have pity on our souls distressed ! 
 Our land is parched and dead. Ah. ! beauteous Kose of 
 ours, 
 In tender showers impart 
 The dew-drops of thy heart, 
 The perfume of thy flowers ! 
 
 A chapel we have builded thee 
 Aloft." Oh, let it be a signal and a star! 
 Where lonely Arab riders are. 
 Where seamen battle with the sea. 
 Its rays of comfort shine afar ! 
 
 O Rose of Afric, Lady blessed, etc. 
 
 And ye, under the blinding glow 
 Of desert suns, who toil onward through desert sands, 
 ' O caravans in weaay lands. 
 
 Make halt where Mary's roses blow. 
 Seek shade and solace at her hands ! 
 
 O Rose of Afric, Lady blessed, etc. 
 
 - Of costly stones and marble all. 
 Stately and strong the chapel we have reared so high ; 
 Thither as to a home we fly. 
 May Afric's rose grow fair and tall, 
 Till on our fane its shadow fall! 
 
 O Rose of Afric, Lady blessed, etc. 
 
 My vow is paid; my love of yore. 
 Virgin, in thy gold censer quite consumed away. 
 Now heal my heart; and save, I pray. 
 
THEODORE AUBANEL. 83 
 
 All those who sail the waters o'er 
 From my Provence to Afric's shore. 
 
 O Rose of Afric, Lady blessfed, etc. 
 
 And last I lay this book of mine 
 Before thy feet, who art love, life, and hope; and pray 
 Thou wilt accept the untaught lay, 
 And in some sacred wreath of thiae 
 My flower of youth and honor twine. 
 
 I have adhered to M. Mistral's arrangement 
 of his friend's verses, but cannot refrain from 
 expressing my own conviction that, however 
 picturesque, it is a somewhat artificial one, and 
 furnishes but an imperfect clew to the chron- 
 ological order of the poems. In Theodore 
 Aubanel, who is, in many ways, a perfectly 
 representative child of the South and descen- 
 dant of the Troubadours, qualities meet which 
 we are not used to see associated. He is both 
 soft and fierce. He loves with a devotion, and 
 also with a delicacy, as rare as it is affecting. 
 He mourns with infantine desperation. He 
 hates with a peculiar and almost gamesome 
 zest. As compared with Mistral, he has less 
 power, whether descriptive or dramatic, but 
 more grace, of a certain wild, faun-like charac- 
 ter, while he shows barely a trace of the training 
 
84 TROUBADOURS AND TROUVMES. , 
 
 of the schools. Mistral's simplicity is often 
 studied. The ideals of Greek and Roman an- 
 tiquity are ever present to his imagination, and 
 he avows himself an " humble scholar of the 
 great Homer." Many of his critics have noted 
 the Homeric character of the refrains in the 
 ninth canto of " MirSio," but this is only one 
 among many instances. The charming descrip- 
 tion of the cup of carved wood which Alari 
 offered to Mireio is obviously imitated from 
 Virgil's third " Eclogue," as this again is imitated 
 from the first and fifth " Idyls " of Theocritus. It 
 is greatly enriched indeed, but some, even of 
 the details, are precisely similar ; as for example, 
 the fact that neither cup had yet been used for 
 drinking : — 
 
 " Senti^ 'ncaro lou nou, i'avi^ panca begu." 
 and : — 
 
 " Necdum illis labra admovi, sed condita servo." 
 And the same is true of the descriptions of the 
 public games in " Calendau." But Theodore Au- 
 banel is purely indigenous, and need not be 
 other than he is, if Greece and Rome had never 
 existed. The antecedents of his genius are the 
 love-songs and sirventes of the Troubadours, and 
 the silence of the last few hundred years. 
 
JACQUES JASMIN. 
 
 I. 
 
 TT is a little singular that the band of enthu- 
 siasts, who style themselves exclusively the 
 Provencals and are formally devoted to the ad- 
 venture of restoring'the Langue d'oc to its place 
 in literature, should appear almost unconscious 
 of the fact that they were preceded, by about 
 twenty-five years, in the self-same fascinating 
 path which they have chosen, by one of the 
 most careful artists as well as truest poets of 
 this century. Jacques Jasmin, the barber of 
 Agen, in Gaseony, published his first volume 
 of dialect poems in 1835, when Fr^d^ric Mistral 
 was a child of four, hardly old enough to prey 
 upon the mulberries and olives of his father's 
 mas, before he had come even under the mild 
 restraints of Master Roumanille's school. This 
 earliest volume of Jasmin's — called, with a 
 mixture of gayety and simplicity quite peculiar 
 to himself, "Papillotos, or Curl Papers" — was 
 
86 TROUBADOURS AND TROUVkRES. 
 
 followed, at intervals of several years, by two 
 others. These, like their prede'cessor, contained 
 hosts of those little personal and occasional 
 Lyrics, Tributes, Dedications, Thanks for testi- 
 monials. Hymns for festivals, v/hich M. Sainte- 
 Beuve rather impatiently characterizes as " im- 
 provisations obligees " and " compliments en 
 madrigaux" and of which Jasmin himself says, 
 with something as near an apology as his com- 
 plete ndivetS will allow him, " One can only pay a 
 poetical debt by means of impromptus ; and im- 
 promptus may be very good money of the heart, 
 but they are almost always bad money of the 
 head." But among these comparatively trivial, 
 though always musical and pleasing pieces, there 
 were a half-dozen poems of another and higher 
 order: romantic tales in verse of two or three 
 or more paouzos (pauses or cantos), noble in 
 conception, abounding in action, and wrought 
 out with very patient care ; instinct with the 
 author's own gentle vivacity, and at the same 
 time impressive by the dignity of simple, natural 
 passion. 
 
 The rustic dialect from which Jasmin never 
 departed, he lifted to the level of these more 
 
JACQUES JASMIN. 87 
 
 serious themes as easily, as triumphantly, as 
 Mr. Lowell adapted his extraordinary Yankee 
 speech to the tones of keenest pathos, in No. 
 X. of the second series of " Biglow Papers ;" 
 and more cannot be said. All the magnates in 
 criticism of Jasmin's generation came forward, 
 soon or late, and surrounded him with their ap- 
 plause. Cities and royal personages had medals 
 struck in his honor. His works were collected in 
 a cheap popular edition, of one volume, in 1860, 
 a few months'only after the Parisian world was 
 first electrified by the publication of " Mireio." 
 Eight years before this, at a public meeting of 
 the French Academy, August 20, 1852, an ex- 
 traordinary prize of five thousand francs had 
 been awarded to the Gascon poet, and M. Ville- 
 main, in a stately address, had declared it to be 
 the purpose of that august body also to have a - 
 medal struck in his honor : " La medaille du 
 poefe moral et populaire.'" Earlier yet, Charles 
 Nodier had subdued his amazement at the in- 
 congruity between Jasmin's calling and his 
 . genius ; and had begged him, with an air of 
 impulsive patronage at once amiable and amus- 
 ing, not to intermit the manufacture of peri- 
 
88 TROUBADOURS AND TROU VERES. 
 
 wigs; "for this," says the lively Gaul, ever 
 intent on his epigram, " is an honest trade ; 
 while verse-making is but a frivolous distrac- 
 tion." M. L^once de Lavergne dwelt, with an 
 enthusiasm rather generous in a true Proven§al, 
 on the onomatopoetic beauties of the Gascon 
 patois. M. de Pontmartin classed Jasmin with 
 Theocritus, Horace, and La Fontaine, and paid 
 him the singular tribute of saying that he had 
 made good as attractive as other Frenchmen 
 had made evil. Finally, M. Sainte-Beuve (^salut 
 d son dme) warmly yet carefully appreciated 
 him. "Away on your snow-white paper wings," 
 cries Jasmin merrily to his verses, when he ded- 
 icates to the king of critics a new edition of his 
 first volume, " for now you know that an angel 
 protects you ! He has even dressed you up 
 in fine French robes and put you in the ' Deux 
 Mondes ' ! " 
 
 It is to the " Causeries " that the reader must go 
 for a complete analysis of Jacques Jasmin's liter- 
 ary qualities, and a guide to the more recondite 
 beauties of his speech. Here, preceding some 
 experiments in translation, an attempt is made 
 merely to show some of the points in which his 
 
JACQUES JASMIN. 89 
 
 works resemble, and some in which they differ 
 from, those of that younger school of singers 
 in Southern France, a few of whose produc- 
 tions have already been reviewed in these 
 pages. 
 
 And first, notwithstanding that local "jeal- 
 ousy between Gascon and Proven§al " which 
 M. de Lavergne frankly allows in his admirable 
 notice of Jasmin's masterpiece, " Fran9onette," 
 there seems to be nothing deliberately disingen- 
 uous in the silence of the Proven9als about Jas- 
 min ; no reason to suppose that their inspiration 
 is in any way borrowed from him. These men 
 of Southern France were born, one and all of 
 them, in the native land of modern poetry, and 
 have breathed none but its native air. The 
 echoes of all its varied measures, nay, of the 
 very rhymes which are its distinguishing char- 
 acteristic, perpetually haunt their every-day 
 talk. They tread its ruins under foot. Its seeds 
 lie dormant in all their soil. One such seed 
 germinated at Agen, in the first quarter of our 
 century; a handful more about Avignon, twenty- 
 five years later. The rich wild flowers which 
 they have borne are of the same family, indeed. 
 
90 TROUBADOURS AND TROUVMES. 
 
 and have certain fundamental resemblances, but 
 they are quite distinct in color, shape, and even 
 fragrance. Here is no miracle ; still less, good 
 ground for a charge of plagiarism. 
 
 Jasmin is Gascon ; not in the present restricted 
 application of the term Proven9al ; and his dia- 
 lect, though closely allied to that of the Bouches- 
 du-Rh6ne, must, it seems to me, be pronounced 
 slightly inferior to the latter in the melody of its 
 terminations, and, hence, in its rhythmic capabil- 
 ities. But the two sustain the same relation 
 to the classic Romance, — that lovely but short- 
 lived eldest daughter of the Latin. The Gascon 
 poet is at once more conventional in his imagery, 
 and less enterprising in the matter of metre, than 
 his young neighbors. He uses freely the most ob- 
 vious and trite comparisons. Lips are cherry-red, 
 teeth snow-vrhite, etc. : whereas the metaphors of 
 his juniors are often too quaint to be spontaneous, 
 and we know that they know the beaten paths 
 by their sedulous avoidance of them. Jasmin 
 clings also to the measures most approved in 
 legal French poetry, especially to Alexandrines 
 and iambic tetrameters, and to their irregular 
 association in a sort of ballad metre, which in 
 
JACQUES JASMIN. 91 
 
 English has been best handled by Robert Brown- 
 ing in " Herv^ Riel," and indeed most happily 
 chosen for that essentially French poem. Mistral 
 seized these same irregular iambics, and speedily 
 moulded them into the ornate verse which became 
 so astonishing a vehicle of varied expression in 
 " Mheio" and " Calendau," and upon which his 
 followers, in their turn, executed all sorts of vari- 
 ations. But Mistral and his felibres seem never 
 for a moment free from a sense of theip high 
 commission to repudiate or reform all that is 
 distinctively French, and set up in its stead that 
 which is distinctively Provengal. They may 
 justly claim, most of them, to have made delib- 
 erate choice of an humble and rustic form of 
 expression, when a more literate one was equally 
 at their command ; while Jasmin, in all probabil- 
 ity, could never have written in learned French, 
 and did but sing because he must. Both Jasmin 
 and the Proven§als have the self-confidence of 
 real power; but they are self-confident with a 
 difference. When some one told Jasmin that he 
 had revived the traditions of the Troubadours, 
 " Troubadours ! " he cried, — one can imagine 
 with what a lusty peal of laughter, — " why I 
 
92 TROUBADOURS AND -TROUVkRES. 
 
 am a great deal better poet than any of the 
 Troubadours ! Not one of them could have 
 composed a long poem of sustained interest 
 like my ' Fran§onette ' ! " "Which is perfectly 
 true ; but a man, to say it of himself, must 
 have a conspicuous absence of small vanity, 
 and a considerable sense of humor. While 
 the Provencals, though they have doubtless a 
 fine audacity and fervid faith with regard to 
 the future, speak always with due humility of 
 Homer, and are almost preternatural in their 
 gravity. 
 
 Sainte-Beuve quotes with keen enjoyment the 
 demure yet decided terms in which Jasmin re- 
 fused, in 1849, the challenge of one Peyrottes, 
 who had summoned him to contend with him- 
 self in one of those poetical tournaments revived 
 from the Middle Ages, in which Mistral and his 
 colleagues afterwards engaged with enthusi- 
 asm, and won many laurels. " I dare not," 
 wrote Jasmin quaintly, " enter the lists with 
 you. The courser who drags his chariot with 
 difficulty, albeit he arrives at the goal, cannot 
 contend against the fiery locomotive of the rail- 
 way. The art which produces verses one by 
 
JACQUES JASMIN. 93 
 
 one cannot compete with manufacture. My 
 miise declares herself vanquished in advance, 
 and I hereby authorize you to record the de- 
 claration." And then, as if sensible and repent- 
 ant of a lurking arrogance in his refusal, he adds, 
 in a postscript, " I love glory, but the success of 
 another never troubles my sleep." And though 
 Jasmin's declamations and readings of his own 
 poems are said to have been in the highest de- 
 gree dramatic and affecting, the spirit of that 
 reply was undoubtedly sincere, and his methods 
 of composition were such as he describes, — assid- 
 uous, quiet, slow. " I have learned," he once 
 said, " that in moments of heat and emotion we 
 are all eloquent and laconic, alike in speech and 
 action, — unconscious poets, in fact ; and I have 
 also learned that it is possible for a muse to be- 
 come all this wittingly, and by dint of patient 
 toil." 
 
 Sainte-Beuve, whose judgments constantly 
 recur, sums up all his eloquent praise of the 
 Gascon poet by saying that he is invariably 
 soler. No doubt, the Provengals proper, even 
 Mistral, their greatest poet, — rarely in " Mireio," 
 but oftener in " Calendau," — are apt to be tern- 
 
94 TROUBADOURS AND TROUVMES. 
 
 porarily the worse for the win& of what they are 
 pleased to consider their ethnic inspiration. But 
 their interesting careers were hardly begun at a 
 time wheii Jasmin's was rounding to its close, 
 and when he was already declared better to have 
 fulfilled his promises than any other poet of his 
 generation. If they can but imitate his simple 
 and conscientious devotion to art, and grow as 
 he grew even to old age, they will shed an equal 
 lustre on that historic land of song which aliens 
 will always regard as their common country. 
 
 In no poem of Jasmin's are the most charac- 
 teristic qualities of his mind — his candor, his 
 pathos, and his humor — more abundantly shown 
 than in that which he" has Entitled " My Souve- 
 nirs," and from which some extracts will now be 
 made. He begins the unique story of his life, as 
 he is very apt to begin a story, confidentially and 
 colloquially : — 
 
 Now -will I keep my promise, and -will tell 
 How I was born, and what my youth befell. 
 
 The poor, decrepit century passed away, 
 Had barely two more years on earth to stay, 
 "When in a dingy and a dim retreat, 
 An old rat-palace in a narrow street, 
 
JACQUES JASMIN. 95 
 
 V 
 
 Behind a door, Shrove Tuesday mom, 
 Just as the day flung its black night-cap by. 
 Of mother lame, and humpbacked sire, was born 
 A boy, — and it was I. 
 
 When princes come to life, the cannon thunder 
 
 With joy ; but when I woke, 
 
 Being but a tailor's son, it was no wonder 
 
 Not even a cracker spoke. 
 
 Only a certain charivarian ' band 
 
 Before our neighbor's door had ta'en its stand, 
 
 Whereby my little virgin ears were torn 
 
 With dreadful din of kettle and of horn. 
 
 Which only served to echo wide the drone 
 
 Of forty couplets of my father's own. 
 
 His father, it seems, was a village poet, a spin- 
 ner of dogg^erel for these charivari ; and this was 
 the humble seed which, being mysteriously fruc- 
 tified, produced genius in the son. He goes on 
 to assure us that, in his coarse and mended 
 swaddling-clothes, and sleeping on a little bed 
 stuffed with lark's feathers, he grew, if some- 
 
 1 The charivari, so common in the south of France, is a 
 terrific uproar produced by kettles, frying-pans, and horns, ac- 
 companied by shouts and cries, and the singing of rather low 
 songs, which is set up at night, under the windows of the newly 
 married, especially if they are in advanced years or have been 
 married before. 
 
96 TROUBADOURS AND TROUVMES. 
 
 what lean and angular, as fast as any king's 
 son, until he was seven years old, and then — 
 
 Suddenly life became a pastime gay. 
 
 We can but paint what we have felt, they say: 
 
 Why, then must feeling have begun for me 
 
 At seven years old; for then nlyself I see, 
 
 With paper cap on head, and horn in hand. 
 
 Following my father in the village band. 
 
 Was I not happy while the horns were blowing? 
 
 Or, better still, when we by chance were going, 
 
 A score or more, as we were wont to, whiles, 
 
 To gather fagots on the river isles? 
 
 Bare heads, bare feet, our luncheon carrying, 
 
 Just as the noontide bells began to ring, 
 
 We would set forth. Ah, that was glee! 
 
 Singing, The lamb thou gavest me ! 
 
 I 'm merry at the very memory ! 
 
 He goes on to describe with extreme zest, and 
 a wonderful richness of local coloring, the im- 
 promptu fetes in which he thus bore a part ; the 
 raids upon cherry and plum-orchards. " I should 
 need a hundred trumpets," he says, "to cele- 
 brate all my victories ! " And then the dances 
 around bonfires, and other fantastic ceremonies 
 of St. John's Eve. Then he tells, in words of 
 exquisite softness, how the first light shadow 
 fell upon his baby spirit: — 
 
JACQUES JASMIN. 97 
 
 Nathless, I was a dreamy little thing. 
 
 One simple word would strike me mute full often, 
 And I would hark, as to a viol string. 
 
 And knew not why I felt my heart so soften : 
 And that was school, — a pleasant word enow; 
 
 But when my mother, at her spinning-wheel. 
 Would pause, and look on me with pitying brow. 
 
 And breathe it to my grandsire, I would feel 
 A sudden sorrow, as I eyed the twain, 
 A mystery, a long whole mom.ent's pain. 
 
 And something else there was that made me sad : 
 
 I liked to fill a little pouch I had. 
 
 At the great fairs, with whatso I could glean, 
 
 And then to bid my mother look within; 
 
 And if my purse but showed her I had won 
 
 A few poor coins, a sou for service done, 
 
 Sighing, " Ah my poor little one," she said, 
 
 " This comes in time ; " and then my spirit bled. 
 
 Yet laughter soon came back, and I 
 
 Was giddier than before, a very butterfly. 
 
 So, after fair-time, came vintage with all its 
 manifold joys ;- and then suddenly the winter, 
 when, in the dearth of fire- wood, the child was 
 fain to sun himself in sheltered nooks while the 
 daylight lasted. But " how fair is th'e nightfall 
 of the grim winter day ! " At that hour a score 
 or more of women, with their younger children, 
 used to assemble in a large room, lighted by a 
 
 7 
 
98 TROUBADOURS AND TROUVERES. 
 
 single antique lamp, suspended from the ceiling. 
 The women had distaffs and heavy spindles, on 
 which they spun a kind of coarse pack-thread, 
 which the children wound, sitting upon stools 
 at their feet. And all the while, one old dame or 
 another would be telling ogreish stories of " Blue 
 Beard," " Sorcerer," or " Loup-garou^'" to fas- 
 cinate the ears and trouble the dreams of her 
 young auditory. 
 
 At last a winter came when I could keep 
 No more my footstool; for there chanced a thing 
 So strange, so sorrowful, so harrowing, 
 
 That long, long afterwards it made me weep. 
 
 Sweet ignorance, why is thy kind disguise 
 So early rent from happy little eyes? 
 
 I mind one Monday, — 't was my tenth birthday, — 
 The other boys had throned me king, in play. 
 When I was smitten by a sorry sight : 
 Two cartmen bore some aged helpless wight. 
 In an old willow chair, along the way. 
 I watched them as they near and nearer drew; 
 And what saw I ? Dear God, could it be true? 
 'T was my own grandsire, and our household all 
 Following. I saw but him. With sudden yearning, 
 I sprang and kissed him. He, my kiss returning, 
 , For the first time, some piteous tears let fall. 
 
JACQUES JASMIN. 99 
 
 " Where wilt thou go? and why wilt thou forsake 
 Us, little ones, who love thee? " was my cry. 
 " Dear, they are taking me," my grandsire spake, 
 " Unto the almshouse, where the Jasmins die." 
 Kissed me once more, closed his blue eyes, passed on. 
 
 Far through the trees we followed them, be sure. 
 In five more days the word came he was gone. 
 For me, sad wisdom woke that Monday dawn : 
 
 Then knew I first that we were very poor. 
 
 And here the first section of Jasmin's memo- 
 ries, which he began to rehearse so gayly, closes 
 as with a sob. When he resumes, he seems half 
 abashed at the homeliness of the tale which he 
 has undertaken to tell. Shall he soften it ? He 
 pauses to query. Shall he dress it up with false 
 lights and colors ? For these are days when 
 falsehood in silk and gold seems always accept- 
 able, and the " naked, new-born truth " unwel- 
 come. But he repudiates the thought : — 
 
 Myself, nor less nor more, I 'U draw for you. 
 And, if not fair, the likeness shall be true. 
 
 That death of his grandfather, he goes on to 
 say, sank like a plummet into his heart, and 
 seemed for the first time to revpal to him the 
 utter squalor of his surroundings. He describes 
 
100 TROUBADOURS AND TROUVERES. 
 
 in a minute fashion, at once droll and exceed- 
 ingly pathetic, the exposure of their tenement 
 to the four winds of heaven ; the ragged bed- 
 curtains ; the cracked pottery, and worn wooden 
 vessels off which they ate and drank ; the 
 smoky, frameless mirror ; the rickety chairs. 
 " My .mother explained it all," he _ says: — 
 
 Now saw I why our race, from sire to son, 
 
 For many lives, had never died at home; 
 
 But time for crutches having come, 
 
 The almshouse claimed its own. 
 
 I saw why one brisk woman every mom 
 
 Paused, pail in hand, my grandame's threshold by : 
 
 She brought her, not yet old, though thus forlorn, 
 
 The bread of charity. 
 And ah, that wallet ! by two cords uphung, 
 Wherein my hands for broken bread went straying, — 
 Grandsire had borne it round the farms among, 
 A morsel from his ancient comrades praying. 
 Poor grandsire ! When I kept him company, 
 The softest bit was evermore for me ! 
 
 All this was shame and sorrow exquisite. 
 I played no more at leap-frog in the street. 
 But sat and dreamed about \he seasons gone. 
 And i£ chance things my sudden laughter won, — 
 Flag, soldier, hoop, or kite, — it died away 
 Like the pale sunbeam of a weeping day. 
 
JACQUES JASMIN. 101 
 
 However, there was a happy change at hand : 
 and here, unhappily for his translator, the poet 
 abandons his flowing pentameters ; but one must, 
 if possible, keep step with him : — 
 
 One mom my mother came, as one with gladness crazed, 
 Crying, " Come, Jacques, to school! " Stupid, I stood and 
 
 gazed. 
 "To school! What then? Are we grown rich?" I cried, 
 
 amazed. 
 " Nay, nay, poor little one! Thou wilt not have to pay! 
 Thy cousin^ gives it thee, and I am. blessed this day." 
 
 Behold me, then, with fifty others set, 
 
 Mumbling my lesson in the alphabet. 
 
 I had a goodly memory; or so they used to say. 
 
 Thanks to this pious dame, therefore, 
 
 'Twixt smiles and tears it came to pass 
 
 That I could read in six months more; 
 
 In six months more, could say the mass ; 
 
 In six months more, I might aspire 
 
 To tantum ergo and the choir; 
 
 In six months more, still paying nothing, 
 
 I passed the sacred college gate ; 
 
 In six months more, with wrath and loathing, 
 
 They thrust me forth. Ah, luckless fate! 
 
 1 Sister Boe, the old school-mistress of Agen, who acted the 
 part of a generous relative, and gave the poet the rudiments of 
 reading and writing. 
 
102 TROUBADOURS AND TROUVERES. 
 
 'T was thus: a tempting prize was offered by' and by 
 
 Upon the term's last week, and my theme won the same. 
 
 (A cassock 'twas, and verily 
 
 As autumn heather old and dry.) 
 
 Nathless, when mother dear upon Shrove Monday came, 
 
 My cheeks fired when we kissed; along my veins the blood 
 
 Racing in little hlohs did seem. _ 
 
 More darns were in the cassock, well I understood. 
 
 Than errors in my theme ; 
 
 But glad at heart was I, and the gladder for her glee. 
 
 What love was in her touch ! What looks she gave her 
 
 son! 
 " Thank God, thou learuest well! " said she; 
 " For this is why, my little one. 
 
 Each Tuesday comes a loaf, and so rude the winter blows, 
 It is welcome, as He knows." 
 
 Thereon I gave my word I would very learned be. 
 And when she turned away, content was in her eyes. 
 So I pondered on my frock, and my sire, who presently 
 Should come and take my measure. It happened other- 
 wise. 
 The marplot de'il himseK had sworn 
 It should not be, so it would seem, 
 Nor holy gown by me be worn. 
 
 Wherefore my steps he guided to a quiet court and dim, 
 
 Drove me across, and bade me stop 
 
 Under a ladder, slight and tall, , 
 
 ■V^Tiere a pretty peasant maiden, roosted against the waU, 
 
 Was dressing pouting pigeons, there atop. 
 
JACQUES JASMIN. 103 
 
 Oft as I saw a ■woman, in the times whereof I write, 
 
 Slid a tremor through my veins, and across my dreary day 
 
 There flashed a sudden vision on my sight 
 
 Of a life all velvet, so to say; 
 
 Thus, when I saw Catrine (rosy she was and sweet), 
 
 I was fain to mount a bit, till I discerned 
 
 A pair of comely legs, a pair of snowy feet. 
 
 And all my siUy heart within me burned. 
 
 One tell-tale sigh I gave, and my damsel veered, alas! — 
 
 Then huddled up with piteous cries ; 
 
 The ladder snapped before my eyes. 
 
 She fell ! - — escape for me none was ! 
 
 And there we twain lay sprawling upon the court-yard 
 
 floor, 
 I under and she o'er! 
 
 The outcries of the maid soon brought all the 
 holy household to the spot. " Fillo aymo a fa 
 sab^ lous pecats que fay fa," remarks Jasmin, 
 in a quaint parenthesis, which, by the way, 
 illustrates very well the conciseness of expres- 
 sion of which his dialect is capable. It means, 
 " A girl always likes to have the sins known 
 which she has caused others to commit." AThe 
 result of her railing accusation is a terrific rep- 
 rimand for poor Jacques, and a sentence of 
 imprisonm.eht for the remainder of the carnival. 
 In default of a dungeon they locked him into a 
 dismal little chamber, where he remained until 
 
104 TROUBADOURS AND TROUVMES. 
 
 the next day, verj^ angry and very hungry, until 
 chance enabled him to fill up the measure of 
 his iniquities by breaking into a high cupboard, 
 to which he climbed with the help of table and 
 . chair, and feasting upon sundry pots of the 
 delicious convent preserves, which he found 
 hidden there. 
 
 The result must be told in his own words : — 
 
 But ■while so dulcet vengeance is wrought me by my stars, 
 What step is this upon the stair? Who fumbles at the 
 
 bars? 
 Alackaday! Who opes the door? 
 The dread superior himself! And he my pardon bore! 
 
 Thou knowest the Florence Lion, — the famous picture, 
 
 where 
 The mother sees, in stark despair, 
 The onslaught of the monster wild 
 Who will devour her darling child; 
 And, fury in her look, nor heeding life the least. 
 With piercing cry, " My boy! " leaps on the savage beast; 
 Who, wondeiing and withstood, 
 Seemeth to quench the burning of his cruel thirst for 
 
 blood. 
 And the baby is released. 
 
 Just so the reverend canon, with madness in his eye. 
 Sprang on my wi-etched self, and " My sweetmeats ! " was 
 
 his cry; 
 
JACQUES JASMIN. 105 
 
 And the nobler lion's part, alas, was not for me! 
 
 For the jar was empty haK, and the bottom plain to see! 
 
 "Out of this house, thou imp of hell. 
 
 Thou 'rt past forgiveness now! Dream not of such a 
 
 thing!" 
 And the old canon summoning 
 His forces, shook my ladder well. 
 Then with a quaking heart, I turned me to descend, 
 Still by one handle holding tight 
 The fatal jar, which dropped outright 
 And shattered, and so came the end! 
 
 Behold me now, in dire disgrace, 
 
 An outcast in the street, in the merry carnival, 
 
 As black as any Moor, with all 
 
 The sweetmeat-stains upon my face ! 
 
 My woes, meseemed, were just beg^n. 
 
 '_' Ho for the masque! " a gamin cried; 
 
 Full desperately did I run. 
 
 But a mob of howling urchins thronged me on every side, 
 
 Raised at my heels a cloud of dust. 
 
 And roared, " The masque is fuU of must! " 
 
 As on the wind's own pinions borne 
 
 I fled, and gained our cot forlorn. 
 
 And in among my household burst. 
 
 Starved, dripping, dead with rage and thirst. 
 
 Uprose a cry of wonderment from sisters, mother, sire. 
 And while we kissed I told them all, whereon a sUence 
 
 fell. 
 Seeing bean-porridge on the fire, 
 
106 TROUBADOURS AND TROUVMMS. 
 
 I said T would my hunger quell. 
 
 Wherefore then did they make as though they heard not 
 
 me, 
 Standing death still? At last arose my mother dear, 
 Most anxiously, most tenderly. 
 " Why are we tarrying? " said she, 
 " No more will come. Our aU is here." 
 
 But I, "No more of what? Ah, tell me, for God's 
 
 sake! " — 
 Sorely the mystery made me quake, — 
 " What wast thou waiting, mother mild? " 
 I trembled, for I guessed. And she, ' ' .The loaf, my child ! ' ' 
 So I had ta'en their bread away! O squalor and distress! 
 Accursed sweetmeats ! Naughty feet ! 
 I am base indeed ! O silence full of bitterness ! 
 Gentles, who pitying weep for every woe ye meet, 
 My anguish ye may guess ! 
 
 No money and no loaf! A sorry tale, I ween. 
 Gone was my hunger now, but in my aching heart, 
 I seemed to feel a cruel smart, 
 A stab, as of a brand, fire-new ^ and keen, 
 Rending the scabbard it is shut within. 
 
 Silent I stood awhile, and my mother blankly scanned. 
 While she, as in a dream, gazed on her own left hand; 
 Then put her Sunday kerchief by. 
 And rose and spake right cheerily, 
 
 1 " Sabre Jlamben neou.'' Tlie expression is interesting as 
 indicating the origin of the degenerate phrase, bran' fire new. 
 
JACQUES JASMIN. 107 
 
 And left us for a while; and when she came once more, 
 Beneath her arm a little loaf she bore. 
 
 Then all anew a-talking fell, 
 
 And to the table turned. Ah, well! 
 
 They laughed, but I was full of thought. 
 
 And evermore my wandering eyes the "mother sought. 
 
 Sony was I and mute, for a doubt that me possessed. 
 
 And drowned the noisy clamor of the rest. 
 
 But what I longed to see perpetually withdrew 
 
 And shyly hid from view. 
 
 Until, at last, soup being done. 
 
 My gentle mother made a move 
 
 As she would cut the loaf, signing the cross above. 
 
 Then stole I one swift look the dear left hand upon, 
 
 And ah, it was too true! — the-weddiug-ring was gone! 
 
 Once more the poet breaks off his narrative 
 abruptly, but when he resumes it for the third 
 and last chapter of his " Souvenirs " his tone ex- 
 presses relief, nay, even a kind of modest 
 triumph. One year later behold him appren- 
 ticed to a hair-dresser, an artisto-en-piels, with 
 whoip he works faithfully all day, but requests , 
 us to observe how the leaves of the tall elm out- 
 side the barber's back attic window shine at 
 midnight. Thanks to his convent schooling he 
 could read ; the remnant of daylight after work 
 was done became all insufficient ; his savings 
 
108 TROUBADOURS AND TROUVJERES. 
 
 went to the oil-merchant, and the best pleasure 
 of his life was born. 
 
 For ever, as I read, came throngs of phantoms fair. 
 With wonder- web of dreams o'er grievous thoughts to 
 fling, 
 
 Till passed away in silence those memories of despair, 
 The wallet, and the almshouse, and the ring. 
 
 Those three painful images were not quite 
 exorcised, and all his life long returned at 
 gloomy intervals to haunt him, but he had freed 
 himself from their malign spfell. Soon came 
 first love, still further to beautify existence. 
 " It was for her sake," says Jasmin, " that I 
 first tried to make verses in the sweet patois 
 which she talked so well, verses wherein I asked 
 her in lofty and mysterious phrases to be my 
 guardian angel." A little farther on he thus 
 describes what is always an era in the life of a 
 poet : — 
 
 One beauteous eve in summer, when the world was all 
 
 abroad. 
 Swept onward by the human stream that toward the 
 
 palace bore, 
 Unthinkingly the way I trod. 
 And followed eager hundreds o'er 
 The threshold of an open door. 
 
JACQUES JASMIN. 109 
 
 Good Heaven ! where was I? What might mean 
 
 The lifting of that linen screen? 
 
 O lovely, lovely vision ! O country strange and fair ! 
 
 How they sing in yon bright world ! and how sweetly talk 
 
 they too ! 
 Can ears attend the music rare, 
 Or eyes embrace the dazzling view? 
 " Why, yon is Cinderella! " I shouted in my maze. 
 " Silence! " quoth he who sat by me. 
 " Why, then? Where are we, sir? What is this whereon 
 
 we 'gaze? " 
 ' ' Thou idiot ! This is the Comedy ! ' ' 
 
 Ah, yes ! I knew that magic name, 
 
 Full oft at school had heard the same ; 
 
 And fast the fevered pulses flew 
 
 In my low room the dark night through. 
 
 " O fatherland of poesy I O paradise of love ! 
 
 Thou art a dream to ms no more ! Thy mighty spell I prove. 
 
 And thee, sweet Cinderella, my guardian I make, 
 
 And to-morrow I turn player for thy sake I " 
 
 But slumber came at dawn, and next the flaming look 
 
 Of my master, who awoke me. How like a leaf I shook ! 
 
 ' ' Where wast thou yesternight? Answer me, ne'er-do-weel ! 
 
 And wherefore home at midnight steal? " 
 
 "Oh, sir, how glorious was the play! " 
 
 " The play, indeed! 'T is very true what people say: 
 
 Thou art stark crazy, wretched boy, 
 
 To make so vile an uproar through all the livelong night ! 
 
 To sing and spout, and rest of sober souls destroy. 
 
 Thou who hast worn a cassock, nor blushest for thy plight ! 
 
110 TROUBADOORS AND TROUVMES. 
 
 Thou 'It come to grief, I warn thee so ! 
 
 Quit shop, mayhap, and turn thyseK a player low! " 
 
 " Ay, master dear, that would I be! " 
 
 " What, what? Hear I aright? " said he. 
 
 " Art blind? and dost not know the gate 
 
 That leadeth to the almshouse straight? " 
 
 At this terrific word, the heart in me went down 
 
 As though a club had fallen thereon ; 
 
 And Cinderella fled her throne in my light head. 
 
 The pang I straightway did forget; 
 
 And yet, meseems, yon awful threat 
 
 Made softer evermore my attic bed. 
 
 By the time he was eighteen, Jasmin had sown 
 his modest crop of wild oats, and opened a bar- 
 ber's shop of his own, and the maiden who had 
 inspired his first verses had promised to marry 
 him* " Two angels took up their abode with 
 me then," he says. His wife was one, and the 
 other was his rustic muse, the angel of homely, 
 • pastoral poetry, — 
 
 Who, fluttering softly from on high, 
 
 Raised on her wing and bore me far 
 
 Where fields of balmiest ether are. 
 
 There, in the shepherd lassie's speech 
 
 I sang a song, or shaped a rhyme ; 
 
 There learned I stranger lore than I can teach. 
 
 O mystic lessons 1 Happy time ! 
 
 And fond farewells I said, when at the close of day 
 
 Silent she led my spirit back whence it was borne away. 
 
JACQUES JASMIN. 111a 
 
 A few words are given to his wedding ; and 
 then he adds, — 
 
 The rest, methinks, full well is known; 
 
 How doubly blest my life hath been 
 
 In plenty and in peace, how fifteen times hare flown 
 
 The seasons four since then. 
 
 Curl-papers now, and songs anon, 
 
 Into my little shop had drawn 
 
 Erelong a rill of silver fine ; 
 
 So that in frenzy all divine 
 
 I rose at last, and brake that barber's chair of mine ! 
 
 No wonder that, after such an experience, he 
 retorts with spirit and scorn, when he reads in a 
 journal the malicious remark that " Pegasus is a • 
 beast who carries poets to the almshouse." On 
 the contrary, he says, Pegasus conveyed him to 
 •a notary's place, and it is owing to that friendly 
 steed alone that he figures first of his family on 
 the tax-gatherer's list ; albeit he admits that the 
 last-named honor has its disadvantages. He also 
 confesses frankly that his house is yet unfin- 
 ished, but assures us that his wife, who at first 
 rather deprecated his verse-making, now sees a 
 joist in every stanza and a tile in every rhyme, 
 and hands him his pens quite officiously. And 
 the homely reminiscences which have fluctuated 
 
112 TROUBADOURS AND TROUVMES. 
 
 SO fast between laughter and tears, close with a 
 droll story of the wrath and amazement in his 
 father's household when they learned that he 
 had been described, in the public print, as a 
 " son of Apollo : " — 
 
 Mysire leaped as if shot, androared, " How'sthis, Catrine? 
 
 Is my son not my son? Make answer what they mean ! " 
 
 " Thine is he, then," she said, and her cheeks with wrath 
 were red ; 
 
 " My poor old Jean, be comforted! 
 
 I never loved a man but thee." — 
 
 " And who then may this rascal 'Polio be? " 
 
 " Nay, that I know not! Girls, have ye heard of yonder 
 rake? " 
 
 "Not we ! " My sisters tossed their caps while scornfully 
 they spake. 
 
 " 'T is some old wretch, belike, should be cited to at- 
 tend 
 
 The court. Where lives he, brother ? " I, willing to defend 
 
 My good old master, 'Polio, from the fury of their spleen, 
 
 Ere they could march him sadly off, two grim hussars be- 
 tween, 
 
 Before the justice to appear. 
 
 Was fain to make the poet's meaning clear. 
 
 Long time they doubted; but when I 
 
 Had told them many a tale from the old mythology, 
 
 Reluctantly they let the case go by. 
 
 Thus, reader, have I told my tale in cantos three. 
 Small risk my muse hath run ; a thrifty singer, she. 
 
JACQUES JASMIN. 113 
 
 For though Pegasus should rear and fling me, it is clear, 
 However ruffled all my fancies fair, 
 And though my time I lose, my verses I may use; 
 For paper stiU will serve for curling hair ! 
 
 I have been thus copious in illustrating Jas- 
 min's " Souvenirs," because the poem gives the 
 actual outlines of his extraordinary life, and re- 
 flects without reserve the humor, the sensibility, 
 and the extreme simple-heartedness of the man. 
 In order to understand the real scope of his 
 genius, its depth and strength, his fertility in 
 romantic and picturesque incident, his shrewd- 
 ness in reading character and his dramatic skill 
 in representing it, in what divine innocence 
 of established canons the greater part of his 
 work is done, and in what implicit obedience 
 to the few which he knows the remainder, 
 we must study his graver and what might be 
 called his more ambitious pieces, if he did not 
 always impress one as too spontaneous for am- 
 bition. Of one of these, " The Blind Girl of 
 Castel-Cuill^," we are fortunate in possessing 
 Mr. Longfellow's complete and very close and 
 beautiful version. There are at least two other 
 poems of Jasmin's, " Frangonette " and " Marthe 
 
 8 
 
114 TROUBADOURS AND TROUViRES. 
 
 La Folle," which fully deserve to rank with 
 " The Blind Girl " in dignity of theme and 
 treatment, and some illustrations of one of these 
 will be given in the next chapter. 
 
JACQUES JASMIN. 
 
 II. 
 
 T MUST beg leave to remark in passing that I 
 have constantly recurring doubts about the 
 fitness for English vei-se, especially in earnest 
 and impassioned narrative, of the Alexandrine 
 or iambic hexameter, which forms the basis of 
 all Jasmin's longer poems. It is, however, diffi- 
 cult to find a substitute for it. The iambic pen- 
 tameter, our natural narrative metre, is one foot 
 shorter, and the Gascon of Jasmin is not easily 
 condensed. Moreover, the pentameter does not 
 lend itself readily to rhythmic variations and 
 caprices, and so I am fain, though diffidently, still 
 to follow the movement of the original. 
 
 In a preface, dated July 4, 1840, Jasmin dedi- 
 cated the poem of " Fran§onette " to the city of 
 Toulouse, thereby expressing his gratitude for 
 a banquet given him in 1836 by the leading 
 citizens of that place, at which the president of 
 the day had given the toast, " Jasmin, the 
 
116 TROUBADOURS AND TROUViRES. 
 
 adopted son of Toulouse." The action of the 
 poem begins during the persecutions of the 
 French Protestants in the sixteenth century. 
 Blaise de Montluc, Marshal of France, after 
 putting men, women, and children of the Hugue- 
 nots indiscriminately to the sword, had shut 
 himself up in the Chateau d'Estillac, and was 
 understood to be devoting himself to religious 
 exercises ; " taking the sacrament while dripping 
 with fraternal blood," says the poet. 
 
 Now the shepherds in those days, and every shepherd lass, 
 At the bare name of Huguenot, would shiver with affright 
 Amid their loves and laughter. So then it came to pass 
 In a hamlet nestling underneath a castled height, 
 On the day of Roquefort f6te, while Sunday bells out- 
 rang, 
 The jocund youth danced all together, 
 And, to a fife, the praises sang 
 Of Saint James and the August weather, — 
 That bounteous month which year by year, 
 Through dew-fall of the even clear 
 And fire of tropic noons, doth bring 
 Both grapes and figs to ripening. 
 
 'T was the very finest fete that eyes had ever seen 
 In the shadow of the vast and leafy parasol 
 Where aye the counti'y-fdlk convene. 
 O'erflowing were the spaces all; 
 
JACQUES JASMIN. 117 
 
 Down cliff, up dale, from every home 
 
 In Montagnac or Saint Colombe, 
 
 StiU they come, 
 
 Too many far to number ; 
 
 More and more, more and more, while flames the sun- 
 shine o'er. 
 
 But there 's room for all, their coming wiU not cumber; 
 
 For the fields wiU be their inn, and the little hillocks 
 green 
 
 The couches of their slumber. 
 
 Among them came Fran§onette, the belle of 
 the country-side, concerning whom we are be- 
 sought to allow the poet just two words. 
 
 Never you fancy, gentles, howe'er it seem to you. 
 
 This was a soft and pensive creature, — 
 
 Lily-fair in every feature, 
 
 With tender eyes and languishing, haH-shut and heaven 
 
 blue; 
 With light and slender shape in languor ever swaying. 
 Like a weeping willow with a limpid fountain playing, — 
 Not so, my masters ; Fran^onette 
 Had vivid, flashing orbs, like the stars in heaven set; 
 And the laughing cheeks were round, whereon a lover 
 
 might 
 Gather in handfuls roses bright; 
 Brown locks and curly decked her head; 
 Her lips were as the cherry red ; 
 Whiter than snow her teeth ; her feet 
 How softly moulded, small and fleet! 
 
118 TROUBADOURS AND TROUVERES. 
 
 How light her limbs! Ah, well-a^day! 
 
 What if the whole at once I say? 
 
 Hers was the very head ideal 
 
 Grafted on woman of this earth, most fair and real! 
 
 Such a miracle, the poet says, may be wrought 
 in any rank or race, to the envy of maidens and 
 the despair of men. All the swains in a wide 
 region about Roquefort admired Fran§onette, 
 and the girl knew it ; and it made her beauty 
 shine the brighter. Yet she felt her triumph 
 to be incomplete, until Pascal, the handsomest 
 of them all, and incomparably the best singer, 
 who hitherto had held somewhat aloof, should 
 fairly acknowledge her sway. Her good old 
 grandmother, with whom she lived (for her 
 mother was dead, and her father had disappeared 
 in her own infancy, and his fate was unknown); 
 detected her coquettish manoeuvres and reproved 
 them. 
 
 " Child, child," she used to frown, 
 
 " A meadow 's not a parlor, and the country's not the 
 
 town! 
 And thou knowest that we promised thee lang-syne 
 To the soldier-lad, Marcel, who is lover true of thine. 
 So curb thy flights, thou giddy one; 
 For the maid who covets all, in the end, mayhap, hath 
 
JACQUES JASMIN. 119 
 
 " Nay, nay," replied the tricksy fay, 
 
 With swift caress and laughter gay 
 
 Darting upon the dame, " there 's another saw well known. 
 
 Time enough, granny dear, to love some later day! 
 
 Meanwhile, slie who hath only one hath none." 
 
 Now such a course, you may divine, 
 Made hosts of melancholy swains. 
 Who sighed and suffered jealous pains, 
 Yet never sang reproachful strains 
 Like learned lovers when they pine ; 
 Who, ere they go away to die, their woes write carefully 
 On wiUow or on poplar tree. 
 Gtood lack ! these could not shape a letter, 
 And the silly souls, though lovesick, to death did not in- 
 cline, 
 Deeming to live and suffer on were better! 
 But tools were handled clumsily, 
 And vine-sprays blew abroad at will, 
 And trees were pruned exceeding ill, 
 And many a furrow drawn awry. 
 
 Methinks you know her now, this fair and foolish girl ; 
 Watch while she treads one measure, then! See, see her 
 
 dip and twirl ! 
 Young Etienne holds her hand by chance; 
 'T is the first rigadoon they dance. 
 With parted lips, right thirstily 
 Each rustic tracks them where they fly; 
 And the damsel sly 
 Feels every eye, 
 And lighter moves for each adoring glance. 
 
120 TROUBADOURS AND TROUVERES. 
 
 Holy cross, what a sight! when the madcap rears aright 
 
 Her shining lizard's head, and her Spanish foot falls light, 
 
 And when the wasp-like figure sways 
 
 And swims and whirls and springs again, 
 
 And the wind with a corner of the blue kerchief plays. 
 
 One and all smack their lips, and the cheeks whereon 
 
 they gaze 
 Would fain salute with kisses twain. 
 And some one shall; for here the ancient custom is. 
 Who tires his partner out may leave her with a kiss ; 
 Now girls turn weary when they will, always and eveiy- 
 
 where ; 
 Wherefore already Jean and Paul , 
 Louis, Guillaume, Pierre, 
 Have breathless yielded up their place 
 Without the coveted embrace. 
 
 It is now the turn of Marcel, the big, bluster- 
 ing soldier, comely enough in feature, " straight 
 as an I," boastful and vain, who makes a claim 
 to the hand of Frangonette, which the village 
 belle has never allowed. He has tiled all man- 
 ner of clumsy stratagems to entrap her into a 
 formal acceptance. He has ostentatiously pa- 
 raded every smile which he has won from any 
 other damsel in the vain hope of exciting her 
 jealousy; and now, having witnessed the discom- 
 fiture of so many of his rivals, strides forward and 
 takes her hand with an air of intense confidence 
 
JACQUES JASMIN. . 121 
 
 and satisfaction. The dance begins anew, and 
 is watched with breathless interest. On they 
 go for an incredible while, and Fran^onette ap- 
 parently grows fresher with every figure, but 
 the Herculean soldier is tired out at last, turns 
 giddy, and reels : — 
 
 Then darted forth Pascal into the soldier's place. 
 
 Two steps they take, one change they make, and Fran- 
 
 gonette, 
 Weary at last, with laughing grace 
 Her foot stayed and upraised her face; 
 Tarried Pascal that kiss to set? 
 Not he, be sure ! and all the crowd 
 His victory hailed with plaudits loud. 
 The clapping of their pahns like battledores resounded, 
 While Pascal stood among them as confounded. 
 How then Marcel, who truly loved the wayward fair? 
 Him the kiss maddened. Springing, measuring with 
 
 his eye, 
 " Pascal," he thundered forth, " beware! 
 Not so fast, churl! " and therewith brutally let fly, 
 With aim unerring, one fierce blow 
 Straight in the other's eyes, doubling the insult so. 
 
 A shadow as of a thunder-cloud fell on the 
 merry fete. " A man need not be a monsieur," 
 says Jasmin, " to resent an insult ; " and the fiery 
 Pascal returned the blow with interest. Directly, 
 
122 TROUBADOURS AND TROUVMES. 
 
 with a zest which would appear to be peculiarly 
 Gascon, the two engaged on the spot in a terrific 
 duel. They fought for a long time without de- 
 cided advantage on either side, the sympathies 
 of the on-lookers being mostly with Pascal, until 
 suddenly there appeared among them a" gentle- 
 man all gleaming with gold," no other than the 
 lord of the manor, the Baron of Roquefort 
 himself, who sternly separated the combatants. 
 The young shepherds cheered the wounded 
 Pascal to his dwelling, while Marcel turned 
 silently away vowing vengeance on them all, 
 and swearing that Fran§onette should marry no 
 man but him. 
 
 The next canto »opens in mid-winter, when 
 notice is carried round by Jean the tambourinist, 
 among the country-folk, now secluded upon 
 their comparatively silent farms, of a grand husk- 
 ing,^ followed by a dance, to take place on Fri- 
 day, the last night of the year. 
 
 1 The buscou, or busking, was a kind of bee at which the 
 young people assembled, bringing the thread of their late 
 spinning, which was divided into skeins of the proper size by 
 a broad, thin plate of steel or whalebone called a busc. The 
 same tiling under precisely the same name figured in the toil- 
 ets of our grandmothers, and hence, probably, the Scotch use 
 uf the verb " to busk or attire." 
 
JACQUES JASMIN. 123 
 
 Bvit when the Friday came, a frozen dew was raining, 
 
 And by a fireless forge a mother sat complaining; 
 
 And to her son, who stood thereby. 
 
 Spoke out at last entreatingly: 
 
 " Hast forgot the summer day, my boy, when thou didst 
 come. 
 
 All bleeding from the fray, to the sound of music home ? 
 
 Ah ! go not forth, Pascal ! I have dreamed of flowers again. 
 
 And what means that but tears and pain? " 
 
 " Now art thou craven, mother! and seest life aU black. 
 
 But wherefore tremble, since Marcel is gone and comes not 
 back?" 
 
 " Oh yet, my son, take heed, I pray. 
 
 For the Wizard of the Black Wood is roaming round this 
 way,— 
 
 The same who wrought such harm a year agone. 
 
 And, they teU me, there was seen coming from his cave at 
 dawn. 
 But two days past, a soldier. Now, 
 
 What if that were Marcel ? Oh, child, take care, take care I 
 The mothers all give charms mito their sons : do thou 
 
 Take mine; but, I beseech, go not forth anywhere! " 
 
 "Just for one hour mine eyes to set 
 On friend Thomas! No more, my mother." 
 
 ' ' Thy friend, indeed I Nay, nay ! Thou meanest on Fran- 
 gonette. 
 Dreamest I cannot see thou lovest no other? 
 Go to ! I read it in thine eyes. 
 
 Though thou singest and art gay, thy secret bravely keep- 
 ing, 
 
 That I may not be sad, yet all alone thou 'rt weeping. 
 My heart aches for thy miseries ; 
 
124 TROUBADOURS AND TROUVMRES. 
 
 Tet leave her for thy good, Pascal ! 
 
 She would so scorn a smith like thee, 
 
 With sire grown old in penury: 
 
 For poor we are ; thou knowest all, — 
 
 How we have sold and sold till barely a scythe remains. 
 
 Oh, dark the days this house hath seen, 
 
 Pascal, since thou hast ailing been ! 
 
 Now thou art weU, arouse thee! do something for our 
 
 gains ; 
 Or rest thee, if thou wilt; we can sufler, we can fight: 
 But, for God's love, go thou not forth to-night! " 
 
 After a short struggle with himself, Pascal 
 yielded, and turned away to his forge in silent 
 dejection, and soon the anvil was ringing, and 
 the sparks were flying, while away down in the 
 village the busking went merrily on. "If the 
 prettiest were always the most capable," says 
 the sensible poet, " how much my Frangonette 
 would have accomplished ; " but, instead, she 
 flitted from place to place, idle and gay, jesting, 
 singing, and, as usual, bewitching all. At last 
 Thomas, the friend of whom Pascal had spoken 
 to his mother, asked leave to sing a song ; and, 
 fixing his keen eyes upon the coquette, he began 
 in tones of lute-like sweetness : — 
 
JACQUES JASMIN. 125 
 
 THE SIREN WITH THE HEART OF ICE. 
 
 Thou ■whom the swains environ, 
 
 O maid of wayward will, 
 O icy-hearted siren, 
 The hour we all desire when 
 
 Thou too, thou too shalt feel ! 
 Thy gay wings thou dost flutter, 
 Thy airy nothings utter, 
 Wliile the crowd can only mutter, 
 In ecstasy complete, 
 At thy feet. 
 Yet hark to one who proves thee 
 
 Thy victories are vain, 
 Until a heart that loves thee 
 
 Thou hast learned to love again! 
 
 Sunshine, the heavens adorning, 
 
 "We welcome with delight ; 
 But thy sweet face returning, 
 With every Sunday morning, 
 
 Is yet a rarer sight. 
 We love thy haughty graces, 
 Thy swallow-like swift paces. 
 Thy song the soul upraises. 
 
 Thy lips, thine eyes, thy hair, — 
 All are fair. 
 Yet hark to one who proves thee, etc. 
 
 Thy going from them widows 
 AH places utterly. 
 
126 TROUBADOURS AND TROUVMES. 
 
 The hedgerows and the meadows 
 Turn scentless ; gloomy shadows 
 
 Discolor the blue sky. 
 Then, when thou comest again, 
 Farewell fatigue and pain ! 
 Life glows 'in every vein. 
 
 O'er every slender finger 
 
 We would linger. 
 Yet hark to one who proves thee, etc. 
 
 Thy pet dove, in his flitting, 
 
 Doth warn thee, lady fair! 
 Thee, in the wood forgetting; 
 Brighter for his dim setting 
 
 He shines, for love is there' 
 Love is the life of aU, 
 Oh answer thou his call. 
 Lest the flower of thy days fall. 
 And the grace whereof we wot 
 Be forgot ! 
 For, till great love shall move thee, 
 
 Thy victories are vain. 
 'T is little men should love thee ; 
 
 Learn thou to love again. 
 
 There arose a clamor of approbation and cries 
 for the name of the composer, which Thomas 
 gave without hesitation — Pascal. Frangonette 
 was unwontedly touched, and yet more when, 
 in reply to some inquiry about his absence that 
 night, she heard Thomas explaining that his 
 
JACQUES JASMIN. 127 
 
 friend had been six months ill from the se- 
 vere wound which he received in defence of 
 Fran§onette ; and that the family, dependent 
 on his labor, had sunk into extreme poverty. 
 But she concealed her emotion sedulously, and 
 was in the midst of a game of sarro coutelou, 
 cache couteau, or hunt the slipper, and the life 
 of it, when a sudden misfortune interrupted 
 their sport. Amid her struggles to free herself 
 from Laurent, — who had caught her and was 
 claiming the customary forfeit, — Frangonette 
 caused him to slip on the floor, and it presently 
 appeared that his arm was broken. Precisely 
 at this unlucky moment, a sombre apparition 
 dawned on the assembly : — 
 
 A grim old man above them peered, 
 With girdle swept by flowing beard; 
 'T was the Black Forest Wizard ! All knew him, and all 
 
 feared. 
 " Wretches," he said, " I am come from my gloomy rooks 
 
 up yonder 
 To open your eyes, being filled with ruth for you, and 
 
 wonder ! 
 You all adore this Fran§onette, 
 
 Learn who she is, infatuate ! — 
 Her sire, a poor man and an evil, 
 
 While yet the babe in cradle sate. 
 Went over to the Huguenots, and sold her to the Devil ! 
 
128 TROUBADOURS AND TROUViRES. 
 
 Her mother is dead of grief and shame. 
 And thus the demon plays his game : — 
 
 Full closely doth he guard his slave, 
 Unseen, he tracks her high and low. 
 See' Laurent and Pascal ! Did both not come to woe, 
 
 Just for one light embrace she gave ? 
 Be warned in time ! For whoso dares this maid to wed, 
 Amid the brief delight of his first nuptial night. 
 Suddenly hears a dreadful thunder-peal o'erhead! 
 The Demon cometh in his might 
 To snatch the bride away in flight, 
 And leave the iU-starred bridegroom — dead." 
 
 The wizard spake no more, but angry fiery rays. 
 
 From the scars his visage bore, seemed suddenly to blaze. 
 
 Four times he turned his heel upon. 
 Then bade the door stand wide or ever his foot he stayed. 
 With one long groan the door obeyed. 
 
 And lo, the bearded man was gone! 
 
 But left what horror in his wake ! None stirred in aU that 
 
 throng. 
 Only the stricken maid herself stood brave against her 
 
 wrong ; 
 And in the hope forlorn that all might pass for jest, 
 With tremulous smile, half bright, half pleading. 
 
 She swept them with her eyes, and two steps forward 
 
 pressed: 
 But when she saw them all receding. 
 And heard them say, " Avaunt ! " her fate 
 She knew. Then did her eyes dilate 
 
JACQUES JASMIN. 129 
 
 With speechless terror more and more; 
 The while her heart beat fast and loud, 
 Till with a cry her head she bowed, 
 
 And sank in swoon upon the floor. 
 
 It is very characteristic of Jasmin that he 
 pauses at this crisis of the story, earnestly 
 to explain and excuse the dense superstition 
 of his country-folk at that period, whereby 
 it came to pass that the once radiant and tri- 
 umphant Frangonette was shunned thencefor- 
 ward as an accursed thing. These frequent 
 confidences of the poet with his reader are so 
 perfectly unstudied that they add wonderfully 
 to the vraisemblance of liis tale. The third canto 
 opens with a lovely picture of a cottage by a 
 leafy brook-side in Estanquet, one of the ham- 
 lets adjacent to Roquefort (and where tradition 
 still identifies the home of Frangonette). There, 
 when the next spring opened, the "jealous 
 birds "■ listened in vain for a girlish voice, the 
 music of which in years gone by had been 
 sweeter than their own. At last the nightin- 
 gales, more curious than the rest, made their 
 way into the maid's garden, — and what did 
 they see ? Her straw hat lay on a bench ; there 
 
130 TROUBADOURS AND TROUVkRES. 
 
 was no ribbon about the crown. Her rake and 
 watering-pot were dropped among her neglected 
 jonquils ; the branches of her rose-trees ran riot. 
 Peering yet farther, even inside the cottage- 
 door, these curious birds discovered an old 
 woman asleep in an arm-chair, and a pale, quiet 
 girl beside her, who, from time to time, let fall 
 a tear upon her little hands. " It is Franqo- 
 nette," says the poet. " You will have guessed 
 that already." 
 
 On the terrible New- Year's Eve just described, 
 when Fran§onette had fled for shelter to the 
 arms of her good old grandmother, the latter 
 had soothed her as best she might, by solemn 
 assurances that the sorcerer's cruel charge was 
 false. But how could it be proved so, save by 
 Fran§onette's father, whose whereabouts no one 
 , knew, even if he were alive, so long ago had he 
 vanished from the place ? For the remainder of 
 the winter the two women lived almost alone, 
 neglected by all their neighbors, and scarce vent- 
 uring abroad. Only with the return of spring, 
 one sweet gleam of hope had come to Frango- 
 nette with the rumor that Pascal defended her 
 everywhere, and boldly declared her to be the 
 
JACQUES JASMIN. 131 
 
 victim of a brutal plot. She was dreaming, of 
 his goodness even now, and it was this which 
 had softened her proud spirit to tears. But her 
 trance was dispelled by a sudden, sharp cry from • 
 the aged sleeper : — 
 
 Then sprang she to her side and found her open-eyed, 
 And caught the awesome word, " Is the wall not all a- 
 
 flame? " ' 
 
 And then, "Ah, 'twas a dream! Thank God!" the 
 
 murmur came. 
 " Dear heart," the girl said softly, " what was this dream 
 
 of thine?" 
 "O love, 'twas night; and loud, ferocious men, me- 
 
 thought. 
 Were lighting fires all round our cot. 
 And thou didst cry unto them, daughter mine. 
 To save me ; but didst vainly strive, 
 And here we two must burn alive ! 
 Oh torment that I bare! How shall I cure my fright? 
 Come hither, darling, let me hold thee tight! " 
 
 Then the white-headed dame, in withered arms of love, , 
 
 Long time with yearning tenderness 
 
 Folded the brown-haired girl, who strove 
 
 By many a smile and mute caress 
 
 To hearten her, until at length 
 
 The aged one cried out, for that love gave her strength, 
 
 " Sold to the demon? Thou! It is a hideous lie! 
 
 Wherefore weep not so patiently 
 
132 TROUBADOURS . AND TROUVMES. 
 
 And childlike, bat take heart once more, 
 
 For thou art lovelier than before. 
 
 Take granny's word for that ! Arise, 
 
 Go forth ! Who hides from envious eyes 
 
 The thirst of envy slakes. I have heard so o'er and o'erl 
 
 Also I know full well there is one who loves thee yet ; 
 
 Only a word he waiteth to claim thee for his own. 
 
 Thou likest not Marcel? But he could guard thee, pet. 
 
 And I am aU too feeble grown. 
 
 Or stay, my darling, stay ! To-morrow 's Easter day ; 
 
 Go thou to Mass, and pray as ne'er before! 
 
 Then take the blessed bread, if so the good God may 
 
 The precious favor of his former smile restore ; 
 
 And, on thy sweet face, clear as day. 
 
 Prove thou art numbered with his children evermore." 
 
 Then such a light of hope lit the faded face again, 
 
 FmTowed so deep with years and pain. 
 
 That, falling on her neck, the maiden promised well; 
 
 And once more on the white cot silence fell. 
 
 When, therefore, on the morrow, came all the country- 
 side 
 To list the hallelujahs in the Church of Saint-Pierre, 
 Great was their wonderment who spied 
 The maiden Frangonette silently kneeling there, 
 Telling her beads with downcast eyes of prayer. 
 ' She hath need, poor little thing. Heaven's mercy to im- 
 plore ! 
 Never a woman's will she win, 
 For these, beholding her sweet mien. 
 And Marcel and Pascal who eyed her fondly o'er, 
 
JACQUES JASMIN. 133 
 
 Smote her with glances black as night ; 
 
 Then, shrinking back, left her alone, 
 
 Midway of a great circle, as they might 
 
 Some guilty and condemned one. 
 
 Branded upon his brow in sight. 
 
 Nor was this all. A man well known, 
 
 Warden and uncle to Marcel, 
 
 Carried the blessed Easter bread, 
 
 And like a councillor did swell 
 
 In long-tailed coat, with pompous tread. 
 
 But when the trembling maid, signing the cross, essayed 
 
 To take a double portion, as the dear old grandame bade, 
 
 Right in the view of every eye 
 
 The sacred basket he withdrew, and passed her wholly by. 
 
 And so, denied her portion of the bread whereby we live, 
 
 She, on glad Easter, doth receive 
 
 Dismissal from God's house for aye! 
 
 Death-sick with fear, she deemeth aU. is lost indeed. 
 
 But no, — she hath a friend at need. 
 
 Pascal hath seen her all the while ; 
 
 Pascal's young foot is on the aisle ; 
 
 He is making the quest, and, nothing loath. 
 
 In view of uncle and of nephew, both, 
 
 Quietly doth to her present 
 
 Upon a silver plate, with fair flowers blossoming. 
 
 The crown-piece ' of the holy element, — 
 
 And all the world beholds the thing. 
 
 1 A custom formerly prevailed in some parts of France, and 
 was brought thence by emigrants to Canada, wliere it flourished 
 not long ago, of crowning the sacramental bread by one or 
 more frosted, or otherwise ornamented, cakes, which were re- 
 served for the family of the Seigneur, or other communicants 
 of distinction. 
 
134 TROUBADOURS AND TROUVMES. 
 
 moment full of sweetness! Her blood sprang into 
 
 fleetness, 
 Warmth was in all her frame, and her senses thrilled 
 
 once more, 
 As the body of God, arisen 
 Out of its deathly prison, 
 Could life unto her own restore. 
 But wherefore did her brow suddenly rosy grow? 
 Because the angel of lore, I trow. 
 Did with his glowing breath impart 
 
 Life to the flame long smouldering in her wayward heart, — 
 Because a something strange, and passing all desire. 
 As honey sweet, and quick as fire, 
 Did her sad soul illuminate 
 With a new being; and, though late. 
 She knew the name of her delight, — 
 The fair enigma she could g^ess. 
 People and priest vanished from sight. 
 And she saw in all the church only one man aright, — 
 He whom she loved at last with utmost gratefulness. 
 
 Leave we the throng dispersing, and eagerly conversing 
 
 Of all I here have been rehearsing. 
 
 But lose not sight of her at aU, 
 
 Who hath borne the bread of honor to the ancient dame 
 
 ere this, 
 And sitteth now alone, shut in her chamber small. 
 Face to face with her new-found bliss. 
 
 First fall of happy dew the parchfed lands to quicken, 
 First mild sun-ray in winter, ye are less welcome far 
 Unto the earth with sorrow stricken 
 Than these mysterious transports are 
 
JACQUES JASMIN, 135 
 
 To the dazed maiden dreaming there, 
 Forgetful of her heavy care, 
 And softly in her spirit moving 
 To the flame-new delight of loving. 
 
 From evil tongues withdrawn, did she — 
 
 As do we all — sink open-eyed in reverie. 
 
 And built, with neither hammer nor stone, 
 
 A small fair castle of her own, 
 
 Where shone all things in Pascal's light, and cheer and 
 
 rest 
 Flowed like a living brook. Ah, yes, the sage was right! 
 The sorrowing heart aye lovetli best. 
 But when the heart controls us quite. 
 Quick tm-ns to gaU the honey of our delight. 
 Suddenly she remembers aU! Her heaven turns gray; 
 A dread thought smites her heavily, — 
 To dream of love? ^Vhy, what is'she? 
 Sweet love is not for her ! The mighty sorcerer 
 Hath said she is sold for a price, — a foredoomed murderer 
 With a heart of devilish wrath, which whoso dares to 
 
 brave, 
 And lie one night in her arm.s, therein shall find his grave. 
 She to see Pascal perish at her side? 
 " O my good God, have pity on me! " she cried. 
 
 So, rent with cruel agonies 
 
 And weeping very sore. 
 Fell the poor child upon her knees 
 
 Her little shrine before. 
 
136 TROUBADOURS AND TROUVERES." 
 
 " O holy Virgin," sighing, " on thee alone relying 
 
 I come. I am all astray ! Father and mother too 
 
 Are dead lang syne, and I accursed! All tongues are 
 
 crying 
 The hideous tale ! yet save, if haply it be true ; 
 Or if they have falsely sworn, be it on my soul borne 
 When I shall bring my taper to thy church ' on fete-d&j 
 
 morn. 
 Then, blessed mother, let me see 
 That I am not denied of thee! " 
 
 Brief prayer and broken. 
 
 If truly spoken, 
 
 Doth lightly up to heaven fly. 
 
 Sure to have won a gracious ear 
 
 The maid her purpose holds, and ponders momently, 
 
 And oftentimes turns sick, and cannot speak for fear, 
 
 But sometimes taketh heart, and sudden hope and s.trong 
 
 Shines in her soul, as a meteor gleams the night along. 
 
 So ends the third canto, and the fourth and 
 last begins with the dawn of the fete day on 
 which are fixed Fran§onette's desperate hopes 
 and fears. The inhabitants of half-a-dozen vil- 
 lages, — Puymirol, Artigues, Astaffort, Lusig- 
 nan, Cardonnet, Saint-Cirge, and Roquefort, 
 
 1 Notre Dame de bon Encontre, a church in the suburbs of 
 Agen celebrated for its legend, its miracles, and the numerous 
 pilgrimages which are annually made to It in the month of 
 May. 
 
JACQUES JASMIN, 137 
 
 with priests and crucifixes, garlands and candles, 
 banners and angels,'^ are mustering at the church 
 of Notre Dame in Agen, and somehow, not only 
 is the tale rife among them of the maiden who 
 has been sold to the demon, but the rumor cir- 
 culates that to-day she will publicly entreat the 
 blessed Virgin to save her. The strangers are 
 kinder to her than her more immediate neigh- 
 bors, and from many a pitying heart the prayer 
 ■goes up that a miracle may be wrought in the 
 beautiful girl's behalf. She feels their sympathy 
 and gathers confidence.. And now the special 
 suppliants are passing up to the altar one by 
 one, — anxious mothers, disappointed lovers, 
 the orphaned, and the childless. They kneel, 
 they ask for their blessing, they present their 
 candles for the old surpliced priest to bless, and 
 they retire : — 
 
 Nor did a sign of sorrow on any suppliant fall, 
 
 But with lightened hearts of hope their ways went one 
 
 and all. 
 So Franconette grew happy too, 
 And most of all, because Pascal prayed smiling in her 
 
 view; 
 
 1 The angels walked in procession and sang the Angelas at 
 the appropriate hours. 
 
138 TROUBADOURS AND TROUVMRES. 
 
 Yea, dared to raise her eyes to the holy father's own; 
 Por it seemed to her that love and lights and hymns and 
 
 incense, too, 
 Were crying " gi-ace," in sweet unison. 
 And she sighed, " Oh, grace divine, and love! — let these 
 
 be mine ! ' ' 
 Then straightway lit her taper and followed to the shrine, 
 Bearing flowers in her other hand ; and every one 
 Kindly gave place, and bade her forward move, 
 Then fixed their eyes upon the priest and her, 
 And scarce a breath was drawn, and not a soul did stir, 
 While the priest laid the image of redeeming love 
 Upon the orphan's lips. But, ere her kiss was given, 
 Brake a terrific peal, as it would rend the heaven. 
 Darkening her taper and three altar-lights above ! 
 Oh, what is this? The crashing thunder, 
 The prayer denied, the lights put out. 
 "Good God! she is sold indeed! AH, all is true, no 
 
 doubt!" 
 So a long murmur rose, of horror and of wonder; 
 And while the maiden bi-eathlessly, 
 Cowering like a lost soul their shuddering glances under, 
 Crept forth, all shrank away and let her pass them by. 
 
 Howbeit, that great peal was but the opening blow 
 
 Of a wild storm and terrible 
 
 That straightway upon Eoquefort fell. 
 
 The spire of Saint-Pierre ' was laid in ruin low. 
 
 And, smitten by the sharp scourge of the hail, 
 
 In all the region round men could but weep and wail. ^ 
 
 1 The ancient parish church of Eoquefort, whose ruins 
 only now remain. 
 
JACQUES JASMIN. 139 
 
 The angel-bands who walked that day 
 In fair procession, hymns to sing, 
 Turned sorrowing, all save one, away, 
 Ora pro nobis murmuring. 
 
 But in those early times, not yet, as now. 
 
 Her perilous waves to clear. 
 
 To other jealous towns could stately Agen show 
 
 Great bridges three, as she a royal city were, — 
 
 Two simple barges only, by poles propelled slow. 
 
 Waited the sacred minstrels to bear them to Roquefort, 
 
 To whom came rumors of the wide-spread woe. 
 
 Ere landing they were ranged for singing on the shore. 
 
 And first the tale but half they heed ; 
 
 But soon they see, in very deed, 
 
 Vineyards and happy fields with hopeless ruin smit. 
 
 Then each let fall his banner fair, 
 
 And lamentations infinite 
 
 Rent on all sides the evening air. 
 
 Till, o'er the swelling throng rose deadly clear the cry, 
 
 " And stiU we spare this Frangonette! " Then suddenly, 
 
 As match to powder laid, the word 
 
 Set all on fire, and there were heard 
 
 Howls of "Ay, ay, th-e wretch! now let her meet her 
 
 fate! 
 She is the cause of all, 't is plain! 
 Once hath she made us desolate. 
 But verily shall not so again." 
 And ever the press grew, and wilder, angrier, too, 
 And " Hunt her off the face of the earth! " shrieked one 
 
 anew. 
 
140 TROUBADOURS AND TROUVMES. 
 
 ' ' Ay, hunt her to death ! ' T is meet ! " a thousand tongues 
 
 repeat; 
 And the tempest in the skies cannot with this compete. 
 Oh, then, to have seen them as they came 
 With clenched fists and eyes aflame, 
 You had said, " Hell doth indeed its demons all unchain." 
 And while the storm recedes, and the night is gi'owing 
 
 clear, 
 Hot poison shoots through every vein 
 Of the possessed madmen here. 
 
 Thus goaded they themselves to crime; but where was 
 
 she, 
 Unhappy Frangonette? To her own cottage driven, 
 She worshipped her one relic, sadly, dreamily. 
 And whispered to the withered flowers Pascal had given, 
 " Dear nosegay, when I saw thee first, 
 Methought thy sweetness was divine, 
 And I did drink it, heart-athirst ; 
 But now thou art not sweet as erst. 
 Because these wicked thoughts of mine 
 Have blasted all thy beauty rare. 
 I am sold to the powers of ill, and Heaven hath spumed 
 
 my prayer ! 
 My love is deadly love ! No hope on earth have I! 
 So, treasure of my heart, flowers of the m.eadow fair, 
 Because I love the hand that gathered you, good-by I 
 Pascal must not love such as I ! 
 He must the accursed maid forswear, 
 Who yet to God for him doth cry. 
 In wanton merriment last year 
 
JACQUES JASMIN. 141 
 
 Even at loye laughed Franconette; 
 
 Now is my condemnation clear. 
 
 Now whom I love, I must forget. 
 
 Sold to the demon at my birth, — 
 
 My God, how can it be? Have I not faith in thee? 
 
 blessed blossoms of the earth. 
 
 Let me drive with my cross the evil one from me 1 
 
 And thou, my mother, in the starry skies above, 
 
 And thou, my guardian, Mother of Grod, 
 
 Pity! I love Pascal! Must part from him I love! 
 
 Pity the maid accursed, by the rod 
 
 Sore smitten, to the earth down-trod; 
 
 Help me the heart divine to move! " 
 
 " Franconette, little one, what means thy plaintive moan? " 
 
 So spake the hoary dame. " Didst thou not smiling say 
 
 Our Lady did receive thy offering to-day? 
 
 But sure, no happy heajt e'er made so sad a moan ! 
 
 Thou hast deceived me! Some new iU," she said, 
 
 ' ' Hath fallen upon us ! " " Nay, not so. Be comforted ; 
 
 1 — I — am happy. " "So, my deary, 
 God grant some respite we may have. 
 For sorrow of thine doth dig my grave. 
 
 And this hath been a lonesome, fearsome day, and weary; 
 That cruel dream of the fire I had a while ago, 
 However I strove, did haunt me so! 
 And then, thou knowest the stoi-m ; anew 1 was terrified, 
 So that to-night, meseems, I shudder at nought " — 
 
 What sudden roar is this outside? 
 
 ' ' Fire ! Fire ! Let us burn them in their cot ! " 
 
 Shine aU the cracks in the old shutter gaping wide ; 
 
142 TROUBADOURS AND TROUVMES. 
 
 And Franconette springs to the doorway tremblingly, 
 
 And, gracious Heaven! what doth she see? 
 
 By the light 'of the burning rick, 
 
 An angry people huddled thick; 
 
 She hears them shout: " Now, to your fate! 
 
 Spare neither the young one, nor the old; 
 
 Both work us ruin manifold. 
 
 Off with thee, child of wrath! or we wUl roast thee, 
 
 straight! " 
 Then cried the girl on her knees to the cruel populace, 
 " You will slay my granny with your very words! " and 
 
 prayed for grace. 
 But when, in their infuriate blindness, heed they take 
 Of the poor pleader in her unbound hair. 
 They only think they see her, then and there, 
 Torn by the rage demoniac. 
 And all the fiercer cry, " Avaunt! " 
 While the more savage forward spring, 
 And their feet on the threshold plant. 
 Fragments of blazing cord in their arms brandishing. 
 
 "Hold! I command you, hold!" cried one, before un- 
 heard ; 
 
 And a man leaped into the crowd like lightning with the 
 word, — 
 
 One whom we know, — and over all 
 
 His voice uplifted thus Pascal: 
 
 " What! will ye murder women, then? 
 
 Children of God, and you, the same; 
 
 Or are ye tigers, and not men? 
 
 And after all they have suffered! Shame 1 
 
JACQUES JASMIN. I43 
 
 Fall back, fall back, I say! The walls are growing hot! " 
 
 " Then let them quit for aye our shore ! 
 
 They are Huguenots — knowest thou not? — long since by 
 
 the demon bought; 
 God smites because we drave them not before." 
 " Quick, bring the other forth, or living she will burn! 
 Ye dogs, who moved you to this crime? 
 It was the wi-oth Marcel! See where he comes in time! " 
 " Thou liest! " the soldier thundered in his tm-n; 
 " I love her, boaster, more than thou! " 
 '.' How wilt thou prove thy love, thou of the tender 
 
 heart? " 
 "I am come to save her life! I am come to take her 
 
 part! 
 I am come, if so she will, to marry her, even now! " 
 
 " And so am I," replied Pascal; and steadfastly. 
 
 Before his rival's eyes, bound as by some great spell, 
 
 Unto the orphan girl turned he 
 
 With worship aU unspeakable. 
 
 " Answer us, Francbnette, and speak the truth alone! 
 
 Thou art followed from place to place, by spite and scorn, 
 
 my own ; 
 But we two love thee well, and ready are to brave 
 Death, ay, or hell, thy life to save. 
 Choose which of us thou wilt! " " Nay," she lamented 
 
 sore, 
 " Dearest, mine is a love that slays. 
 Be happy then without me! Forget me; go thy ways! " 
 " Happy without thee, dear? That can I never more! 
 Nay, were it true, as lying rumor says, 
 
144 TROUBADOURS AND TROUVERES. 
 
 An evil spirit ruled thee o'er, 
 
 I would rather die with thee than live bereavM days ! " 
 
 When life is at its bitterest 
 
 The voice of love aye rules us best. 
 
 Instantly rose the girl above her mortal dread, 
 
 And, on the crowd advancing straight, 
 
 " Because I love Pascal, alone I would meet my fate. 
 
 Howbeit, his will is law," she said, 
 
 " Wherefore together let our souls be sped." 
 
 Then was Pascal in heaven. Marcel in the dust laid low, 
 
 Whom amid all the quaking throng his rival sought. 
 
 Crying, " I am more blessed than thou. Forgive! Thou 
 
 art brave, I know ; 
 Some squire should follow me to death, and wilt thou 
 
 not? 
 Serve me! I have no other friend." Marcel seemed 
 
 dreaming. 
 And now he scowled with wrath, and now his eye grew 
 
 kind; 
 Terrible was the battle in his mind 
 TiU his eye fell on Franconette, serene and beaming. 
 But with no word for him. Then pale but smilingly, 
 " Because it is her will," he said, " I follow thee." 
 
 Two weeks had passed away, and a strange nuptial train 
 Adown the verdant hill wound slowly to the plain. 
 First came the comely pair we know in all their bloom, 
 While, gathered from far and wide, three deep on either 
 
 side. 
 The ever curious rustics hied, 
 Shuddering at heart o'er Pascal's doom. 
 
JACQUES JASMIN. 146 
 
 Marcel conducts their march, but pleasure's kindly hue 
 
 Glows not on the unmoving face he lifts to view, 
 
 And something glances from his eye 
 
 Which makes men shudder as they pass him by. 
 
 Yet verily his mien triumphant is ; at least 
 
 Sole master is he of this feast, 
 
 And gives his rival, for bouquet, 
 
 A supper and a baU to-day. 
 
 But, at the dance and at the board 
 
 Alike, scarce one essayed a word; 
 
 None sang a song, none raised a jest, 
 
 For dark forebodings that oppressed. 
 
 And the betrothed, by love's deep rapture fascinated, 
 
 Silent on the sheer edge of fate the end awaited. 
 
 No sound their dream dispelled, but hand in hand did 
 
 press, 
 And eyes looked ever on a visioned happiness. 
 And so, at last, the evening fell. 
 Then one affrighted woman suddenly brake the spell. 
 She came. She fell on Pascal's neck. " Fly, son! " she 
 
 cried; 
 " I am come from the sorceress even now! Fly thy false 
 
 bride! 
 For the fatal sieve' hath turned; thy death decree is 
 
 spoken ! 
 
 1 Lou sedas. The sedas is a sieve of raw silk used for sift- 
 ing flour. It lias also a singular use in necromancy. When 
 one desires to know the name of tlie author of an act, — a 
 theft, for instance, — the sieve is made to revolve, but woe to 
 him whose name is spoken just as the sieve stops. 
 10 
 
146 TROUBADODRS AND TROUVijRES. 
 
 There 's a sulphur fume in the bridal room, by the same 
 
 dread token. 
 Enter it not! If thou livest, thou art lost," she said, 
 " And what were life to me if thou wert dead? " 
 
 Then Pascal felt his eyelids wet. 
 And turned away, striving to hide his face; whereon, 
 
 " Ingrate! " the mother shrieked, "but I will save thee 
 yet; 
 Thou wilt not dare ' ' — and fell at the feet of her son — 
 " Thou shalt pass over my body, sure as thou goest forth! 
 A wife, it seems, is all, and a mother nothing worth; 
 
 Unhappy that I am! " AU wept aloud for woe. 
 
 "Marcel 1" the bridegroom said, "her grief is my de- 
 spair ; 
 But love, thou knowest, is stronger yet. 'T is time to go ! 
 Only, if I should die, my mother be thy care." 
 
 " I can no more ! Thy mother hath conquered here," 
 The stm-dy soldier said, and he too brushed a tear. 
 
 " Prythee take courage, friend of mine! 
 Thy Frangonette is good and pure ; 
 
 Yon tale was told of dark design. 
 But give thy mother thanks : but for her coming, sure 
 
 This night had seen my death and thine." 
 ■" What sayest thou? " " Hush ! I will tell thee all. 
 Thou knowest I loved this maid, Pascal; 
 For her, like thee, I would have shed my blood. 
 And I dreamed I was loved again, — she held me so in 
 
 thrall, — 
 Albeit my prayer was aye withstood. 
 
JACQUES JASMIN. 147 
 
 She knew her elders promised her to me, 
 And so, when other suitors barred my way, in spite. 
 
 Saying, ' In love as in war one may use strategy,' 
 I gave the wizard gold, my rivals to aSright. 
 
 Thereafter chance did all ; insom.uch that I said, 
 My treasure is already won; 
 
 But when, in the same breath, we two our suit made 
 known. 
 
 And when I saw her, without turn of head 
 Toward my despair, choose thee, it was not to be borne! 
 I vowed her death, and thine, and mine, ere morrow mom ! 
 
 I had thought to lead you forth to the bridal bower ere- 
 long, 
 And there, the bed beside, which I had mined with care, 
 To say, ' No prince of the power of the air 
 
 Is here ! I burn you for my wrong. 
 Ay, cross yourselves,' quoth I, ' for you shall surely diel ' 
 And the folk had seen us three together fly! 
 
 " But thy mother, with her tears, hath put my vengeance 
 
 out. , 
 I thought of my own, Pascal, who died so long ago. 
 Care thou for thine ! Thou hast nought to fear from me, 
 
 I trow ; 
 Eden is coming down to earth for thee, no doubt, 
 But I, whom men henceforth can only hate and flout. 
 Will to the wars away! for something in me saith, 
 I may recover from my rout 
 
 Better than by a crime, — ay, by a soldier's death ! " 
 Saying, he vanished ; and loud cheers broke forth on every 
 
 side, 
 
148 TROUBADOURS AND TROUVilRES. 
 
 The while, with deepening blushes, the twain each other 
 
 eyed, 
 As they were suddenly timid grown. 
 
 For now the morning stars in the dark heayen shone — 
 I lift my pencil here, my breath comes hurriedly; 
 Colors for strife and pain have I, 
 But for their perfect rapture — none.' 
 
 And so the morning came with softly dawning light; 
 No sound, no stir, as yet, inside the cottage white, 
 Albeit, at Estanquet, three hamlets gathered were 
 To wait the waking of the wedded pair. 
 
 Marcel had told the whole unhappy truth. Nathless, 
 The devil was mighty in those days ; 
 
 Some fear for the bridegroom yet, and guess 
 At strange mischance. "In the night wild cries were 
 
 heard," one says; 
 One hath seen shadows dance on the wall in wondrous 
 ways. 
 
 Lives Pascal yet? None dares to dress 
 The spicy broth ^ to leave beside the nuptial door; 
 And so another hour goes o'er. 
 
 Then floats a lovely strain of music overhead, 
 
 1 The reader will be reminded of William Morris, at the close 
 of his exquisite story of Psyche ; — 
 
 " My lyre is but attuned to tears and pain ; 
 How can I sing the never-ending day ? " 
 
 ^ Lou tourrin, a highly-spiced onion soup, which is carried by 
 the wedding guests to the bridegroom at a late hour of the 
 night. 
 
JACQUES JASMIN. 149 
 
 A sweet refrain oft heard before, 
 
 'T is the aubado ^ ofEered to the newly wed. 
 
 So the door opes at last, and the young pair are seen; 
 And she, though flushing for the folk, with friendly hand 
 
 and mien. 
 The fragments of her garter gives. 
 And every woman two receives. 
 
 Then winks and words of ruth from eye and lip are passed, 
 And the luck of our Pascal makes envious all at last ; 
 For the poor lads whose hearts, I ween, are healed but 
 slightly 
 
 Of their first passionate pain. 
 When they see Franjouette, blossoming rose-like, brightly, 
 All dewy fresh, all sweet and sightly, 
 
 Cry, "We will ne'er believe in sorcerers again!" 
 
 The action of the poem is so rapid that, in 
 order to give a complete outline of the plot, 
 and some notion of the fine discrimination of 
 character which it contains, I have been obliged 
 to omit some descriptive passages of extreme 
 beauty. M. de Lavergne says truly of " Fran§o- 
 nette," that it is, of all Jasmin's works, the 
 one in which he has aimed at being most en- 
 tirely popular, and that it is, at the same time, 
 the most noble and the most chastened. He 
 might have added, the most chivalrous also. 
 
 1 A song^ of early morning, corresponding to the serenade or 
 evening song. 
 
150 TROUBADOURS AND TROUVMES. 
 
 There is something essentially knightly in Pas- 
 cal's cast of character, and it is singular that, at 
 the supreme crisis of his fate, he assumes, as if 
 unconsciously, the very phraseology of chivalry : 
 " Some squire (^donzel) should follow me to 
 death," etc.; and we find it altogether natural 
 and becoming in the high-hearted smith. There 
 are many places where Jasmin addresses his 
 readers directly as " Messieurs ; " where the con- 
 text also makes it evident that the word is 
 emphatic ; that he is distinctly conscious of 
 addressing those who are above him in rank, 
 and that the proper translation is "gentles," 
 or even " masters : " yet no poet ever lived who 
 was less of a sycophant. The rather rude wood- 
 cut likeness prefixed to the popular edition of 
 the Gascon's works represents a face so widely 
 unlike all well-known modern types, that one 
 feels sure it must be like the original. Once 
 seen in living reality, it must have haunted the 
 memory for ever. It is broad and massive in 
 feature, shrewd and yet sweet in expression, 
 homely, and serenely unconscious. It is " vilain 
 et tres vilain" in every line, but the head is car- 
 ried high, with something more than a courtier's 
 dignity. 
 
THE SONGS OF THE TROUBADOURS. 
 I. 
 
 TT is not easy to say how much of the interest 
 of the new Provencal literature is due to the 
 ancient dignity of its name, and to a kind of re- 
 flected lustre which it receives from the far- 
 away glories of the old. Yet when we come to 
 look carefully for the connection ■ and resem- 
 blance between the two, we shall be surprised 
 to find how slight these are. Nearly all the 
 modern literatures of Europe owe as much to 
 the early Provencal poetry, as does the literature 
 of the Troubadours' own land. Nay, it has 
 seemed, until very lately, as if France, had been 
 the smallest heir to the rich legacy of modern 
 song, if not completely disinherited. The truth 
 is, that the literature of the troubadours, childish 
 in spirit, but precociously mature and beautiful 
 in form, perished early by violence and without 
 issue. Aliens had already caught the spirit of 
 it, and imitated its music with more or less sue- 
 
152 TROUBADOURS AND TROUVERES. 
 
 cess ; but six hundred years were to elapse be- 
 fore a school of poetry would arise in which we 
 might reasonably look for a true family likeness 
 to this the first untutored outburst of modern 
 minstrelsy. The .likeness may be traced, no 
 doubt, but it is faint and fleeting. The early 
 Proven§al literature stands before us as some- 
 thing unique, integral, immortally youthful, and 
 therefore unconscious of its own range and limi- 
 tations, pathetic from the brevity of its course, 
 a development of art without an exact parallel 
 in the world's history. 
 
 There has never been a more brilliant analysis 
 of what may be called the technique of the trou- 
 bad9ur poetry than Sismondi's in his " Literature 
 of the South of Europe." He does no less than 
 furnish a key to the whole mystery of modern 
 versification, and whoever would study that 
 versification as an art ought to bestow the most 
 careful attention on Sismondi's first four chap- 
 ters. But even Sismondi has his prepossessions ; 
 and in particular we are inclined to think that 
 he lays too much stress on the influence of the 
 Arabs, at least over the forms of modern verse. 
 There is no doubt that the frequent incursions 
 
SONGS OF THE TROUBADOURS. 153 
 
 of the Saracens into the south of France, dur- 
 ing the three centuries preceding a.d. 1000, 
 influenced powerfully the imagination of the 
 inhabitants of Provence, and furnished them 
 with subjects for an abundant ballad literature 
 of a crude order, slight but sufficient traces of 
 which remain. But the mutual aversion of 
 Christian and infidel was then at its height ; 
 the Mo9arabins, or mixed Arabians, — Chris- 
 tian Goths, who under special circumstances 
 accepted the amnesty of their Mussulman con- 
 querors and lived peaceably under their sway, 
 and on whose influence in diffusing Orien- 
 tal culture Sismondi lays great stress, — were 
 shunned as the vilest of apostates ; and although 
 these were the days of Haroun Al- Easchid and 
 his son, Al Mamoun, under whom every branch 
 of Moorish art flourished amazingly, there seems 
 no good reason to suppose that the Christians 
 borrowed more from the Saracens in the depart- 
 ment of poetry than they did in that of con- 
 structive architecture or general decoration. 
 There are words of Arabian origin in the Ro- 
 mance language, and there are many more of 
 Greek origin, preserved from that long period 
 
154 TROUBADOURS AND TROUVilRES. 
 
 of Greek occupation and civilization which ante- 
 dated even the Roman conquest. But the lan- 
 guage as a whole remains Latin, modified by 
 the speech of the northern barbarians, and the 
 first of a^amily of such languages to produce a 
 literature. 
 
 And as with the form of this literature, so 
 with its substance and inspiration. We have 
 elsewhere traced what seems to us the unbroken 
 descent — through the Latin hymnology of the 
 earlier Middle Age — of the troubadour meas- 
 ures in which, as in all modern verse, the effect 
 depends upon accent, from the classic measures 
 in which the effect depends upon quantity. It is 
 possible, although by no means, certain, that the 
 first idea of those terminal rhymes which were 
 destined to play so important a part in the new 
 poetry may have been derived from Oriental com- 
 positions, of which they were a conspicuous orna- 
 ment. But at all events, it was in the cell of 
 the Christian monk that the seeds of poetic as 
 of all other culture were kept and fostered as 
 carefully as the flowers of the convent-garden, 
 through the troubled season of the first Chris- 
 tian millennium. During that most dreary time 
 
SONGS OF THE TROUBADOURS. 155 
 
 of transition, Christianity was slowly spreading 
 among the half-savage races which had replaced 
 the Romans and their colonists in the south of 
 Europe, and adopting and assimilating to itself 
 certain of the native barbarian ideas. Promi- 
 nent among these was that serious, almost su- 
 perstitious respect for woman which seems a 
 birthright of the northern nations. It was a 
 notion wholly at variance with the view of 
 classic paganism, but one which the spirit of 
 Christianity favored. The grand primitive pas- 
 sion — the love of man for woman — received a 
 sort of theoretic consecration, and the virgin 
 mother of Jesus Christ became one of the chief 
 objects of p ublic worship . And then in the 
 period of reaction and exhilaration which fol- 
 lowed the close of the tenth century, and the 
 relief from that harrowing presentijjient of the 
 end of the worid and the last judgment which 
 had prevailed almost everywhere as the first 
 millennial j-ear approached, at the time also of 
 the final repulse of the Saracens in the south- 
 west, — then, if ever, chivalry, or th e adventurous 
 service of God and womankind, took systematic 
 shape, and the Crusades were its first outgrowth 
 
156 TROUBADOURS AND TROUVERES. 
 
 in action, and ^leloye-goetryof the trouba- 
 dours, or minstrels of the south, its_first symmet- 
 rical expression in art. 
 
 , Many voIumesTiave been written on the posi- 
 tion and profession of the troubadour ; charming 
 volumes, too, which are accessible to almost 
 every reader. Yet when all is gathered which 
 can be certainly known, how strange a phenom- 
 enon he remains to our modern eyes ! How 
 much is still left to the imagination ! We know 
 that he was usually attached to the household 
 of a great seignior or the court of a rejgning 
 sovereign, and' was a frequent, though, as it 
 • would seem, voluntary attendant on their dis- 
 tant expeditions. We know that it was his 
 m/tier, or at any rate a principal part of it, to 
 select some lady as the ohj^ect, for the time being, 
 of his formal worship; and to celebrate her 
 charms and virtues in those melodious numbers, 
 the secret of whose infinitely variable beauty he 
 himself never ceased to regard as a kind of 
 miraculous discovery or revelation. We know 
 that while the singer was sometimes even of 
 kingly rank, oftener a poor cavalier who had 
 need to live upon his skill iufinding, and oftener 
 
SONGS OF THE TROUBADOURS. 157 
 
 yet a man of humble birth whom genius was 
 readily allowed to ennoble, the lady-love was 
 ^Imost^always of exalted station ; frequently, by 
 the operation of the Salic law, a great heiress 
 in her own right ; and that hence her hand was 
 certain to have been disposed of for prudential 
 or political reasons before she had any choice in 
 the matter. There were reasons, therefore, 
 besides total depravity, why she was regularly^ 
 a married woman .^ We know that, theoret- 
 
 1 " The prolonged barbarity of the feudal marriage relation 
 gave rise to the most singular moral and social phenomena. 
 Of those first germs of civilization which we have seen ferment- 
 ing and developing themselves in the eleventh century , that new 
 sentiment, that respectful enthusiasm which even then tended 
 to become the principle of disinterested actions, was the most 
 deep-rooted and the most energetic. This new sentiment how- 
 ever could not manifest itself truly and become a moral force, 
 a, principle of heroism, in conjugal relations. ... It was 
 rather in contradistinction with those relations, and as if with 
 a view to compensate for their defects, that the love of chivalry 
 developed itself; and if any thing can aid us in forming a 
 correct conception of the exaggerated pretensions, the refine- 
 ments, and the subtleties of this love, it is the precarious and 
 interested motives of the feudal marriage-tie. The sufferings 
 to which women were exposed as wives explain to a certtiin ex- 
 tent the adoration which they exacted and obtained as the ladies 
 of the chevaliers." Faimel^ " History of Provencal Poetry," 
 p. 321 of Adler's English translation. I cite the translation 
 because I have not the original at hand, but it is in most 
 respects a very bad one. 
 
158 TROUBADOURS AND TROUVMES. 
 ically, chivalric love was a something mystical 
 
 and supersensual ; but that the coiirts""of love 
 sanctioned much which the courts of law, even 
 of those days, forbade. We know that a seign- 
 ior and a husband could regard with compla- 
 cency, not to say pride, the ceremonial devotion 
 of his vassal to his wife ; yet that he was liable 
 to be visited, when all things appeared most 
 picturesque and prosperous, by movements of 
 what we cannot help regarding as a natural 
 jealousy, and impulses to deadly revenge. We 
 know that in the great majority of cases there 
 came a " sombre close " to the troubadour's 
 " voluptuous day," and that his life of amatory 
 adventure and artificially stimulated emotion 
 was apt to end in the shadow of the cloister. 
 We seem, in fine, to see him as an airy, graceful 
 insouciant figure, who sports and sings along a 
 dainty path, skirting the sheer and lofty verge 
 of the great gulf of human passion : and the 
 student will probably decide, from his own 
 knowledge of human nature, in what proportion 
 of cases he kept his perilous footing upon the 
 flowery heights, and in what he plunged head- 
 long into the raging deeps below. 
 
SONGS OF THE TROUBADOURS. 159 
 
 So much for the man ; and now a word or two 
 more about his work. Let it be understood 
 that we are to speak of the chansons, or love- 
 songs, chiefly. There is another great body of 
 troubadour literature, coming under the gen- 
 eral head of sirventes and comprisi ntr na. ri;-f^.tivpi 
 ISSL satirical poems, which, though full and 
 overfull of suggestions about the manners of 
 the time, have, as a rule, no great literary merit. 
 The chief wonder of the chansons is, and must 
 ever be, the contrast between the consummate 
 beauty and immense variety of their forms, and 
 the simpHcity, the sameness, and the frequent 
 triviality of their sentiments. In this respect . 
 troubadour poetry is like Greek sculpture. The j 
 technical excellence of it is so incredibly that { 
 we cannot help regarding it as something spon- \ 
 taneous, half-unconscious, — found, as the trou- \ 
 badours themselves so strikingly said, rather ( 
 than learned, — which no care and patience of \ 
 deliberate effort could ever quite have attained. ' 
 Sismondi complains of the monotony of the 
 troubadour compositions ; that they begin by 
 amazing and end by disappointing the student. 
 But they can disappoint, it seems to us, only 
 
160 TROUBADOURS AND TROUVMES. 
 
 him who is predetermined to seek for more than 
 is in them. It is little to say that they show 
 no depth of thought. TiLfiy_CQnta]ln^hardly any 
 thoughi at all. The love of external nature is 
 represented in them alone by the poet's peren- 
 nial rapture at the return of spring; spring, 
 which terminated his winter confinement and set 
 him free to wander over the sunny land ; spring, 
 with its mysterious but everlastingly intimate 
 association with thoughts of love. Of sensuous 
 imagery of any kind these poems contain very 
 little, which is another reason for distrusting 
 the theory of Arabian origin and influence. 
 The y are " all compact " of primary emotion, of 
 sentiment pure and simple ; and, as such, they 
 rank jn the scale of expression between music 
 and ordinary poetry, partaking almost as much 
 of the nature of the former as of the latter ; 
 which again is one reason why, although the 
 rules of their language are simple, these lyrics 
 are often so very obscure, — so elusive, rather, 
 and intangible . in their meaning. Their words 
 are like musical notes, not so much signs of 
 thought as symbols of feeling, which almost 
 defy an arbitrary interpretation, and must be 
 
SONGS OF THE TROUBADOURS. 161 
 
 rendered in part by the temperament of the per- 
 former. 
 
 And herein will be found our excuse, or rather 
 our reason, for having, in the versions which we 
 have attempted, preserved at all hazards the 
 measure and movement of the originals, the 
 lines of widely varying length, the long-sus- 
 tained and strangely distributed rhymes. The 
 reader who cares to examine these originals — to 
 which he is refen-ed — will find the rendering 
 not always close, according to the present high 
 standard of accuracy ; but where form is so 
 wonderfully paramount to sense, a likeness in 
 form seems of the first importance, and the 
 rest has to come somewhat as Heaven pleases. 
 Strictly speaking, however, some of these ver- 
 sions, at least, should rather be called para- 
 phrases. 
 
 The selections which follow have been made, 
 with one or two exceptions, from Raynouard's 
 " Choix des Poesies originales des Troubadours," 
 first published in 1816, or three years later than 
 Sismondi's analysis of the structure of the trou- 
 badour verse. In a note to one of his later 
 editions, Sismondi expresses himself as disap- 
 11 
 
162 TROUBADOURS AND TROUVMES. 
 
 pointed in many ways in the collection of Ray- 
 nouard ; chiefly because, like other bodies of 
 elegant extracts, it shows little of the coarser 
 side of the Provencal poetry, and thus fails to 
 illustrate its range. Out of the two or three 
 hundred poets whom Raynouard specifies, we, 
 however, shall have mentioned in this series of 
 articles barely a score, and may certainly be 
 pardoned for having selected those of their 
 strains which we found most delicate and sweet, 
 and which seemed to us to exhibit, with 
 the least defacement from the license of the 
 time, the sublimated ideal of that lisping, short- 
 lived school of song.^ We have also preferred 
 those authors whose names are most associated 
 with contemporary history, and if we dared 
 hope that our imperfect versions might evoke 
 
 1 And it need hardly be said, that, so far as we have treated 
 this poetry at all, we have treated it seriously. Like all modes 
 of exclusively sentimental expression, it is easily open to ridi- 
 cule ; but the entire literature can hardly have partaken in its 
 day of the nature of a joke. Those, however, who desire to 
 see it tr&vestied with considerable ability, and the stories of its 
 chief masters flippantly and amusingly told from a thoroughly 
 modern and rather vulgar point of view, are recommended to 
 a little book entitled, " The Troubadours : their Loves and 
 Lyrics," by John Rutherford, published in London by Smith 
 and Elder, 1873. 
 
SONGS OF THE TROUBADOURS. 163 
 
 around the reader any thing resembling the 
 Cor6t-like atmosphere haunted by simple bird- 
 notes, with which we felt ourselves invested 
 during the dark winter-days while we were 
 transcribing them, we should be more than 
 content. 
 
 It is matter for rejoicing, that the first of the 
 troubadours whose works are well authenticated 
 was a sovereign who figured somewhat conspic- 
 uously in the history of his time, so that his most 
 important piece can be exactly dated, and the 
 rest approximately. The ease and finish of 
 William of Poitiers's versification, and the fact 
 that his was a life of constant war and crowded 
 adventure, in which poetry can have been only 
 a pastime, forbid us to suppose that he was 
 really the father of Proven§al song. But al- 
 though, as the editor of Sainte Palaye dryly ob- 
 serves in the notice of William in his " Histoire 
 litt^raire dea Troubadours," it is the quality 
 of the poetry that concerns us, not that of the 
 poet, — it is doubtless to the quality of the poet 
 that we owe the preservation of the poetry. 
 
 William IX., Count of Poitiers and Duke of 
 Aquitaine, was born in 1071, and succeeded in. 
 
164 TROUBADOURS AND TROUVMES. 
 
 his fifteenth year to the sovereignty of a region 
 comprising, besides Gascony and the northern 
 half of Aquitaine, Limousin, Berry, and Au- 
 vergne. He grew up bold in war, unscrupulous 
 in wit, and unbridled in love, a man of many 
 crimes, but famed for the courtesy of his man- 
 ners, and capable of generous and even pious 
 retours, as the French call them. He is, in fact, 
 one of the first distinctly knight-like figures we 
 have, — a character of which the strong tints 
 and picturesque outlines yet stand out clearly 
 from the faded canvas of history. Of the many 
 anecdotes preserved concerning him we give, on 
 the authority of William of Malmesbury, one 
 which piquantly illustrates his usual attitude 
 toward the clergy and the church. In William's 
 forty-third year, the Bishop of Poitiers excom- 
 municated him on account of one of the many 
 scandals with which his name was associated. 
 When the bishop began his formula, William 
 fiercely drew his sword and threatened to kill 
 him if he went on. The prelate made a feint 
 of pausing, and then hurriedly pronounced the 
 rest of the sentence. " And now you may 
 strike," said he, " for I have done." " No," re- 
 
SONGS OF THE TROUBADOURS. 165 
 
 plied William, coolly putting up his sword, " I 
 don't like you well enough to send you to 
 Paradise ! " Many of William's amatory poems 
 are unfit for translation, and there is too much 
 reason to suppose that they describe adventures 
 of his own ; but some are wholly noble and 
 refined, and seem to show that the fine ideal of 
 chivalric love was already formed, even in so 
 stormy a breast as William's. We give a speci- 
 men of one of these last. It is in the favorite 
 spring key : — 
 
 Behold, the meads are green agaiii,^ 
 The orchard-bloom is seen again, 
 Of sky and stream the mien again 
 
 Is mild, is bright; 
 Now should each heart that loves obtain 
 
 Its own delight. 
 
 But I will say no ill of love,* 
 However slight my guerdon prove: 
 Repining doth not me behoove ; 
 
 And yet — to know 
 How lightly she, I fain would move, 
 
 Might bUss bestow! 
 
 1 " Pus vezem de ru>vdh florir," etc. (Raynouard, vol. v., 
 p. 117.) 
 
166 TROUBADOURS AND TROUVMES. 
 
 There are who hold my folly gfreat, 
 Because with little hope I wait ; 
 But one old saw doth animate 
 
 And me assure : 
 Their hearts are high, their might is great, 
 
 Who well endure. 
 
 Almost alone of the great nobles of Southern 
 Europe, William resisted the call of Raj'^mond 
 of Toulouse to the first Crusade in 1095 ; but 
 when, in 1099, the great news arrived of the 
 capture of Jerusalem, and an appeal was made 
 for the reenforcement of the small garrison left 
 in the Holy Land, William was overcome and 
 prepared to go; and the second of his pieces 
 which we have attempted to render was com- 
 posed early in the year 1101, on the eve of his 
 departure : — 
 
 Desire of song hath taken me,' 
 Yet sorrowful must my song be. 
 No more pay I my fealty 
 In Limousin or Poitiers. 
 
 Since I go forth to exile far, 
 And leave my son to stormy war, 
 To fear and peril, for they are 
 No friends who dwell about him there. 
 
 ' " Pus de chantar m'es pres talens," etc. ( Raynouard, toI. 
 iv., p. 83.) 
 
SONGS OF TEE TROUBADOURS. 167 
 
 What wonder, then, my heart is sore 
 That Poitiers I see no more. 
 And Fulk of Anjou must implore 
 To guard his kinsman and my heir? 
 
 If he of Anjou shield him not. 
 And he who made me knight,* I wot 
 Many against the boy will plot. 
 Deeming him well-nigh in despair. 
 
 Nay, if he be not wondrous wise, 
 And gay and ready for enterprise, 
 Gascons and Angevins will rise 
 And him into the dust will bear. 
 
 Ah, I was brave, and I had fame. 
 But we are sundered all the same. 
 I go to him in whose great name 
 Confide all sinners everywhere. 
 
 Surrendering all that did elate 
 My heart, all pride of steed or state. 
 To him on whom the pilgrims wait, 
 Without more tarrying, I repair. 
 
 Forgive me comrade, most my own. 
 If aught of wrong I thee have done! 
 I lift to Jesus, on his throne. 
 
 In Latin and Romance, my prayer. 
 
 1 Philip I. of Prance, William's suzerain. 
 
168 TROUBADOURS AND TROUVMES. 
 
 Oh, I was gallant, I was glad, 
 Till my Lord spake, and me forbade : 
 But now the end is coming sad, 
 Nor can I more my burden bear. 
 
 Good friends, when that indeed I die, 
 Pay me due honor where I lie ; 
 Tell how in love and luxury 
 
 I triumphed still, or here or there. 
 But farewell now, love, luxury. 
 
 And silken robes, and minnevair! ' 
 
 The suggestions of this naive lament are almost 
 infinite. In the first place, it is impossible to 
 doubt that it came straight from the heart of 
 the writer, and expresses, without the faintest 
 disguise, his conflicting emotions. As the out- 
 burst of a reckless, vehement, voluptuous nature, 
 under a sort of moral arrest or conviction, it is 
 touchingly frank. A second summons to the 
 Holy Land had come, one which it would be 
 palpable dishonor to disregard. If the going 
 thither might serve by way of expiation of for- 
 mer sins of sense and violence, the ducal poet 
 felt bound to go, since he had more upon his 
 
 1 The movement of these two specimens is almost the same, 
 but William was master of a variety of measures, and some- 
 times managed trochaic verse with great skill, as in the song 
 beginning " Farai cansoneta nova." 
 
SONGS OF THE TROUBADOURS. 169 
 
 conscience in that way than he could comfort- 
 ably sustain. But he makes not the faintest 
 pretence to enthusiasm, religious ov other. It 
 is grievous to him to leave his own realms, the 
 scene of all his pleasures and triumphs. He 
 really loved his child, and would have enjoyed 
 superintending his education in knightly exer- 
 cises ; and to abandon him to the attacks and 
 encroachments of jealous neighbors was intoler- 
 able. It is evident also that he put no very 
 implicit faith in the disinterestedness either of 
 his seignior or of Fulk of Anjou. Never did 
 his home-life look more alluring ; and the notion 
 of turning his back upon it at the Lord's behest 
 was altogether melancholy. He feels that he can- 
 not long survive such a sacrifice, yet that he has 
 hardly a choice about making it. The allusion, 
 in the eighth stanza, apparently to his comrade 
 in arms, is positively tender ; and the impulse 
 which leads him to request, in the closing lines, 
 that he may be honored after his death for those 
 things in which he did really delight and excel, is 
 almost droll in its honesty. We have lingered the 
 longer over these personal revelations because 
 they are, after all, the soul of literary history, 
 
170 TROUBADOURS AND TROUVkRES. 
 
 and we shall find only too little of the sort in 
 most of the remaining songs which we shall cite. 
 It remains to add, that William's presentiment 
 of martyrdom was not realized. He escaped 
 the manifold disasters of the campaign of 1101, 
 and returned within two years to his native 
 land. With characteristic levity, he afterwards 
 applied himself, in the brief intervals of his 
 struggles with Alphonse Jourdain for the pos- 
 session of Toulouse, to the composition of a long 
 narrative poem, in which he seems to have de- 
 tailed, in a rather humorous fashion, the events 
 of that ti'agic Syrian campaign ; but the poem, 
 though frequentlj' mentioned, has not been pre- 
 served. He died in 1127, at the age of fifty- 
 gix. 
 
 Very little is known concerning the life and 
 character of Marcabrun, the author of our next 
 specimen. The question has even been raised, 
 whether the Crusade mentioned in this little 
 sirvente were the Crusade of 1147, or that of 
 St. Louis, preached in 1269. The former is 
 more probable. The Louis named in the fourth 
 stanza was, presumably, Louis VII., the first 
 husband of Queen Eleanor of England, who 
 ^ P I'" „ 
 
SONGS OF THE TROUBADOURS. 171 
 
 accompanied him on this Crusade ; and Marcab- 
 run must therefore have been contemporary, for 
 a few years at least, with William of Poitiers. 
 In the twenty or more pieces ascribed to him, 
 there are but few allusions to love, and Mar- 
 cabrun alone, of all the troubadours, is not 
 known ever to have been himself a subject of 
 the tender passion. The contrast is curious 
 between the highly artificial structure of the 
 following verses, — one rhyme five times re- 
 peated, and the others separated by the length 
 of an entire stanza, — and the extreme sim- 
 plicity and obviousness of the sentiments: — 
 
 A fount there is, doth overfling * 
 
 Green turf and garden walks ; in spring, 
 
 A glory of ■white blossoming 
 
 Shines underneath its guardian tree, 
 And new-come birds old music sing; 
 And there, alone and sorrowing, 
 
 I found a maid I could not cheer, 
 
 Of beauty meet to be adored, 
 The daughter of the castle's lord;' 
 Methought the melody outpoured 
 By all the birds unceasingly, 
 
 ^ "A la fontana del vergier," etc. (Kaynouard, yol. iii., p. 
 
172 TROUBADOURS AND TROUVMRES. 
 
 The season sweet, the verdant sward, 
 Might gladden her, and eke my word 
 Her grief dismiss, would she but hear. 
 
 Her tears into the fountain fell; 
 With sorry sighs her heart did swell. 
 " O Jesus, king invisible," 
 
 She cri'ed, " of thee is my distress! 
 Through thy deep wrong bereft I dwell. 
 Earth's best have bidden us farewell, 
 
 On thee at thine own shrine to wait. 
 
 " And my true love is also gone, 
 The free,' fair, gentle, valiant one; 
 So what can I, but make my moan? 
 And how the sad desire suppress 
 That Louis' name were here unknown: 
 . The prayers, the mandates all undone, 
 Whereby I am made desolate? " 
 
 Soon as I heard this plaintive cry. 
 
 Moving the limpid wave anigh, 
 
 " Weep not, fair maid, so piteously, 
 
 Nor waste thy roses! " thus I cried; 
 " Neither despair, for he is by 
 Who wrought this leafy greenery. 
 
 And he will give thee joy one day." 
 
 " Seigneur, I well believe," she said, 
 " Of God I shall be comforted 
 Ih yonder world, when I am dead, 
 And many a sinful soul beside: 
 But now hath he prohibited 
 
SONGS OF THE TROUBADOURS. 173 
 
 My chief delight. I bow my head, 
 But heaven is very far away! " 
 
 Even more studied in structure, but also more 
 musical than the above, are the few love-poems 
 of Peter of Auvergne, who was born near the 
 time of William of Poitiers's death, and whose 
 career of nearly a century, lasting at least until 
 1214, won for him the surname of " the An- 
 cient." In the old manuscript " Lives of the 
 Troubadours," ^ Peter of Auvergne is described 
 as having risen by his genius, from a humble 
 station, to be the favored companion of princes. 
 " He made," observes the monkish historian, 
 " better-sounding verses than had ever been 
 made before his time, especially one famous 
 verse about the short days and long nights. 
 He made no song [chanson], for at that time 
 no poems were called songs, but verses, and Sir 
 
 1 Of these there are two collections, made by the monks, and 1 
 still preserved in the original manuscripts. One of these was I 
 made in the twelfth century, by Carm en tifere, a monk of the 
 Isles of Thiers, under the direction of Alphonso II., King of ) 
 Aragon and Count of Provence. The other was made, near 
 the close of the fourteenth century, by a Genoese, called " The 
 Monk of the Isles of Gold," who completed and corrected the 
 work of Carmentifere. In 1576, Jean Nostradamus compiled, / 
 from these and other sources, his rather apocryphal "Lives of 
 the Provenyal Poets;" and Crcscimbeni, in his " Stdria della ' 
 Volgar Poesie," has made a good selection from Nostradamus. 
 
174 TROUBADOURS AND TROUVERES. 
 
 Giraud de Borneil made the first chanson that 
 ever was made. But he was graced and honored 
 by all worthy men and women, and was held to 
 be the best troubadour in the world, before the 
 days of Giraud de Borneil. He praised himself 
 and his own songs a great deal, and blamed the 
 other troubadours:" both of which assertions 
 his remains abundantly confirm ; " and," adds 
 the biographer, who 'occasionally makes a pa- 
 rade of citing an authority, " the Dauphin of 
 Auvergne, who was born in his day, has told 
 me that he lived long and honorably in the 
 world, and finally went into his order, and 
 died." A few verses out of the longest and 
 most elaborate of Peter's love-lyrics will suffice 
 as a specimen of his manner : — 
 
 " Now unto my lady's dwelling ' 
 
 Hie thee, nightingale, away, 
 Tidings of her lover telling, 
 Waiting what herself will say; 
 
 Make thee 'ware 
 
 How she doth fare; 
 Then, her shelter spurning, 
 
 Do not be, 
 
 On any plea. 
 Let from thy returning. 
 
 1 " Rossinhol en son Repaire,'' etc. (" Parnasse Occitanien," 
 page 138.) '-'4,. ■ .•.-,. .-' ,,; ,-.. o-f 
 
SONGS OF THE TROUBADOURS. 175 
 
 " Come, thine utmost speed compelling, 
 
 Show her mien, her state, I pray! 
 All for her is my heart swelling; 
 Comrades, kindred, what are they? 
 
 Joyous bear 
 
 Through the air, 
 Wheresoever turning. 
 
 Zealously, 
 
 Fearlessly, 
 All thy lesson learning! " 
 
 When the bird of grace excelling 
 
 Lighted on her beauty's ray. 
 Song from out his throat came welling. 
 As though night had turned to day. 
 
 Then and there 
 
 He did forbear, 
 Until well discerning 
 
 Hear would she, 
 
 Seriously, 
 All his tale of yearning. 
 
 And so on through the three stanzas of the 
 poet's formal message to his lady, as delivered 
 by the bird. The text is very obscure in parts, 
 and is given with unusual variations by different 
 compilers, and the reiterated rhyme grows well- 
 nigh impossible to imitate, ever so remotely. In 
 the seventh stanza, where, the lady's answer be- 
 gins, a second set of rhymes is adopted, and thid 
 is preserved through the latter half of the poem. 
 
176 TROUBADOURS AND TROUVMES. 
 
 All that is known of Gfuirand le Roux, the 
 author of our neit specimen, is very interesting, 
 and intimately associates the poet's name with 
 some of the famous persons and events of his 
 time. The manuscript " Lives of the Trouba- 
 dours " contain only this brief notice of him : 
 " Girandos le Rox was of Toulouse, the son of 
 a poor cavalier who came to serve at the court 
 of his seignior, the Count Alphonse. He was 
 courteous, and a fine singer, and became enam- 
 oured of the countess, the daughter of his seign- 
 ior ; and the love which he bore her taught him 
 how to find [trohar], and he made many verses." 
 Now the Count Alphonse, here mentioned, was 
 Alphonse Jourdain, second son of Raymond de 
 Saint Gilles, the ardent and self-devoted captain 
 of the first Crusade. Alphonse himself was born 
 in the Holy Land, and baptized by his father in 
 the Jordan ; whence his surname. Raymond, as 
 is well known, took a vow to die where Christ 
 had died, and performed it ; and his elder son, 
 Bertrand, followed his example, resigning the 
 county of Toulouse to his brother Alphonse, 
 then a lad of thirteen or fourteen, when he left 
 for Syria in 1109. For ten years, our old friend 
 William of Poitiers disputed, with varying for- 
 
SONGS OF THE TROUBADOURS. 177 
 
 tune, the right of Alphonse of Toulouse. After 
 this, the latter, having established his claim, 
 reigned in peace, until he himself fulfilled the 
 family destiny by joining the second Crusade ; 
 and the poems of Guirand le Roux all belong to 
 the period between 1120 and 1147, the date of 
 that Crusade ; probably, also, to the last ten 
 years of that period. As for Guirand's lady- 
 love, the only daughter of Alphonse mentioned 
 in trustworthy history is a natural one, who 
 accompanied her father to the Holy Land, and 
 there became the wife, or a wife, of Sultan 
 Noureddin, and the heroine of some wonder- 
 fully romantic adventures. And though Sainte 
 Palaye, or his editor, insists that a natural 
 daughter never had the title of countess, and 
 even persuades himself of a certain Faidide 
 married to Humbert III. of Sicily, there is little 
 reason for doubting the identity of Guirand's 
 mistress with the brilliant heroine of Eastern 
 story. At all events, he, almost alone of the 
 troubadours, loved one woman only, and sang 
 of love exclusively, in strains of unfailing dig- 
 nity and refinement. Here is one of which the 
 high-flown devotion, whimsical but not un- 
 12 
 
178 TROUBADOVRS AND TROUVMES. 
 
 manly, reminds us a little of the latest and no- 
 blest lyrics of cliivalry, — the melodies of Love- 
 lace, Wotton, and Montrose. Observe, as in 
 our last specimen, the rhymes corresponding in 
 successive stanzas : — 
 
 Come, lady, to my song incline,' 
 The last that shall assail thine ear. 
 None other cares my strains to hear, 
 
 And scarce thou feign'st thyself therewith delighted; 
 
 Nor know I well if I am loved or slighted; 
 
 But this I know, thou radiant one and sweet. 
 
 That, loved or spurned, I die before thy feet! 
 
 Yea, I will yield this life of mine 
 In very deed, if cause appear. 
 Without another boon to cheer. 
 Honor it is to be by thee incited 
 To any deed; and I, when most benighted 
 By doubt, remind me that times change and fleet, 
 And brave men still do their occasion meet. 
 
 Thus far we have quoted minor poets only ; 
 but our next name is one of the most illustrious 
 in Provengal literature. The long and con- 
 spicuous life of Bernard of Ventadorn — or 
 Ventadour — teems with historic associations; 
 and the works which he has left would fill a 
 ■volume by themselves. We must confine our- 
 
 1 "Auiatz la derreira chanso." (Eaynouard, vol. iii., p. 12.) 
 
SONGS OF THE TROUBADOURS. 179 
 
 selves to the briefest outline of his life, resisting 
 the temptation of its fascinating details, and to 
 a few passages, taken almost at random, from 
 poems which are fairly embarrassing from the 
 abundance of their beauty. 
 
 In. JBernard we have once more, as so oftaa 
 ajnpilg -the troubadours, the association of lowly 
 birth with lovely gifts. He was a son of the 
 baker at the castle of Ventadorn, the seat of 
 the viscounts of that name, long famous among 
 the petty sovereigns of Southern France for 
 their enthusiastic patronage of the poetic art. 
 Bernard's own seignior was Ebles III., of whom 
 the Prior of Vigeois records, in his chronicle, 
 that he " loved, even to old age, the songs of 
 alacrity " — " usque ad senectam carmina alacri- 
 tatis dilexit." — But Bernard was forty years 
 old when Ebles died, consequently the latter 
 was yet in his early prime when Bernard was 
 born at Ventadorn, not far from the year 1130, 
 and he speedily discovered, and carefully cul- 
 tivated, the boy's talent. The not unnatural 
 result was, that the young troubadour selected, 
 as the object of his melodious homage, the 
 youthful second wife of Ebles, Adelaide of 
 
180 TROUBADOURS AND TROUVMeS. 
 
 Montpellier. And here let the monkish biog- 
 rapher take up the tale : " She [Adelaide] 
 was a very lively and gentle lady, and was 
 highly delighted with Bernard's songs, so that 
 she became enamoured of him and he of her. 
 . . . And their love had lasted a good while 
 before her husband perceived it; but when he 
 did he was angry, and had the lady very closely 
 watched and guarded : wherefore she dismissed 
 Bernard, and he went quite out of the country. 
 He betook himself to the Duchess of Norman- 
 dy, who Was illustrious and much admired, and 
 well versed in matters of fame and honor, and 
 knew how to award praise. And the songs of 
 Bernard pleased her mightily, wherefore she 
 gave him a most cordial welcome, and he resided 
 at her court a long time, and was in love with 
 her, and she with him ; and he made many fine 
 songs about it. But while he was staying with 
 her, the King of England, her husband, removed 
 her from Normandy, and Bernard remained here, 
 sad and sorrowful." Now this second royal 
 lady-love of our aspiring poet was none other 
 than the celebrated Eleanor, president of one 
 of the most illustrious of the courts of love, 
 
SONGS OF THE TROUBADOURS. 181 
 
 the granddaughter of William of Poitiers, the 
 divorced wife of Henry VII. of France, the 
 "wife of Henry II. of England, the merciless, but 
 by no means immaculate, censor of the fair 
 Rosamond Clifford, and the mother of Richard 
 Cceur de Lion. When Bernard entered her 
 service, in 1152, Eleanor was thirty-three years 
 old, and fully ten years the senior both of the 
 troubadour and of her husband, Henry II. But 
 her beauty was perennial ; she had other charms 
 which did not depend upon the freshness of 
 youth, and her personal prestige was destined 
 to last unweakened for many a long year, and to 
 survive extraordinary vicissitudes of lot. If Ber- 
 nard were ever profoundly in earnest, he would 
 seem to have been so in some of the lines which 
 he addressed to Eleanor; but he was a very 
 troubadour of the troubadours in his constant 
 mingling of levity and tenderness, of graceful 
 insouciance with keen and sudden pathos. Our 
 first extract belongs to Adelaide's time ; and, 
 though sufficiently far from simple, these verses 
 have in them something of the fresh enthusiasm, 
 half-confident and half-jealous, of a first expe- 
 rience : — 
 
182 TROUBADOURS AND TROUVilRES. 
 
 No marvel is it if I sing * 
 
 Better than other minstrels all; 
 
 For more than they am I love's thrall, 
 And all myself therein I fling, — 
 Knowledge and sense, body and soul,- 
 
 And whatso power I have beside ; 
 
 The i-ein that doth my being guide 
 Impels me to this only goal. 
 
 His heart is dead whence doth not spring 
 
 Love's odor, sweet and magical; 
 
 His life doth ever on him paU 
 Who knoweth not that blessed thing; 
 Yea, God, who doth my life control, 
 
 Were cruel did he bid me bide 
 
 A month, or even a day, denied 
 The love whose rapture I extol. 
 
 How teen, how exquisite the sting, 
 
 Of that sweet odor ! At its call 
 
 An hundred times a day I fall 
 And faint, an hundred rise and sing! 
 So fair the semblance of my dole, 
 
 'T is lovelier than another's pride; 
 
 If such the iU doth me betide. 
 Good hap were more than I could thole ! 
 
 Yet haste, kind Heaven, the sundering 
 True swains from false, great hearts from small ! 
 The traitor in the dust bid crawl, 
 
 The faithless to confession bring ! 
 
 I " Non est mcrevelha s'ieu chan," etc. (Raynouard, vol. 
 iii., p. 44.) 
 
SONGS OF THE TROUBADOURS. 183 
 
 Ah, if I were the master sole 
 Of all earth's treasures multiplied, 
 To see my lady satisfied 
 
 Of my pure faith, I 'd give the -whole ! 
 
 And here are some fugitive strains out of that 
 ever-recurring spring melody which no singer 
 tried oftener or executed more sweetly than 
 Bernard of Ventadorn: — 
 
 When tender leafage doth appear,^' 
 
 When vernal meads grow gay with flowers, 
 And aye with singing loud and clear 
 
 The nightingale fulfils the hours, 
 I joy in him and joy in every flower 
 And in myself, and in my lady more. 
 For when joys do inclose me and invest, 
 My joy in her transcendeth all the rest. 
 
 The following exhales the true spring sad- 
 ness : — 
 
 Well may I hail that lovely time ^ 
 
 When opening buds proclaim the spring. 
 
 And, in the thickening boughs j their chime 
 The birds do late and early ring. 
 
 1 " Qaand erba vertz e fuelha par," etc. (Kaynouard, vol. 
 iii., p. 53.) 
 
 2 " Beh m'es qu' ieu chant in aiselh mes," etc. (Ray- 
 nouard, vol. iii., p. 77.) 
 
184 TROUBADOURS AND TROUVMES. 
 
 Ah, then anew 
 The yearning cometh, strong, 
 
 For bliss more true, 
 Whose lack my soul doth wrong, 
 Which, if I have not, I must die erelong. 
 
 The next is not quite so tender : — 
 
 When leaves expand upon the hawthorn-tree," 
 
 And the sun's rays are dazzling grown and strong, 
 
 And birds do voice their vows in melody 
 And woo each other sweetly all day long. 
 
 And all the world sways to love's influence, 
 Thou only art unwilling to be won. 
 Proud beauty, in whose train I mope and moan 
 
 Denied, and seem but half a man to be. 
 
 Then there is a very fanciful little piece in an 
 odd but melodious measure, which runs thus : — 
 
 Such is now my glad elation,' 
 
 All things change their seeming ; 
 All with flowers — white, blue, carnation — 
 
 Hoary frosts are teeming; 
 Storm and flood but make occasion 
 
 For my happy scheming; 
 Welcome is my song's oblation. 
 
 Praise outruns my dreaming. 
 
 1 " Quand la fueiha sobre I'albre s'espan,'' etc. (Baynouard, 
 vol. iii., p. 49.) 
 
 2 " Tant ai mon cor plen dejoi/a," etc. ("Parnasse Occita- 
 nien," page 7.) 
 
SONGS OF THE TROUBADOURS. 185 
 
 Oh, ay! this heart of mine 
 Owns a rapture so divine, 
 Winter doth in blossoms shine, 
 
 Snow with verdure gleaming I • 
 
 When my love was from me riven, 
 
 Steadfast faith upbore me; _^ 
 
 She for whom I so have striven 
 
 Seems to hover o'er me ; 
 All the joys that she hath given 
 
 Memory can restore me ; 
 All the days I saw her, even, 
 
 ■ Gladden evermore me. 
 Ah, yes ! I love in bliss ; 
 AU my being tends to this ; 
 Yea, although her sight I miss, 
 
 And in France deplore me. 
 
 Yet, if like a swallow flying 
 
 I might come unto thee. 
 Come by night where thou art lying, 
 
 Verily I 'd sue thee. 
 Dear and happy lady, crying, 
 
 I must die or woo thee. 
 Though my soul dissolve in sighing 
 
 And my fears undo me. 
 Evermore thy grace of yore 
 I with folded hands adore, 
 On thy glorious colors pore, 
 
 Tin despair goes through me. 
 
 This threatens to become commonplace. 
 Nevertheless the whole of the lyric sings itself 
 
186 TROUBADOURS AND TROUVERES. 
 
 in a very remarkable manner ; and the remain- 
 \ der, which need not be inflicted on the reader, 
 ! is interesting from an allusion it contains to the 
 j story of Tristram and Iseult, with which the 
 ^ poet probably became acquainted in Normandy, 
 , and which is thus shown to have been popular 
 / and familiar as far back at least as the middle 
 ; of the twelfth century. We now subjoin, though 
 with much diffidence, from our conscious inabil- 
 ity to do them justice, portions of two songs in 
 Bernard's most perfect style, both of which ap- 
 pear to have been addressed to Eleanor, — the 
 one, perhaps, while she was yet in Normandy, 
 the other after her departure for England. 
 
 When I behold on eager wing i 
 
 The sky-lark soaring to the sun, 
 TiU e'en with rapture faltering 
 
 He sinks in glad oblivion, 
 Alas, how fain to seek were I 
 
 The same ecstatic fate of fire ! 
 Yea, of a truth I know not why 
 
 My heart melts not with its desire 1 
 
 Methought that I knew every thing 
 Of love. Alas my lore was none ! 
 
 For helpless now my praise I bring 
 To one who still that praise doth shun, 
 
 1 " Quand vei la laudela mover,'' etc. (Raynouard, toL 
 iii., p. 68.) 
 
SONGS OF THE TROUBADOURS. 187 
 
 One who hath robbed me utterly 
 
 Of soul, of self, of life entire, 
 So that my heart can only cry 
 
 For that it ever shall require. 
 
 For ne'er have I of self been king, 
 
 Since the first hour, so long agone, 
 When to thine eyes bewildering, 
 
 As to a mirror, I was di'awn. 
 There let me gaze until I die ; 
 
 So doth my soul of sighing tire, 
 As at the fount, in days gone by. 
 
 The fair Narcissus did expire. 
 
 The metre of the next is more constrain- 
 ing:— 
 
 When the sweet breeze comes blowing ^ 
 
 From where thy country lies, 
 Meseems I am foreknowing 
 
 The airs of Paradise. 
 So is my heart o'erflowing 
 For that fair one and wise 
 
 Who hath my glad bestowing 
 Of life's whole energies, 
 For whom I agonize 
 
 Whithersoever going. 
 
 I mind the beauty glowing, 
 
 The fair and haughty eyes, 
 Which, aU my wiU o'erthrowing. 
 
 Made me their sacrifice. 
 
 1 " Quand la douss' aura venta.'' (Kaynouard, vol. iii., 
 p. 84.) 
 
188 TROUBADOURS AND TROUVERES. 
 
 Whatever mien thou'rt showing, 
 
 Why -should I this disguise? 
 Yet let ipiie ne'er be ruing 
 
 One 'of thine old replies : 
 
 Man's daring wins the prize, 
 But fear is his undoing. 
 
 We come now to the name of William of 
 Cabestaing, and the reader is requested to accept 
 for just what it is worth the tragic tradition of 
 him and his lady-love. Incredible as the tale 
 appears, it is given with .but trifling variations 
 by an unusual number of writers; and, in the 
 absence of all conflicting testimony, we, at least, 
 shall not attempt to mar its horrible unity. 
 Listen to the ancient biographer : — 
 
 " Williajnj2f_Cabest^ng was a cavalier of the 
 country of Rossillon, which borders on Catalonia 
 and Narbonne. He , was a very attractive man 
 in person, and accomplished in arms and courtesy 
 and service. Now in his country there was a 
 lady called Lady Soremonda [elsewhere she 
 is called Margaret], the wife of Raymond of 
 Castle Rossillon ; and Raymond was high-born 
 and evil-minded, brave and fierce, rich and 
 proud. And William of Cabestaing loved the 
 lady exceedingly and made songs about her, 
 
SONGS OF THE TROUBADOURS. 189 
 
 and the lady, who was young and gay, noble 
 and fair, cared more for him than for any one 
 else in the world. And this was told to Ray- 
 mond of Castle Rossillon, who, being a jealous 
 and passionate man, made inquiries and found 
 that it was true, and set a watch over his wife. 
 And there eame a day when Raymond saw 
 William pass with but few attendants, and he 
 MUed him. Then he had his head cut off, and 
 the heart taken out of his body. And the head 
 he had carried to his castle, and the heart he 
 had cooked and seasoned, and gave it to his 
 wife to eat. And when the lady had eaten it, 
 Raymond of Gastle Rossillon said to her, ' Do 
 you know what you have eaten ? ' She said, 
 ' No, except that it was a very good and savory 
 viand.' Then he told her that it was the heart 
 of William of Cabestaing which she had eaten, 
 and to convince her he made them show her the 
 head ; which when the lady saw and heard she 
 swooned, but presently came to herself and 
 said, ' My lord, you have given me such excel- 
 lent food that I shall eat no more at all.' When 
 he heard this, he sprang upon her with his sword 
 drawn and would have smitten her upon the 
 
190 TROUBADOURS AND TROUVkRES. 
 
 head, but she ran to the balcony and flung her- 
 self over, and perished on the spot. The ti- 
 dings flew through Rossillon and all Catalonia, 
 that William of Cabestaing and the lady had 
 come to this dreadful end, and that Raymond 
 had given William's heart to the lady to eat. 
 And there was great sorrow and mourning in all 
 that region, and at last the story was told to the 
 King of Aragon, who was the seignior both of 
 Raymond of Castle Rossillon and of William of 
 Cabestaing. Then the king went to Perpignan, 
 in Rossillon, and summoned Raymond to appear 
 before him. And when Raymond was come, the 
 king had him seized, and took away fi-om him 
 all his castles and every thing else which he 
 had, and caused the castles to be destroyed, and 
 put him in prison. But William of Cabestaing 
 and the lady he had conveyed to Perpignan and 
 buried under a monument before the door of the 
 church, and the manner of their death he had 
 depicted on the monument, and gave orders that 
 all the ladies and cavaliers in the country of 
 Rossillon should visit the monument every year. 
 And Raymond of Castle Rossillon died miser- 
 ably in the King of Aragon's prison." This king 
 
SONGS OF THE TROUBADOURS. 191 
 
 must have been Alphonse II., who held the 
 suzerainty of Rossillon in 1181, and who had no 
 successor of his o\vn name upon the throne of 
 Aragon for nearly two hundred years. The 
 severity of the punishment which he inflicted 
 marks the deep impression made by Raymond's 
 brutal revenge, and the extraordinary loathing 
 which it excited. The story was too fascinating 
 in its horror not to be repeated with other 
 names ; and accordingly we have the tale of Raoul 
 (or Renard), Chatelain de Coucy, who died at 
 the siege of Acre in 1192 and in his last moments 
 requested the friend who attended him to have 
 his heart preserved and to carry it home to his 
 mistress, the Lady of Fayel. The Lord of Fayel 
 intercepted the relic and followed the example of 
 Raymond of Rossillon, and the lady starved herself 
 to death. De Coucy's commission was a probable 
 one enoxigh, and accords with the reckless roman- 
 ticism of the time ; but the end of the story is 
 doubtless borrowed from that of the lovers of Ros- 
 sillon. Read by the lurid light of this monstrous 
 tale, the verses of William of Cabestaing seem ani- 
 mated by a peculiarly personal force and inten- 
 sity ; and if the reader does not discover this in 
 
192 TROUBADOURS AND TROUVMES. 
 
 the following specimens, he may consider the 
 translator to blame : — 
 
 There is who spurns the leaf, and turns ^ 
 
 The stateliest flower of all to cull; 
 So on life's topmost bough sojourns 
 
 My lady, the most beautiful ! 
 Whom, with his own nobility 
 , Our lord hath graced, so she may move 
 
 In glorious worth our lives above, 
 Yet soft with all humility. 
 
 Her pleading look my spirit shook 
 
 And won my fealty long ago ; 
 My heart's-blood stronger impulse took, 
 
 Freshening my colors ; and yet so, 
 No otherwise discovering 
 
 My love, I bode. Now, lady mine, 
 
 At last, before thy throngfed shrine, 
 I also lay my offering. 
 
 The next is yet more fervid and exalted : 
 
 The visions tender ^ 
 
 Which thy Ipve giveth me 
 Still bid me render 
 
 My vows in song to thee; 
 Gracious and slender 
 
 Thine image I can see. 
 Where'er I wend, or 
 
 What eyes do look on me. 
 
 1 "Aissi cum selh que taissa 'I fmlh." (Raynouard, vol. 
 iii., p. 113.) 
 
 ^ " La dous consire." (Raynouard, vol. iii.) 
 
SONGS OF THE TROUBADOURS. 193 
 
 Yea, in the frowning face 
 Of uttermost disgrace, 
 Proud would I take my place 
 
 Before thy feet, 
 Lady, whose aspect sweet 
 Doth my poor self efface, 
 And leave but joy and praise. 
 
 Who shall deny me 
 
 The memory of thine eyes? 
 Evermore by me 
 
 Thy Uthe, white form doth rise. 
 If God were nigh me 
 
 Alway, in so sure wise, 
 Quick might I hie me 
 
 Into his Paradise ! 
 
 This was, perhaps, the strain which the trou- 
 badour was trying on the day when Raymond 
 overtook him " followed by but few attendants." 
 
 13 
 
THE SONGS OF THE TROUBADOURS. 
 
 11. 
 
 TDASSING by the names of Gui d'Uisel, who 
 bore a part in some rather spirited tensons, 
 or poetical dialogues, yet extant, but whose 
 other poems are detlcient in tenderness and 
 grace ; of Gaucelm Faidit, of whom the record 
 says, that " he went about the world for twenty 
 years without making either himself or his songs 
 acceptable ; " of Peire Roger and Peirol, we 
 come to those of the two Arnauts, — Arnaut 
 Daniel and Arnaut de Maroill, or Marveil. To 
 Arnaut Daniel was awarded, within a century 
 after his death, distinguished praise by both 
 Dante and Petrarch. Dante describes, in the 
 twenty-sixth canto of the " Purgatorio," a 
 meeting with him in the shades ; and Petrarch, 
 speaking of him and Arnaut de Maroill, calls 
 the latter " the less famous Arnaut." Judging 
 by those of their remains which we possess, the 
 distinction seems a very strange one. The 
 verses of Arnaut Daniel are chiefly remarkable 
 
SONGS OF THE TROUBADOURS. 195 
 
 for an extraordinary ingenuity and complexity 
 in the arrangement of their rhymes, for verbal 
 conceits which are necessarily untranslatable, 
 and for the first introduction into the Romance 
 rhythm of a sort of verbal echo, which was 
 afterwards much more skilfully managed by 
 Raimon de Miraval. But the modest beauties 
 of Arnaut de Maroill's verse are at least of a 
 universal and enduring kind. This is his story : 
 " Arnaut de Maruelh was of the bishopric of Peir- 
 agorc, of a castel [that is, a castle domain] named 
 Maruelh, a clerk, and lowly born. And because 
 he could not live on Ms letters [a difficulty not 
 confined to Provence and the twelfth century], 
 he travelled about the world, and he knew how 
 to find, and was very skilful. And his stars led 
 him to the court of the Countess of Burlas, a 
 daughter of the celebrated Count Raymond,^ 
 and wife of that Viscount of Beziers who was 
 surnamed Taillefer. This Arnaut sang well 
 and was a good reader of romance. He was 
 handsome, too, and the countess distinguished 
 him greatly. So he became enamoured of her 
 and made songs about her, but dared not com- 
 municate them to her, wherefore he said that 
 1 This was Raymond V. of Toulouse. 
 
196 TROUBADOURS AND TROUVMES. 
 
 others had made them. But love compelled 
 him, as he says in one song : — 
 
 ' The frank bearing which I cannot forget,' etc. 
 
 This was the song in which he discovered his 
 love. And the countess did not repulse him, 
 but heard his prayer and encouraged him ; for 
 she put him in armor and gave him the honor 
 of singing and finding for her. So he was a 
 man esteemed at court. Then made he many 
 good songs by which we judge that he had great 
 sorrow and great joy." 
 
 "You have heard how Arnaut came to love 
 the Countess of Burlas, the daughter of the 
 brave Count Raymond, and mother of that Vis- 
 count de Beziers whom the French slew when 
 they took Carcassonne.^ The viscountess was 
 called De Burlas, because she was born in the 
 castle of Burlas. She liked Arnaut well, and 
 King Alphonse- (of Castile), who also had de- 
 signs upon her, perceived her kindness for the 
 
 1 In 1209, at the beginning of the Albigenses war. This 
 Viscount de Beziers was the chivalric Eaymond Roger, the 
 young and far braver nephew of Raymond VI. of Toulouse. 
 He was not, however, killed at the siege, but languished three 
 months in prison, at the end of which time the execrable Simon 
 de Montfort gave orders that he should " die of dysentery," 
 and he was accordingly poisoned. 
 
SONGS OF THE TROUBADOURS. 197 
 
 troubadour. And the king was extremely jeal- 
 ous ; ... so he accused her concerning Arnaut, 
 and said so much, and made her say so much, 
 that she gave Arnaut his dismissal, and forbade 
 him to come into her presence any more, or to 
 sing of her. "When Arnaut received his congS, 
 he was sorrowful above all sorrow, and went 
 away from her and her court like a man in 
 despair. He went to William of Montpellier, 
 who was his friend and seignior, and stayed 
 with him a great while ; and there he plained 
 and wept, and made that song which says : — 
 
 ' Mot eran dous miei cossir.' " 
 
 We know the date of the Viscount de Beziers's 
 marriage to Adelaide de Burlas (1171), and 
 from this we infer the principal dates of Ar- 
 naut's history. He was certainly the contempo- 
 rary of William of Cabestaing, and may well 
 have heard from his own lips the later songs of 
 Bernard of Veiitadour, the best of which are 
 hardly sweeter than this of Arnaut's: — 
 
 Softly sighs the April air, 
 Ere the coming of the May ; i 
 
 1 "Bel m'es quan h vens m'alena." (Eaynouard, vol. iii., 
 p. 208.) 
 
198 TROUBADOURS AND TROUVMES. 
 
 Of the tranquil night aware, 
 Murmur nightingale and jay; 
 
 Then, when dewy dawn doth rise, 
 Every bird in his own tongue 
 
 Wakes his mate with happy cries ; 
 All their joy abroad is flung. 
 
 Gladness, lo! is everywhere 
 
 When the first leaf sees the day; 
 And shall I alone despair. 
 
 Turning from sweet love away? 
 Something to my heart replies, 
 
 Thou too wast for rapture strung; 
 Wherefore else the dreams that rise 
 
 Kound thee when the year is young? 
 
 One, than Helen yet more fair. 
 
 Loveliest blossom of the May, 
 Rose-tints hath and sunny hair, 
 
 And a gracious mien and gay; 
 Heart that scorneth all disguise. 
 
 Lips where pearls of truth are hung, — 
 God, who gives all sovereignties, 
 
 Knows her like was never sung. 
 
 Though she lead through long despair, 
 
 I would nevei; say her nay. 
 If one kiss — reward how rare ! — 
 
 Each new trial might repay. 
 Swift returns I 'd then devise, 
 
 Many labors, but not long. 
 Following so fair a prize 
 
 I could nevermore go wrong. 
 
SONGS OF THE TROUBADOURS. 199 
 
 There is a very long poem of Arnaut's in 
 simple consecutive rhymes, in which the praises 
 of the fair countess are prettily if somewhat 
 monotonously chanted, and the palm is awarded 
 her over a long list of heroines, whose names, 
 however incongruous, betray some acquaintance 
 with literature on our troubadour's part ; — Ro- 
 docesta and Bibles, Blanchefleur and Semiramis, 
 Thisbe, Leda, and Helen, Antigone, Ismene, 
 and Iseult. And here is that final and fruitless 
 plaint quoted by Arnaut's biographer : — 
 
 Sweet my musings used to be,i 
 Without shadow of distress, 
 Till the queen of loveliness, 
 Lowly, mild, yet frank as day. 
 Bade me put her love away; 
 
 Love so deeply wrought in me. 
 And because I answered not. 
 Nay, nor e'en her mercy sought, 
 AH the joy of life is gone. 
 For it lived in her alone. 
 
 O my lady, hearken thee! 
 For thy wondrous tenderness. 
 Nor my faltering cry repress ; 
 Bid thy faithful servant stay; 
 Deign to keep my love, I pray; 
 
 Let me not my rival see I 
 
 1 "Mot eran dous miei cossir," ("Parnasse Occitanien," p. 17.) 
 
200 TROUBADOURS AND TROUVilRES. 
 
 That which never cost thee aught 
 Were to me with rapture fraught. 
 Who would grudge the sick man's moan 
 When his pain is all his own? 
 
 Thou art wise as thou art fair, 
 And thy voice is ever kind ; 
 Thou for all dost welcome find, 
 With a courtesy so bright, 
 Praise of aU it doth invite. 
 
 Hope and comforting of care 
 In thy smile are born and live 
 Wheresoe'er thou dost arrive. 
 Not my love doth canonize, 
 But the truth and thine own price. 
 
 Unto one thus everywhere 
 In the praise of men enshrined. 
 What 's my tribute unrefined ? 
 And yet, lady of delight. 
 True it is, however trite. 
 
 He shall sway the balance fair 
 Who a single grain doth give. 
 Be the poise right sensitive. 
 So might one poor word suffice 
 To enhance thy dignities. 
 
 It would be an interesting, if not edifying, 
 study in the manners of the time, to consider 
 minutely the long story of Raimon de Miraval's 
 adventures. One of his early biographers re- 
 marks, with charming simplicity, that he " loved 
 
SONGS OF THE _TROUBADOURS. 201 
 
 a great many ladies, some of whom treated liim 
 well, and others ill. Some deceived him ; and 
 to these he rendered like for like : but he never 
 deceived honest and loyal ladies." It is also 
 true that he was a favorite with famous and 
 gallant princes, such as Peter II. of Aragon 
 and Raymond Roger, before mentioned, the 
 heroic defender of the Albigenses ; and that 
 these princes vied with one another in heaping 
 upon the troubadour presents of rich robes, and 
 steeds and accoutrements of war ; whereby the 
 beggarly cavalier, who had inherited only the 
 fourth part of a small estate, was enabled to 
 make a splendid appearance in the world. 
 Nevertheless, although personally brave, he 
 seems not to have been a man of generous 
 nature, and the songs which he has left, though 
 graceful sometimes, and very remarkable for 
 their technical ingenuity, show few traces of 
 genuine feeling. Raimon de Miraval's first 
 mistress was the notorious Loba de Penautier, 
 the wife of a wealthy lord of Carbarns, of whom — 
 that is, of Loba — we shall hear more in con- 
 nection with Peire Vidal. The fervor and sin- 
 cerity of the relations of these two may be 
 
202 TROUBADOURS AND TROUVkRES. 
 
 guessed from the fact that Loba, who was 
 besieged by numerous lovers, made a feint of 
 encouraging Raimon, because she wished to con- 
 ceal her real passion for the Count de Foix, also 
 honorably memorable for the part he bore in the 
 religious wars. " For," observes the historian, 
 with the same incredible ndiveti as before, " a lady 
 was considered lost who openly accepted a power- 
 ful baron as her lover." Raimon seems to have 
 continued his formal homage for some little time 
 after he perfectly understood the state of the 
 case between Loba and De Foix. But at last 
 he wearied of the game, as our readers would 
 certainly weary, were we to attempt giving 
 them any thing like a circumstantial account, 
 or even a complete list, of the poet's numerous 
 affaires. We pass directly from his first " attach- 
 ment " to his last, the object of which was also a 
 lady of Carbarns, apparently a younger sister-in- 
 law of Loba, one who herself made some unusual 
 advances to the troubadour. The sport of these 
 two experienced lovers was interrupted in 1208 
 by the opening of the crusade against the Albi- 
 genses ; that crudest of religious wars, in which 
 the early Provengal poetry virtually received its 
 
SONGS OF THE TROUBADOURS. 203 
 
 death-blow. Raimon de Miraval was shut up, 
 with the Count of Toulouse, in the capital of the 
 latter, while Beziers and Carcassonne fell before 
 the onslaught of Simon de Montfort. Thence 
 when Peter II. of Aragon had come to their as- 
 sistance, he addressed to the Spanish prince some 
 animated verses, foretelling that, if successful, he 
 would make his name as terrible to the French 
 as it had hitherto been to the Saracens. But 
 Peter fell in the battle of Muret, on the 12th 
 of September, 1213, and Raimon followed the 
 flight into Aragon of the Counts of Toulouse 
 and Foix, and there died, not long after, in a 
 monastery at Lerida. We have attempted, in 
 the paraphrase which follows, to give some idea 
 of the mechanical complexity of Raimon's ver- 
 sification, and of the verbal or syllabic echo, 
 spoken of before, which Arnaut Daniel had 
 introduced : — 
 
 Fair summer time doth me delight, 
 And song of birds delights no less ; 
 Meadows delight in their green dress, 
 Delight the trees in verdure bright: 
 
 And far, far more delights thy graciousness, 
 
 Lady, and I to do thy wiU delight. 
 
 Yet be not this delight my final boon, 
 
 Or I of my desire shall perish soon ! 
 
204 TROUBADOURS AND TROUVilRES. 
 
 For that desire, most exquisite 
 Of all desires, I live in stress, 
 Desire of thy rich comeliness. 
 Oh, come, and my desire requite! 
 Though doubling that desire by each caress. 
 Is my desire not single in thy sight? 
 Let me not, then, desiring, sink undone. 
 To love's high joys, desire be rather prone! 
 
 No alien joy ■wUl I invite. 
 
 But joy in thee to all excess ; 
 
 Joy in thy grace, nor e'en confess 
 
 Whatso might do my joy despite. 
 
 So deep the joy, my lady, no distress 
 
 That joy shall master ; for thy beauty's light 
 
 Such joy hath shed for each day it hath shone. 
 
 Joyless I cannot be while I live on. 
 
 This is enough. We have just managed to 
 hint at the labored quaintness of the verse. 
 But that peculiarity of rhythm which, we have 
 called an echo, should have, and very likely did 
 have, a name of its own. There is a hackneyed, 
 yet unspoiled, strain of melody in the death 
 scene in " Lucia," of which the effect upon 
 the ear is almost precisely similar to this in 
 the Provengal. 
 
 It would be unfair to the reader to transcribe, 
 otherwise than literally, the manuscript biogra- 
 phy of the absurdest of men and troubadours, 
 
SONGS OF THE TROUBADOURS. 205 
 
 Peire Vidal. Thus it runs : " Peire Vidal was 
 of Toulouse, the son of a tanner. He was the 
 best singer in the world, and a good finder; and 
 he was the most foolish man in the world, 
 because he thought every thing tiresome except 
 verse. . . . He said much evil of others, and 
 made some verses for which a cavalier de San 
 Gili had his tongue cut, because he proclaimed 
 himself the accepted lover of San Gill's wife. 
 But Oc del Baux treated the wound, and cured 
 him. So, when he was healed, he went away 
 beyond the sea, and brought thence a Greek 
 woman whom he had married in Cyprus ; and 
 she gave him to understand that she was the 
 granddaughter of the Emperor of Constantino- 
 ple, and that, through her, he ought by rights 
 to have the empire. Wherefore he put all his 
 substance into a navy, because he intended to go 
 and conquer the empire ; and he assumed the 
 imperial arms, and had himself called emperor 
 and his wife empress. He courted all the fine 
 ladies he saw, and besought them for their love, 
 and talked Oc to them, for he deemed himself 
 a universal lover, and that any one would die 
 for him. And he always had fine horses and 
 
206 TROUBADOURS AND TROUVMES. 
 
 armor, and an imperial chair (or throne), and 
 thought he was the best knight in the world, 
 and the most loved of ladies. Peire Vidal, as 
 I have said, courted all fine ladies ; . . . and, 
 among others, he courted my Lady Adelaide, 
 the wife, of Barral, the Lord of Marseilles, . . . 
 and Barral knew it well. . . . So, there came 
 a day when Peire Vidal knew that Barral was 
 away, and the lady alone in her chamber, and 
 he went in and found her sleeping, and kneeled 
 down and kissed her lips. Feeling the kiss, and 
 thinking that it was Lord Barral, she started 
 up, smiling, then looked and saw that it was 
 that fool of a Peire Vidal (e vi lo fol de Peire 
 Vidal), and began to make a great outcry. Her 
 women rushed in, crying ' What is this ? ' And 
 Peire Vidal fled. Then the lady sent for Lord 
 Barral, and loudly complained of Peire for kiss- 
 ing her, and wept, and prayed that he might be 
 punished. Then Lord Barral, like a brave man, 
 made light of the thing, and reproved his wife 
 
 for her distress But Peire Vidal was 
 
 frightened, and took ship for Genoa, where he 
 remained until he went over-seas with King 
 Richard. . . . He remained a long time in 
 
SONGS OF THE TROUBADOURS. 20T 
 
 foreign parts, not daring to return to Provence 
 until Lord Barral, who was well disposed toward 
 him, aa you have heard, prayed his wife to par- 
 don the kiss, and make him (Peire) a present 
 of it. So Barral sent Peire his wife's good 
 wishes, and ordered him to return. And back 
 he came, with the greatest rejoicing, to Mar- 
 seilles, and was well received by everybody, and 
 every thing was forgiven him ; wherefore Peire 
 made the famous song : — 
 
 'Pos tornat soi en Proensa.' 
 
 . . . [Afterwards] he fell in love with Loba 
 de Penautier, and with Madame Stephania, of 
 Sardinia, and with Lady Raimbauda de Biolh. 
 Loba was of Carbarns, and out of compliment 
 to her Peire Vidal had himself called Wolf, and 
 wore a wolf on his arms. And he caused him- 
 self to be hunted in the mountains of Carbards, 
 with dogs and mastiffs and leverets, as wolves 
 are hunted ; and he wore a wolf-skin, to give 
 himself the appearance of a wolf. And the shep- 
 herds, with their dogs, hunted him, and abused 
 him so that he was carried for dead to the inn 
 of Loba de Penautier. As soon as she knew 
 
208 TROUBADOURS AND TROUVERES. 
 
 that it was Peire Vidal, she began to scoff at 
 him for his folly, and her husband likewise, and 
 they received him with great merriment. But 
 her husband had him taken and conveyed to a 
 retired place, and did the best he could with 
 him, and kept him till he was well." 
 
 Happily the craze of Peire appears chiefly in 
 his actions, and many of his verses are unusually 
 sane and elegant. We give the song mentioned 
 above as addressed to Adelaide on his return to 
 Marseilles. The grace and good-nature of the 
 original sufficed, no doubt, to atone for its un- 
 deniably saucy and perfunctory air. It is also 
 interesting from the allusion in the sixth verse 
 — which is the fifth in Raynouard's text — to 
 the fancied return of King Arthur, either in the 
 person of Coeur de Lion himself, in whose train 
 Peire went to the Holy Land, or, more prob- 
 ably, in that of his presumptive heir, Arthur of 
 Brittany, the victim of John 
 
 Now into Provence retm-ning,' 
 Well I know my call to sing 
 To my lady some sweet thing, 
 Full of gratitude and yearning. 
 
 1 " Pos tornatz sui en Proensa." (Raynouard, vol. iii. p 
 321.) 
 
SONGS OF THE TROUBADOURS. 209 
 
 Such the tribute still whereby 
 Every singer, nobly taught, 
 Favor of his queen hath bought, 
 Ever loving learnedly; 
 Like the rest, then, why not I? 
 
 Sinless, and yet pardon earning 
 By the penitence I bring, 
 Grace from grievance gathering. 
 Yea, and hope from anger burning! 
 Bliss in tears I can descry. 
 Sweet from bitter I have brought. 
 Courage in despair have sought, 
 Gained, in losing, mightily. 
 And in rout met victory ! 
 
 Fearless, then, my fate concerning, 
 In my choice unwavering. 
 If, at last, I see upspring 
 Honor in the place of scorning. 
 All true lovers far and nigh 
 Shall take comfort from the thought 
 Of the miracle I wrought. 
 Drawing fire from snow, and aye 
 Sweetest draught the salt wave by I 
 
 I can hail her very spuming. 
 Bow to her abandoning. 
 Though her mien my heart should wring, 
 Well her sovereign right discerning 
 Me to give, or sell, or buy! 
 14 
 
210 TROUBADOURS AND TROUVMES. 
 
 That man's -wisdom, sure, is naught 
 Who -woiild bid me loathe my lot. 
 Pain she gives is, verily, 
 But a kind of ecstasy ! 
 
 Blame not, then, my hope's adjourning: 
 
 Have the Britons not their king, 
 
 Arthur, for whose tarrying 
 
 Long the land did sit in mourning? 
 
 Nor can any me deny 
 
 The one prize for -which I fought, 
 
 The one kiss that once I caught. 
 
 Yea, the theft of days gone by 
 
 She hath made a charity ! 
 
 Once more, in the case of Rairabaut de Va- 
 queiras, we are fain to throw aside all attempt 
 at critical examination and selection, and simply 
 quote the text of the early biographer. The 
 reader will please compare the manner of telling 
 the tale of the mantle with the similar incident 
 of the sword and circlet in the story of " Pelleas 
 and Etard" or Ettarre, so solemnly and touchingly 
 rehearsed by Tennj'son in the eighth idyl of the 
 complete edition. It will furnish him once for 
 all with a measure of the strange difference in 
 native moral sense between the races who cul- 
 tivated the troubadour and the trouvere poetry. 
 
SONGS OF THE TROUBADOURS. 211 
 
 j j " Raimbaut de Vaqueiras was the son of a 
 poor cavalier of Provence, of the Castle of 
 Vaqueiras. And Raimbaut became a jongleur 
 and was a long while with the Prince of Orange, 
 William of Baux. He was skilled in singing 
 and in making couplets and sirventes, and the 
 Prince of Orange did him great honor and favors 
 for it, and made him to be generally known and 
 praised. Yet Raimbaut left him (the Prince of 
 Orange) and went to the Marquis Boniface of 
 Montferrat, and was long established at his 
 court also. And he grew in wit and wisdom and 
 soldierly accomplishments, and became enam- 
 oured of the marquis's sister, my Lady Beatrice, 
 the wife of Henry of Garret, and found many 
 good songs about her, and it was thought that 
 she was favorably disposed toward him. Now 
 you have heard who Raimbaut was, and how he 
 came to honor, and by whom. So, as I said, 
 when the marquis had knighted him, he fixed his 
 affections on my Lady Beatrice, who was also the 
 sister of my Lady Adelaide de Salutz. He loved 
 and desired her greatly, taking care that no one 
 should suspect it, and he eiihg,nced her reputa- 
 tion very much, and gained for her many friends, 
 
212 TROUBADOURS AND TROUVMRES. 
 
 both men and women. And she received him 
 flatteringly, but he was dying of apprehension 
 because he dared not openly ask her love nor 
 confess that he had set his heart upon her. 
 But as a man distraught, he told her that he 
 loved a very distinguished lady, and knew her 
 very intimately, but dared not speak, nor betray 
 his feeling, nor ask her for her love, because of 
 her high consideration. And he prayed her in 
 God's name to advise him whether he should 
 speak out the wish of his heart, or perish in 
 silent devotion. That gentle lady, my Lady 
 Beatrice, when she heard this, and knew the 
 admiration of Raimbaut, having plainly per- 
 ceived before that he was dying of love for her, 
 was touched by his passion and his piety. And 
 she said, ' Raimbaut, it is well known that every 
 faithful friend loves a gentle ladj- in such wise 
 that he fears to betray his love. But sooner 
 than die, I would counsel him to speak and pray 
 her to take him for a servitor and friend. For 
 if she is wise and courteous she will not despise 
 him. So this is the advice which I give you. 
 Ask her to receive you for her cavalier. For 
 you are such an one that any lady in the 
 
SONGS OF THE TROUBADOURS. ' 213 
 
 uniterse might so take you, as Adelaide, the 
 Countess of Salutz holds Peire Vidal; and the 
 Countess of Burlas, Arnaut de Maroill ; and 
 my Lady Mary, Gaucelm Faidit ; and the Lady 
 of Marseilles, Folquet.' . . . When Lord Raim- 
 baut heard the comfortable advice which she 
 gave, ... he told her that she was herself the 
 lady whom he loved, and concerning whom he 
 had asked advicci And my Lady Beatrice told 
 him that it was well done, . . . and that she 
 would accept him for her cavalier. Lord Raim- 
 baut did then exalt her fame to the utmost of 
 his ability, and it was then he made the song 
 which begins, — 
 
 ' Era m' requier sa costum e son us.' 
 " Now it came to pass that the lady lay down 
 and fell asleep beside him, and the marquis, her 
 husband, who loved her well, found them so, 
 and was wroth. But, like a wise man, he for- 
 bore to touch them, only he took his own mantle 
 and covered them with it, and took that of 
 Raimbaut and went his way. And when Raim- 
 baut arose he knew well what had happened, 
 and he took the mantle of the marquis and 
 sought him straightway, and kneeled before him 
 
214 ' TROUBADOURS AND TROUVERES. 
 
 and prayed for mercy. And the marquis per- 
 ceived that Raimbaut knew how he had been 
 discovered, and. he recalled all the pleasure 
 which Raimbaut had given him in divers places. 
 And because Raimbaut had said, softly, in order 
 that he might not be understood to be bespeak- 
 ing pardon, that he would forgive the marquis for 
 putting on his robe, those who overheard thought 
 that all this was because the marquis had taken 
 Raimbaut's mantle. And the marquis forgave 
 him and made answer that he would wear his 
 mantle no more. And only they two under- 
 stood it. After that it came to pass that the 
 marquis went with his forces into Roumania, and 
 with great help from the church conquered the 
 kingdom of Thessalonica. And there Lord 
 Raimbaut distinguished himself by the feats 
 which he performed, and there he was rewarded 
 with great lands and revenues, and there he 
 died. And concerning the deeds of his liege 
 lord he made a song which has been transmitted 
 by. Peire Vidal which begins, — 
 
 ' Cant ai ben dig del Marquis.' " 
 ( It was in 1204 that Raimbaut embarked from 
 ) Venice for the East, his master, Montferrat, 
 
SONGS OF THE TROUBADOURS. 215 
 
 having been chosen leader of the expedition of 
 that year in place of Thibaut of Champagne, 
 who had died just as all things were made ready 
 for departure two years before. This was the 
 famous expedition which digressed to Constan- 
 tinople, and expended its consecrated energies 
 in the capture of that city and the subjugation 
 of the Greek empire. The Marquis of Mont- 
 ferrat received the kingdom of Thessalonica as his 
 share in the spoils of this victory, and thence he 
 overran nearly the whole of Greece. Eaimbaut 
 was constantly with him and won abundant lau- 
 rels; but underneath all the excitement and 
 splendor of this adventurous life he seems to have 
 carried a heart haunted by homesick longings and 
 melancholy presentiments, which were soon to be 
 justified. He fell in battle in the same year with 
 his master, 1207, possibly upon the same field. 
 The song in which he is said to have celebrated 
 the fame of Montferrat is invariably ascribed in 
 the collections to Peire Vidal. There is also an 
 extremely interesting piece, transcribed at length 
 by Fauriel, a sort of impetuous declaration of 
 independence of the tyranny of love, the text of 
 which is not in Raynouard's collection, nor in 
 
216. TROUBADOURS AND TROUVMES. 
 
 any other accessible to ourselves. We give a 
 few verses out of the song first cited in the Life 
 just quoted, and the whole of one of Raimbaut's 
 latest pieces, a really noble and affecting lament 
 composed in Roumania : — 
 
 Now Love, who will have sighs, desires, and tears,^ 
 
 Demands his wonted tribute, even of me. 
 
 And I, who have received the gift to see 
 The loveliest lady of all mortal years. 
 Obey. She is my surety sincere, 
 
 Love will be glorious gain, and never loss; 
 
 Great are my hope and courage, even because 
 I seek the one best treasure of our sphere. 
 
 For since my lady hath not any peers. 
 Matchless in all the past my love must be ; 
 Thisbe loved Pyramus less utterly. 
 
 Hers am I, and my vow she kindly hears ; 
 
 Yea, and thus lifted o'er all others here. 
 And very rich, and versed in honor's laws, 
 She for the worthy keeps her sweet applause, 
 
 While the base know her lofty and austere. 
 
 "Wlierefore not Percival, when to loud cheers 
 
 The red knight's arms in Arthur's court bore he, 
 Received his honors more exultantly 
 
 Than I, nor ever keener death-pang tears 
 
 1 "Era m' requier sa costum e son us.'' (Raj'iiouarcl, vol. iii., 
 p. 25S.) 
 
SONGS OF THE TROUBADOURS., 217 
 
 The breast of Tantalus than I should bear, 
 Did she her bounty stint, from whatso cause, 
 Who is earth's clearest, without any flaws, 
 
 And keen of wit, and innocent of fear. 
 
 Of the lay which follows, it may be remem- 
 bered that Mistral quotes the first verse, to illus- 
 trate the tender sorrows of his friend Aubanel. 
 Owing to the length of the piece, and the diffi- 
 culty of dividing it, I have, for once, abandoned 
 the attempt to keep the same rhyme in the cor- 
 responding lines of each stanza, but otherwise 
 the form of the original is preserved. I have 
 not been able to establish the identity of the 
 "English lord" — evidently a man of note, 
 though not the king — to whom the poem seems 
 to have been addressed, in reply, perhaps, to 
 some friendly challenge : — 
 
 Nor winter-tide, nor Easter-tide,^ 
 Nor cloudless air, nor oak-wood fair. 
 Gladden me more ; for joy seems care, 
 And heavy all was once my pride ; 
 And leisure hours are weary while 
 Now hope no more doth on me smile. 
 And I, who sprang to gallantry 
 And love like fishes in the sea, 
 
 1 " No m' agrad ivers ni pascors." ( " Parnasse Occitanien/' 
 p. 8.) ■ . 
 
218 TEOVBADOVRS AND TROUVMRES. 
 
 Now both of these are from me gone, 
 Live like an exile, sad and lone. 
 All other life to me is death, 
 All other joy discourageth. 
 
 The flower of love is fallen away. 
 
 And the sweet fruit ; the grass and grain, 
 
 I sang full many a pleasant strain 
 
 Thereof, and honor found that way. 
 
 But love, that lifted me o'er all, 
 
 Ay, love itself hath wrought my fall. 
 
 And but that I would scorn to show 
 
 A coward face before my woe, 
 
 I 'd put my life out like a flame. 
 
 And quench my deeds, and blot my name; 
 
 So deepeneth in my memory 
 
 Despair that one day brought to me. 
 
 But honor's voice commands me thus : 
 " Thou shalt not, in thy mood forlorn. 
 Thy foes fulfil with gleeful scorn. 
 Of thine old praise oblivious." 
 Nor win I. Blows I yet can deal. 
 And wear a merry mask with skill 
 Before a Greek or Latin horde. 
 While he who girt me with my sword. 
 My marquis, doth the pagan fight. 
 For since this world first saw the light, 
 Never hath God such conflict thrown 
 On any race as on our own. 
 
SONGS OF THE TROUBADOURS. 219 
 
 Resplendent arms and warriors bold, 
 And battle given, and joust arrayed. 
 Engine and siege and flashing blade, 
 And toppling walls, or new, or old. 
 As in a dream, I hear, I see ; 
 For what save love availeth me? 
 Yea, I myself, in harness brave, 
 Ride forth to strike, to fell, to save. 
 And laurel still, and treasure, win. 
 But never more that joy within ; 
 The world is but a desert-shore, 
 And my songs comfort me no more. 
 
 Kot Alexander in his pride, 
 
 Jfor Charlemagne, not Ludovic ; 
 
 Held court like ours. Not Emeric, 
 
 Nor Roland, with his warriors tried. 
 
 E'er won so great a victory 
 
 O'er half so rich a realm as we. 
 
 Laws have we given, and they 're obeyed. 
 
 And kings and dvikes and emperors made, 
 
 And decked our castles for delight. 
 
 In Mussulman or Arab sight. 
 
 And cleared each way, and oped each gate, 
 
 From Brindes to St. Georges's Strait. 
 
 Yet what to me, brave English lord. 
 Are spoils like these and glory worth, 
 Who sought no other boon on earth 
 Save to adore and be adored? 
 Deem not my splendid heritage 
 A single sorrow can assuage. 
 
220 TROUBADOURS AND TROUVERES. 
 
 The more increaseth here my pelf, 
 The more I mourn and scorn myself. 
 My fair and gracious cavalier ' 
 Is wroth with me, is far from here; 
 • A wound like mine no healing hath, 
 But ever-growing pain and wrath. 
 
 Yet thou, sweet seigneur, warrior high, 
 Great both in arms and courtesy, 
 Thou dost a little comfort give. 
 Tempting me yet awhile to live. 
 
 We twain will make Damascus cower, 
 Jerusalem restore to power. 
 And wrest the sacred Syrian land 
 From pagan. Turks' relentless hand. 
 
 Shame on us, laggard pilgrims all. 
 Save those who nobly fight and fall! 
 Shame on our courts, and court we strife! 
 For death availeth more than life! 
 
 In this lament of Raimbaut de Vaqueiras, 
 we seem to hear the trumpet contending with 
 the lute ; and in the clang of its abrupt close, 
 the harsher strain prevails. It was ominous 
 of the change which was immediately to pass 
 upon Proven§aI song, the rapid, but not inglo- 
 
 1 Raimbaut called Beatrice his " Bel Cavalier," because he 
 once surprised her practising a sword exercise all by herself. 
 
SONGS OF THE TROUBADOURS. 221 
 
 rious, decline of which was already decreed. 
 The domestic crusade of the Roman church 
 against the heretics of Albigeois was formally 
 inaugurated in 1208, one year after the death, 
 in 'the Orient, of Raimbaut and his master, Bon- 
 iface of Montferrat. We are rather used to 
 regard that infamous war — the strange horrors 
 by which it was attended, and the appalling 
 desolation of some of earth's most delightful 
 regions which it entailed — fi'om a merely the- 
 ological point of view. In reality, it was a 
 conflict involving a great variety of social and 
 political interests, and in its lingering catastro- 
 phe many hopes perished which were wholly of 
 this world. It was, in fact, or it became, a 
 match between the great feudal nobles and the 
 clergy ; between the princes of the province and 
 the fast-growing central power of- France, al- 
 ways highly orthodox, and in strict alliance with 
 the court of Rome. It was hardly more than 
 , incidentally and symbolically the resistance of 
 darkness to light ; priestly tyranny to the prog- 
 ress of free thought; regnant superstition to 
 simple faith. The struggTelasted for about a 
 generation, and our indignant sympathies are 
 
222 TROUBADOURS AND TROUVMRES. 
 
 with the conquered side : less, however, because 
 that side had a monopoly of piety, than because 
 it was, broadly speaking, the side of chivalry, 
 culture, and common sense. We are glad to 
 find that our troubadours, almost to a man, es- 
 poused the nobler and worse-fated cause ; but 
 we can see that, from the nature of their avoca- 
 tions and their personal relations with the great 
 Provencal nobles, it could hardly have been 
 otherwise. 
 
 One of them, indeed, Folquet of Marseilles, 
 whom the chagrin of disappointed love had 
 earljr driven into the cloister, and who had been 
 made Bishop of Toulouse while yet a compara- 
 tively young man, won an immortality of dis- 
 honor, by the ingenious atroeitj' with which he 
 persecuted the heretics and their defenders ; 
 and one other, Perdigon, a man of considerable 
 gifts, but of the basest origin, turned traitor to 
 his seignior and his first patron, Raj^iiond of 
 Toulouse, and accompanied the embassy which 
 went to Rome, under the leadership of William 
 of Baux, to demand the intervention of the Pope 
 on behalf of sound, old-fashioned doctrine. In 
 his own person Perdigon was sufficiently pun- 
 
SONGS OF THE TROUBADOURS. 223 
 
 ished. His new master tired of him ; his apostasy 
 to the cause of the south made him execrated 
 among his countrymen ; he fell into abject pov- 
 erty, and with difficulty found even a monastery 
 to afford him an asylum in his last days. With 
 these exceptions, the poets of Occitania were 
 true to the cause of their country's independ- 
 ence, both spiritual and political, and lifted up 
 impassioned appeals against her subjugation. 
 
 Some of their greatest names are most asso- 
 ciated with this unquiet latter time. This is true 
 of him whom the ancient authorities generally 
 agree in pronouncing the first of Provencal 
 poets, Guiraut de Bornelh, or Borneil.-^ " There 
 was never a better troubadour," are the words 
 of his biographer, " either among those who 
 went before or those who came after him ; and 
 the manner of his life was on this wise: all 
 winter he studied in the school,^ and all sum- 
 
 1 Dante, however, in the " Purgatorio," expresses no little 
 indignation with those who insist on ranking Guiraut above 
 his own favorite, Arnaut Daniel. But Dante's literary judg- 
 ments were apt to be biased. 
 
 2 This confirms Fauriel's idea, that there were institutions 
 where the troubadour poetry was formally taught. Fauriel 
 even thinks that there must have been such before the days of 
 William of Poitiers ; but of this there does not seem to be suf- 
 ficient evidence. 
 
 V ,~0 ij -.. iT'os. •; 1^ p, 2,5 
 
224 TROUBADOURS AND TROUVERES. 
 
 mer he journeyed from court to court, accom- 
 panied by two jongleurs, who performed his 
 songs. He no longer desired to- maiTy; but 
 whatever he gained he gave to his poor rela- 
 tives, or to the church of the town where he 
 was born." There is something tantalizing in 
 the brevity of this notice, more particularly be- 
 cause it conveys the idea of an unwonted se- 
 riousness and nobility in the poet's character. 
 And it is certain that Guiraut de Bornelh was the 
 true maker and master of the chanson, and that his 
 love-poems, though occasionally obscure, have an 
 emotional depth and an equality of power sur- 
 passing those even of Bernard of Ventadour. 
 When, in his later years, he swept the lyre with 
 a sterner hand, and bewailed his country's mis- 
 fortunes, and the decadence of her chivalric 
 glories, there was dignity in his grief, and even 
 grandeur. The date of his death is disputed; 
 but it could not well have occurred later than 
 1230, and even then he must have been very 
 old. 
 
 The first half of the thirteenth century is also 
 the epoch of Peire Cardenal. If Bernard of 
 Ventadour was the sweetest minstrel among 
 
■ SONGS OF THE TROUBADOURS. 225 
 
 the troubadoars, and Guiraut de Bornelh their 
 loftiest poet, Peire Cardenal was indisputably 
 the subtlest and most intellectual spirit among 
 them all. His day was not an auspicious one 
 for the conceits and amenities of love ; but his 
 moral appeals and laments are full of wrathful 
 eloquence, and he searches the dark places of 
 human destiny, the origin of evil, the mystery 
 of free-will, with a desperate intrepidity almost 
 equal to that of Omar Khayam. " Who," he 
 cries, in the beginning of one of his pieces, " de- 
 sires to hear a sirvente woven of grief, embroid- 
 ered with anger ? I have spun it already, and I 
 can make its warp and woof."^ And there is 
 another, in which he rehearses the bold defence 
 which he will make when he finds himself ar- 
 raigned before the judgment-bar of God. This 
 does not come properly within our scope ; and 
 we shall therefore return to our first theme, and 
 close these fragmentary and, as many may well 
 think, arbitrary illustrations, with three speci- 
 mens of a peculiar order of love-song, the au- \ 
 hado, or mor ning counterpart of the serenade. ) 
 
 1 " Qui volra sirventes auzir ? " (Sajiiouard, "Lexique Ro- 
 man," vol. i., p. 446.) 
 
 15 
 
226- TROUBADOURS AND TROUVERES. • 
 
 Despite the superficial and apparently regular 
 resemblance of sentiment and circumstance be- 
 tween the three, they are as wide apart in time 
 as possible, and their dates embrace nearly the 
 whole illustrious period of Occitanian song. 
 That of the first, which we incline to regard 
 as the most perfect flower of Provencal poesy, 
 cannot be precisely fixed ; but it is apparently 
 very early, and the nameless author was un- 
 doubtedly a woman. The second was written 
 by Guiraut de Bornelh in his prime. The third 
 is by the last of the noteworthy troubadours, 
 Bertrand of Alamanon. The fanciful song of 
 Magali, in " Mireio," is also an aubado, thor- 
 oughly modern and highly artificial. If the 
 reader will take the trouble to compare it with 
 the " simple and sensuous " lay which follows, 
 he will fully realize all the likeness and the un- 
 likeness existing between the reproduction and 
 the reality. 
 
 Under the hawthorns of an orchard-lawn,^ 
 She laid her head her lover's breast upon, 
 Silent, until the guard should cry the dawn. 
 Ah God! Ah God! Why comes the day so soon? 
 
 1 " Dans unyergier enfuelha d'albespi." (Bartsch, " Chrestom- 
 athie Proven^ale," p. 98.) , , ■ c y- i:_,j(^-^ ^-,%; 
 
SONGS OF TEE TROUBADOURS. 227 
 
 I would the night might never have passed by! 
 
 So wouldst thou not have left me, at the cry 
 
 Of yonder sentry to the whitening sky. 
 
 Ah God! AhGk)d! Why comes the day so soon? ♦ 
 
 One kiss more, sweetheart, ere the melodies 
 Of early birds from all the fields arise! 
 One more, without a thought of jealous eyes ! 
 Ah. God! Ah God! Why comes the day so soon? 
 
 And yet one more under the gai'den wall; 
 
 For now the birds begin their festival. 
 
 And the day wakens at the sentry's call. 
 
 Ah God! Ah God! Why comes the day so soon? 
 
 'T is o'er ! He 's gone. Oh, mine in life and death ! 
 
 But the sweet breeze that backward wandereth, 
 
 I quafE it, as it were my darling's breath. 
 
 Ah Gtod! Ah God! Why comes the day so soon? *- 
 
 Fair was the lady, and her fame was wide, 
 And many knights for her dear favor sighed; 
 But leal the heart out of whose depths she cried, 
 Ah Grod! Ah God! Why comes the day so soon? 
 
 Here, at least, there is absolute artlessness, 
 a kind of divine abandonment. The next is a 
 world away from this, in its conscious and re- 
 strained fervor, separated from it as from a 
 childish Eden, by the flaming sword of per- 
 fectly-equipped chivalry. 
 
228 TROUBADOURS AND TROUVMES. 
 
 All-glorious king, who dost illuminate ^ 
 All ways of men, upon thy grace I wait; 
 Praying thy shelter for my spirit's queen, 
 Whom aU the darkling hours I have not seen, 
 And now the dawn is near. 
 
 Sleepest or wakest, lady of my- vows? 
 Oh, sleep n(j more, but lift thy quiet brows; 
 For now the Orient's most lovely star 
 Grows large and bright, welcoming from afar 
 The dawn that now is near. 
 
 Oh, sleep no more, but gracious audience give, 
 What time with the awakening birds I strive, 
 Who seek the day amid the leafage dark. 
 To me, to me, not to that other, hark; 
 For now the dawn is near. 
 
 Undo aJoft, most fair, thy window-bars. 
 And look upon the heaven and its stars. 
 And to my steadfast watchfulness incline, 
 And doubt me not, lest long regret be thine; 
 For now the dawn is near. 
 
 Aye since we parted in the eve agone. 
 Slept have I none, but kneeled and prayed alone 
 Unto the Son of Mary in the sky. 
 To make thee mine until we both shall die ; 
 And now the dawn is near. 
 
 " Reis glorias, verais lums e clardatz." (Raynouard, vol. iii., 
 
 p. 313.) 
 
SONGS OF THE TROUBADOURS. 229 
 
 Prom, thy balcony, lady, yesternight, 
 Didst thou me to this vigil not invite? 
 And was it, then, the suit, the song, to spurn 
 Of one -who would have died thy smile to earn? 
 And now the dawn is near. 
 
 Not so, not so! O heart fulfilled with bliss. 
 What care I for the moms to follow this? 
 For now the sweetest soul of mother born 
 Folds her arms round me tiU I laugh to scorn 
 Thdt other I did fear! 
 
 And this -is the last : — 
 
 A brave and merry cavalier * 
 Sang once unto his lady dear 
 A song like this which ye shall hear. 
 " Oh sweet, my soul, what comes," he said, 
 " When day dawns and the night is fled? 
 Ah ha! 
 I hear the sentry's call afar; 
 Up and away ! 
 Behold, the day 
 Comes following the day-star ! 
 
 " Oh sweet, my soul, I would," said he, 
 " That never dawn or day might be: 
 So were we blest eternally ! 
 At least if thou wilt have it so, 
 I am thy friend where'er I go. 
 
 J " Un cavalier si Jazia." (Eaynouard, vol. v., p. 73.) 
 
 6 c 
 
230 TROUBADOURS AND TROUVilRES. 
 
 Ah ha! 
 I hear the sentry's call afar; 
 
 Up and away! 
 
 Behold, the day 
 Comes following the day-star ! 
 
 " Oh sweet, my soul, whate'er they say, 
 There is no grief like ours to-day. 
 When friend from friend is rent away. 
 Alas! I know too well," said he, 
 " How brief one happy night may be. 
 Ah ha! 
 I hear the sentry's call afar; 
 Up and away! 
 Behold, the day 
 Comes following the day-star ! 
 
 " Oh sweet, my soul, yield me belief: 
 Afar from thee my course were brief ; 
 Slain were I, by my love and grief ! 
 I go, but I shall come again; 
 Life without thee were void and vain. 
 Ah ha! 
 I hear the sentry's call afar ; 
 Up and away! 
 Behold, the day 
 Comes following the day-stail 
 
 " Oh sweet, my soul, my way I take, 
 Thine stiU, although the morning break; 
 Forget me not, for God's dear sake. 
 
SONGS OF THE TROUBADOURS. 231 
 
 My heart of hearts goes not with me, 
 It stays for eyer more -with thee. 
 Ah ha! 
 I hear the sentry's call afar; 
 Up and away! 
 Behold, the day 
 Comes following the day-star! " 
 
 In point of feeling, these lines are not to be 
 compared with the others. In their sweet but 
 lagging rhythm there is a strange mingling of 
 languor and levity. They are, in fact, already 
 a reminiscence, — the tenuous echo of a music 
 passed by. 
 
THE ARTHURIAD. 
 
 npROUBADOURS and TrouvSi-es ! The 
 English-speaking student of the early Pro- 
 vencal poetry feels himself constantly solicited 
 and allured by the echoes of that arrtiphonal 
 singing which men were beginning to essay 
 north of the Loire, and which was fostered with 
 especial enthusiasm at the Norman court, and in 
 the Norman halls of our own ancestral England. 
 While William of Poitiers boasted of the van- 
 quished hearts that vied for his choosing, or 
 dolorously deplored the loves and luxuries 
 which he left behind him when parting for 
 the Holy Land, Wace was chanting the vic- 
 tories of Rollo in Normandy, the exploits of 
 Brutus, and the woes of Lear ; and Marie (that 
 prototype of the modern literary lady, who felt 
 that it would be wrong to suffer her powers to 
 lie idle) was weaving into her " Lay of the 
 Honeysuckle " an incident from the amours of 
 Cornish Tristram and Irish Isolt. These are 
 
THE ARTHURIAD. 233 
 
 themes nearer to our Anglo-Norman hearts, or at 
 least our imaginations, than most others of that 
 primitive time : and when some of the foremost 
 singers of our own generation apply themselves to 
 illustrating the incomparable cycle of romances 
 of which these are but the crude beginnings, we 
 can no longer resist their fascination. 
 
 It is to be hoped that all true lovers of the 
 laureate will re-read the " Idyls of the King," 
 in the edition of 1875. Here, for the first time, 
 we have these memorable poems — so strangely 
 named idyls, and so unfortunate in the long 
 intervals at which they appeared, and in their 
 lawless manner of straying before the public — 
 arranged in an order which fairly exhibits their 
 unity of purpose, their cumulative interest, and 
 the matchless moral force and beautj'^ of the one 
 story of which they are all — the less equally 
 with the greater — essential parts. We must 
 also conclude, whether willingly or not, that 
 the present is their final arrangement, since 
 the author has himself added an epilogue or 
 envoi, in which he formally presents to the 
 reigning queen of England the complete series 
 of poems, of which four of the most famous had 
 
234 TROUBADOURS AND TROUVMES. 
 
 been dedicated, on their first appearance, to the 
 memory of the Prince Consort : — 
 
 " Thou my Queen, 
 
 Not for itself, but through thy living love 
 For one to whom I made it o'er his grave 
 Sacred, accept this old, imperfect tale, 
 New-old, and shadowing sense at war with soul, 
 Rather than that gray king whose name, a ghost, 
 Streams like a cloud man-shaped from mountain-peak. 
 And cleaves to cairn and cromlech still ; or him 
 Of Geoffrey's book or him of MaUeor's." 
 
 The fresh touches, which the reader familiar 
 with the separate poems will detect in many 
 parts of the united work, are almost all applied 
 to the central figure of Arthur himself, — a 
 figure which, despite its melancholy grandeur, 
 more than one of the laureate's critics have 
 heretofore pronounced the weakest in his book. 
 The outlines of that figure are now finished and 
 strengthened. The lights of the king's destiny 
 are enhanced, and its shadows deepened. The 
 grandeur of his dream and the cruelty of his 
 disappointment are set in more distinct and 
 affecting contrast than before ; and yet the 
 changes and additions are made with so mas- 
 terly a care and restraint, that the result — for 
 
THE ARTHVRIAD. 235 
 
 a wonder in the emendations of this or of any 
 poet — is only and exceedingly beautiful. Some 
 reasons will by and by be given for the private 
 fancy that Mr. Tennyson's Arthurian epic is not 
 exactly, in all respects, what he once meant to 
 make it ; but it is fully an epic, vindicating the 
 capacity of the age for that high style of com- 
 position, made out of the proper epical material, 
 that is to say, the mythology, the pre-literary 
 traditions, and the first literature of the poet's 
 own country, with much the noblest of all 
 epic heroes, and a marvellously picturesque 
 group of subordinate characters. It can but 
 enhance our admiration of his work, to ascer- 
 tain just how much of this impressive story the 
 poet found ready to his hand in the ancient 
 metrical and prose romances of England and 
 France, especially in the two English author- 
 ities which he distinguishes in his final dedica- 
 tion, and how much we owe to his own inventive 
 genius and exquisite skill in composition. This, 
 in brief, is the argument of the complete poem. 
 
 Arthur, believed of men to be the child of 
 King Uther Pendragon and Ygerne, or Igerna, 
 the Queen of Cornwall, was set on the throne 
 
236 TROUBADOURS AND TROUVMES. 
 
 of Britain by the might of the great magician 
 Merlin. For then the Romans no longer ruled 
 in the island, but it was rent by factions and 
 laid waste by heathen hordes from over the 
 seas. And Arthur was, in truth, not Uther's 
 son, but cast up, a babe, out of the stormy sea, 
 being sent by Heaven to appease the land and 
 establish the faith of Christ therein ; and he 
 was delivered to Merlin to be brought up. And 
 Merlin sang of him at his coming, " From the 
 great deep to the great deep he goes." Arthur 
 founded a new order of knighthood, called that 
 of the Round Table ; and his knights he made 
 swear to uphold the faith of Christ, and right 
 all wrongs of men ; and, above all, themselves 
 to live chaste lives, each with the one woman of 
 his sacred choice. Of the knights whom Arthur 
 made, the first in tinie was Sir Bedivere ; but 
 the first in prowess, and his own dearest friend 
 and brother-in-arms, was the famed Sir Laun- 
 eelot of the Lake. Him Arthur sent to fetch 
 his betrothed bride, Guinevere, out of the land 
 of Cameliard, for she was a princess of that prov- 
 ince, and the fairest woman upon earth. After 
 Sir La uncelot, Arthur's greatest knights were 
 
THE ARTHURIAD. 237 
 
 Sir Tristram of Lyoness, Sir Gawain, Sir Gareth, 
 and Sir Modred, sons of Arthur's reputed sister, 
 the Queen of Orkney, and true grandsons of 
 Uther Pendragon ; Sir Kay, -his foster-brother; 
 Geraint, a tributary prince ; Sir Pelleas of the 
 Isles ; Sir Galahad ; and Sir Percivale. All these 
 kept their vows for a time, and lived purely ; 
 and the heathen were overthrown in twelve 
 great battles, and the land was at peace. And 
 Merlin, of his deep wisdom, showed Arthur 
 how to rule, and made the cities of the realm 
 beautiful hj his magic arts, and built for the 
 king, on a hiU in the ancient city of Camelot, 
 the most glorious palace under the sun. But 
 first the great Sir Launcelot, who had loved 
 Queen Guinevere from the time when he 
 brought her to her wedding, broke his vows, 
 and sinned with her ; and Arthur knew it not ; 
 nor, Ijeing himself incorruptible, so much as 
 dreamed of this treachery for many years. 
 Howbeit, others knew, and this sin became the 
 occasion and excuse for many more. For then 
 Sir Tristram of Lyoness loved guiltily Isolt the 
 Fair, the wife of King Mark of Cornwall, and 
 she returned his love ; and, in the end, Mark 
 
238 TROUBADOURS AND TROUVkRES. 
 
 slew Tristram, not in open fight, but treacher- 
 ously, having tracked him to his lady's bower. 
 Next, Merlin the Wise was himself beguiled by 
 a fair and wicked woman, — some say a sprite, — 
 who robbed him of his mighty wit, and allured 
 him into some strange prison, so that he was 
 lost to Arthur, and no man saw him more. And 
 Prince Geraint withdrew from Arthur's court, 
 because he had heard the scandal against Queen 
 Guinevere, and would not that his own true 
 wife should be beloved by her. And Sir Pelleas 
 of the Isles, being young and himself spotless, 
 loved a lady who deceived him, and was false 
 with Sir Gawain, the reputed nephew of Arthur, 
 which when Sir Pelleas knew, he vrent mad for 
 grief and shame. And Sir Galahad and Sir Per- 
 civale, who were also pure knights, grieved by 
 the growing baseness of the time, vowed them- 
 selves to the quest of the Holy Grail, or cup of 
 the Last Supper ; in the hope that if the sacred 
 vessel were brought back among men, their 
 hearts might become clean once more, and the 
 work of the Lord and of the righteous king be 
 revived. And Galahad found the grail, indeed, 
 but was himself immediately caught away to 
 
THE ARTHURIAD. 239 
 
 heaven, and the holy vessel with him ; but Per- 
 civale went into a monastery, and took vows. 
 There were many other knights also, who, fol- 
 lowing these, undertook the quest of the Holy 
 Grail, but idly, and from motives of vanitj' ; 
 and, not being themselves pure, they could 
 achieve nothing: but some perished oij their 
 adventures, and many went far astray, and re- 
 turned no more : so that the might of the Round 
 Table was broken, and the heathen were no longer 
 held at bay. Erelong, the treason of Launcelot 
 was discovered to the king, and the queen fled, 
 and found sanctuary with the nuns in the con- 
 vent of Almesbury ; and Launcelot himself with- 
 drew to his own realm over-seas, whither Arthur 
 pursued, and where he besieged him ; albeit, 
 Launcelot would not lift his hand against the 
 king who had made him knight. Finally, while 
 Arthur was yet awaj% Modred revolted and 
 seized the crown ; and Arthur, returning, met 
 Modred and his forces in Lyoness ; and there 
 was fought a great battle, in which an hundred 
 thousand men were slain, and nearly all the 
 remnant of the Round Table perished. Last 
 of all, Arthur slew Modred in a single contest, 
 
240 TROUBADOURS AND TROUVMES. 
 
 and was himself wounded unto death ; but certain 
 queens removed him, by ship, from the battle- 
 field, promising to cure his wounds in the mystic 
 island of Avallon. Howbeit, he returned no 
 more ; and the prophecy was fulfilled, — " From 
 the great deep to the great deep he goes." 
 
 No-ji' it can hardly be necessary to say that 
 for this mystical and moving tale there is hardly 
 the faintest foundation in veracious history. 
 We may cherish in our secret hearts, but we 
 would blush to have discovered, the wild hope 
 that Dr. Schliemann may yet drain some Welsh 
 lake and lay bare Excalibur, or unearth the 
 sculptured gates of sacred Camelot. What 
 students of early mediaeval literature do know 
 for certain, and a gracious point of support they 
 i find it, is, that the Normans marched to victory 
 . at the battle of Hastings to the unimaginable 
 j tune of the " Chanson de Roland," as chanted by 
 ) one Taillefer, who fell gallantly in the forefront 
 \ of the invaders, with that rude strain upon his 
 (lips. But once planted and at peace in those 
 ill-gotten new homes, — the remote inheritance 
 of which is so particularly glorious, — the Nor- 
 man gentry must have had but a dreary time of 
 
THE ARTHURIAD. 241 
 
 it ; and they early learned to varj'- the monotony 
 of their indoor entertainments by inviting the 
 performances of the bards and wandering glee- 
 men of the conquered land. Brutus, Lear, 
 Merlin, Arthur, Tristram, Gawain, — these 
 were the heroes whom those gleemen sang, and 
 their names, however barbarous to Norman ears, 
 were new, or at least had been but rarely and 
 faintly heard before in the echoes of Armorican 
 song, and their exploits made an exhilarating 
 variety after the hackneyed tales of the Moorish 
 wars and the monstrous rhymed biographies of 
 Grecian heroes and early saints. We conclude, 
 at all events, that this British lore had come 
 fully into fashion eighty years after the Con- 
 quest : for then, in 1147, the enterprising monk 
 Geoffrey of Monmouth, himself a Norman, dedi- 
 cated to Robert, Earl of Gloucester, his " Historia 
 Britonum," triumphantly announced as a Latin 
 translation out of a " precious treasure " of early 
 manuscript written on parchment, in the ancient 
 British tongue, and brought to light with exul- 
 tation by Walter, Archdeacon of Oxford, in a 
 convent in Armorica. If such a manuscript ever 
 existed, it was likely enough to have been found 
 
 16 
 
242 TROUBADOURS AND TROUVERES. 
 
 in Armorica, that early civilized and Christian- 
 ized province, to vehich so many Britons fled 
 for refuge dui'ing the era of the Saxon invasions 
 that it came in time itself to be called Brittany. 
 But whether or no the Walter who discovered 
 it were Walter Mapes the poet, alias Calenius, a 
 famous enthusiast in Celtic story, and himself 
 the reputed author of sundry French Arthurian 
 romances of the twelfth century, must depend 
 unhappily, on the date of Calenius's birth, which 
 some of the authorities place later by a few 
 years than the appearance of Geoffrey's book. 
 And it is certainly remarkable that so complete 
 a work in prose should have been composed in 
 any other tongue than monkish Latin, before 
 the adoption by the Normans of the British 
 legendary lore, and the date of the first prose 
 romances. Moreover, there is, so to speak, an 
 absurd consistency, an incredible richness and 
 roundness about Geoffrey's tale, which convince 
 us that at least his Armorican material suffered 
 nothing by its passage through his hands. Cu- 
 rious it is to learn from his conscientious chro- 
 nology that Brutus, the grandson of ^neas, 
 emigrated to Britain at the time when Eli 
 
THE ARTHURIAD. 243 
 
 governed Israel and the ark of the Lord was 
 taken by the Philistines ; that Lear divided his 
 kingdom among his ingrate daughters in the 
 days of Elijah ; and that Christ' was born in 
 Bethlehem during the reign of Cymbeline. But 
 our present concern is with Geoffrey's Arthur 
 only, — a splendid figure, the clearly defined and 
 obvious prototj'pe of him who continued to 
 shine without a peer in Norman song and story 
 for more than three hundred years. Not until 
 1485 did Sir Thomas Malory sum up the growth 
 of legend concerning the king and his knights 
 in his " Morte d' Arthur," the latest and finest of 
 the great chivalric romances, whose artless and 
 beautiful phraseology Tennyson himself has not 
 always cared to alter. 
 
 The following is the story of Arthur's birth 
 as it is told by Geoffrey, afterwards with more 
 fulness of detail by the French romancers, and, 
 finally, with that added grace of characteriz- 
 ation which was far beyond Geoffrey's range, 
 by Malory. 
 
 King Uther Pendragon was enamoured of 
 Igerna, the wife of Gorlois, King of Cornwall ; 
 on which account Gorlois shut her up in the 
 
244 TROUBADOURS AND TROUVtRES. 
 
 strong castle of Tintagil, but himself withdrew 
 to another castle, — " hight Terrabil," says Sir 
 Thomas Malory, — where Uther besieged, con- 
 quered, and slew him. The king, by the assist- 
 ance of the magician Merlin, then assumed the 
 appearance of Gorlois and hastened to Tintagil, 
 where Igerna gave him a wife's welcome. Im- 
 mediately he dropped his disguise, informed her 
 of her husband's death, and compelled her to 
 wed him. Their child was Arthur. 
 
 Ill this narrative the only supernatural ele- 
 ment is the transformation of Gorlois by Merlin ; 
 and Merlin, Geoffrey candidly allows, was not 
 canny. He was, by all accounts, the child of a 
 mortal maiden and a spirit descended from one 
 of the angels who fell with Lucifer, and bearing 
 a general resemblance to the Daemon of Soc- 
 rates ; not a common mode of origin, certainly, 
 but one of which, the historian assures us, 
 divers instances were known.^ The beautiful 
 fancy of a dragon-shaped vessel, " bright with 
 a shining people on its decks," which appeared 
 
 1 Por a monstrous amplification of this bit of " history," 
 with the addition of all manner of unpleasant details, see 
 abstract of the EnglisR metrical romance of Merlin, in Ellis's 
 " Specimens of Early English Romances." 
 
THE ARTHURIAD. 245 
 
 oif Tintagil on the night of Uther's death with- 
 out issue, and of the naked babe " descending 
 in the glory of the seas " to the beach at Mer- 
 lin's feet, is Tennyson's own. He made it, as 
 a poet abundantly may, to correspond with the 
 really ancient and tenacious fable that Arthur, 
 when his lifework was ruined and his kingdom 
 rent, passed to a sleep of ages in the isle of 
 Avallon, but did not die. On the whole, it is 
 worth, for purposes of art, the sacrifice of the 
 rather touching scene in Malory, where Igerna 
 is roughly accused of treasonably protracting 
 the quarrels over the succession, by concealing 
 the circumstances of Arthur's birth : " Then 
 spake Igraine and sai4, ' I am a woman, and I 
 may not fight. ... But Merlin knoweth well 
 how King Uther came to me in the castle of 
 Tintagil, in the likeness of my lord that was 
 dead three hours tofore. And after Uther 
 wedded me ; and, by his commandment, when 
 the child was born it was delivered to Merlin 
 and nourished by him ; and so I saw the child 
 never after, nor wot what is his name, for I 
 knew him never yet.' And there Ulfius said to 
 the queen, ' Merlin is more to blame than ye.' 
 
546 TROUBADOURS AND TROUVilRES. 
 
 ' Well I wot,' said the queen, ' that T bare a 
 child by my lord, King Uther ; but I wot not 
 where he is become.' Then Merlin took King 
 Arthur by the hand, saying, ' This is your 
 mother.' And therewith King Arthur took 
 his mother. Queen Igraine, in his arms and 
 kissed her, and either wept upon other." 
 
 The account of Arthur's progressive subjuga- 
 tion of native factions and heathen invaders, in 
 the twelve great battles which Nennius had 
 enumerated as early as the fifth century,^ is that 
 
 1 " Then it was that the magnanimous Arthur, with all the 
 kings and military force of Britain, fought against the Saxons. 
 And though there were many more noble than himself, yet he 
 was twelve times chosen their commander, and was as often 
 conqueror. The first battle in which he was engaged was at 
 the mouth of the river Gleni. The second, third, fom-th, and 
 fifth were on another river, by the Britons called Uuglas, in 
 the region Linuis ; the sixth, on the river Bassas. The seventh 
 in the wood Celidon, which the Britons call Cat Coit Celidon. 
 The eighth was near Gurnion Castle, where Arthur bore the 
 image of the Holy Virgin, Mother of God, on his shoulders, and 
 through the power of our Lord Jesus Christ and the Holy Mary 
 put the Saxons to flight and pursued them the whole day with 
 great slaughter. The ninth was at the city of Legion, which 
 is called Cair Lion. The tenth was on the banks of the river 
 Trat Treuroit. The eleventh w£Cs on the mountain Brenguorn, 
 which we call Cat Bregion. The twelfth was a most severe 
 contest, when Arthur penetrated to the Hill of Badon. . . .■ 
 For no strength can avail against the will of the Almighty." 
 (Nennius, "History of the Britons," a. d. 452.) 
 
THE AETHURIAD. 247 
 
 which, in Tennyson, first fires our imagination 
 and enlists our sympathy for the king. In both 
 Geoffrey and Malory this pacification of the 
 realm is dwarfed by comparison with the pom- 
 pous details of Arthur's Roman war, of victories 
 over the Emperor Lucius Tiberius, a court held 
 at Paris, and a coronation at Rome. All such 
 chimeras the laureate's fine sense of symmetry 
 compelled him to dismiss in a single passage : 
 
 " There at the banquet those great lords from Rome, 
 The slowly fading mistress of the world, 
 Strode in and claimed their tribute as of yore. 
 But Arthur spake, ' Behold, for these have sworn 
 To wage my wars and worship me their ting. 
 The old order changeth, yielding place to new; 
 And we that fight for our fair father Christ, 
 Seeing that ye be grown too weak and old 
 To drive the heathen from your Roman wall, 
 No tribute wiU we pay: ' so those great lords 
 Drew back in wrath, and Arthur strove with Kome." 
 
 Indeed, a sovereign so enamoured of foreign 
 conquest as Geoffrey's Arthur could hardly 
 claim our sympathy for the ignominious but 
 not very unnatural catastrophe of his reign, 
 which the monk records in these few dry 
 words : — 
 
248 TROUBADOURS AND TROUVMES. 
 
 " As he was beginning to pass the Alps, he 
 had news brought him that his nephew Modred, 
 to whose care he had entrusted Britain, had, by 
 tyrannical and treasonable practices, set the 
 crown upon his own head, and that Queen Guan- 
 humara, in violation of her first marriage, had 
 treasonably married him " (!) This is actually 
 the only time that the gracious Guinevere is 
 mentioned by name in Geoffrey's history, al- 
 though she is alluded to in his thirteenth chap- 
 ter, where he gives a description of the king's 
 coronation-feast, far more stately than Malory's'' 
 transcript from the French, and a worthier 
 preliminary to Tennyson's noble picture of the 
 royal wedding. To this last is added, in the 
 recent edition, a passage full of splendor : — 
 
 " Far shone the fields of May through open door, 
 The sacred altar blossomed white with May, 
 The sun of May descended on their king, 
 They gazed on aU earth's beauty in their queen, 
 Rolled incense, and there passed along the hymns 
 A voice, as of the waters, while the two 
 Sware at the shrine of Christ a deathless love: 
 And Arthur said, ' Behold, thy doom is mine: 
 Let chance what wiU, I love thee to the death! ' 
 To whom the queen replied with di'ooping eyes, 
 
THE ARTHURIAD. 249 
 
 ' King and my lord, I love thee to the death! ' 
 And holy Dubric spread his hands and spake, 
 ' Reign ye, and lire and love, and make the -world 
 Other, and may thy queen be one with thee, 
 And all" this order of thy Table Round 
 Fulfil the boundless purpose of their king! ' " 
 
 Nor must we omit here to notice — for this 
 also is new — the strange psean sung by Arthur's 
 victorious knights as they march in the bridal 
 procession, to the sound of trumpets, through 
 a city " all on fire with sun and cloth of gold ; " 
 more especially the refrain, " Fall battle-axe and 
 flash brand," where the movement of the verse 
 expresses so curiously the descent of the heavy- 
 headed primitive weapon. 
 
 In a passage which is indirectly of unusual 
 interest, as reflecting the Norman ideal of chiv- 
 alry in the twelfth century, Geoffrey says that 
 in the reign of Arthur, " Britain had arrived at 
 such a pitch of grandeur that in abundance of 
 riches, luxury of ornaments, and politeness of 
 inhabitants, it far surpassed all other kingdoms. 
 The knights in it, that were famous for chivalry, 
 wore their clothes and arms all of the same color 
 and fashion ; and the women also, no less cele- 
 
250 TROUBADOURS AND TROUV^RES. 
 
 brated for their wit, wore all the same kind of 
 apparel, and counted none worthy of their love 
 but such as had given proof of tlieir valor in 
 three successive battles. Thus was the valor 
 of the men an encouragement for the women's 
 chastity, and the love of the women a spur to 
 soldiers' bravery." 
 
 And this is the sum of what the monk of 
 Monmouth contributes to the epic of Arthur, if 
 we except the matter-of-fact statement to the 
 effect that after Arthur was mortally wounded 
 he had himself conveyed to the island of Aval- 
 Ion, — where, bj'- the way, was situated the 
 Castle Perillous in which J^ynette, or Linet, 
 wrought so manj' cures, — in the hope that he 
 might there be healed. 
 
 There is no allusion in Geoffrey's chronicle to 
 the mysterious manner of Merlin's taking-off, 
 although great stress is laid on his weight in 
 Arthur's councils ; and his famous prophecy, 
 which the monk had previously translated from 
 an independent source, is incorporated with the 
 " Historia Britonum " entire. Even the compar- 
 atively late English metrical romance of Merlin, 
 although ten thousand lines long, is unfinished. 
 
THE ARTHURIAD. 251 
 
 and breaks off in the midst of the war in which 
 Arthur engaged on behalf of Leodogran, the 
 father of Guinevere. . But there is little doubt 
 that the story of the great magician's dishonor- 
 able death is of French origin, as the name of 
 his enchantress, whether Vivien or Niume, is 
 undoubtedly French. In Malory, Merlin is 
 made to foreshadow his own sombre end, at the 
 same time that he foretells to Arthur the ruin 
 of the kingdom through his marriage with Guin- 
 evere. 
 
 " ' Ah,' said King Arthur, ' ye are a marvel- 
 lous man, but I marvel much at thy words that 
 I must die in battle.' ' Marvel not,' said Merlin, 
 ' for it is God's will. . . . But I may well be 
 sorry,' said Merlin, ' for I shall die a shameful 
 death, — to be put in the earth quick, — and ye 
 shall die a worshipful death.' . . . So after these 
 quests, it fell so that Merlin fell in dotage on 
 one of the damsels of the lake. But Merlin 
 would let her have no rest. . . . And ever she 
 made Merlin good cheer, till she learned of him 
 all manner thing that she desired, and he was 
 asotted upon her that he might not be from her. 
 So on a time Merlin told Arthur that he should 
 
252 TROUBADOVRS AND TROUVMES. 
 
 not dure long, but for all his crafts he should be 
 put in the earth quick ; and so he told the king 
 many things that should ,befall, but always he 
 warned the king to keep well his sword and the 
 scabbard, for he told him how the sword and 
 the scabbard should be stolen from him by a 
 woman whom he trusted. Also he told King 
 Arthur that he should miss him ; ' Yet had ye 
 lever than all your lands to have me again.' 
 ' Ah,' said the king, ' since ye know of your 
 adventure, purvey for it, and put away by your 
 crafts that misadventure.' ' Nay,' said Merlin, 
 ' it will not be.' So then he departed from the 
 king. And within a while the damsel of the 
 lake departed, and Merlin went with her, ever- 
 more, wheresoever she went. And often Mer- 
 lin would have had her privily away by his sub- 
 tle crafts. Then she made him swear that he 
 should never do none enchantment upon her, 
 if he would have his will. And so he sware. 
 So she and Merlin went over the seas. . . . 
 And always Merlin lay about the lady to have 
 her love, and she was ever passing weary of 
 him, and fain would have been delivered of 
 him, for she was afeard of him, because he was 
 
THE ARTHURIAD. 253 
 
 a devil's son and she could not put him away 
 by no means. And so it happed on a time 
 that Merlin showed to her in a rock which was 
 a great wonder, and wrought by enchantment, 
 that went under a great stone. So by her 
 subtle working she made Merlin to go under 
 that stone, to let her wit of the marvels there ; 
 but she wrought so there for him that he came 
 never out for all the marvels he could do." 
 
 It will be seen that Malory has not distributed 
 the balance of censure, so to speak, for the wiz- 
 ard's unhappy end precisely as Tennyson does. 
 But the passage is quoted entire, because it 
 illustrates better and more briefly than almost 
 any other the miraculous development which 
 Tennyson sometimes gives his material. The 
 breathless interest and appalling beauty of the 
 story of " Merlin and Vivien," as we have it in 
 the " Idyls," the sublime fitness of the scenery, 
 the subtle analysis of instinct and motive, and, 
 above all, the irresistible force and solemnity of 
 the lesson conveyed, — they are all here in em- 
 biyo, in this dreamy fragment of a garrulous old 
 tale. But the power which can evolve the one 
 out of the other seems, to us, like the power 
 
254 TROUBADOURS AND TROUVkRES. 
 
 which causes the seed to grow. " What thou 
 sowest, thou sowest not that body which shall 
 be, but bare grain ; it may chance of wheat or 
 of some other grain." This is indeed the maker'' s 
 proper function among men ; but here we see it 
 almost in its highest exercise. Sir Thomas 
 Malory himself must have possessed no small 
 share of this vivifying and organizing power, 
 or he never could have wrought, as he assuredly 
 has, the heterogeneous materials which he col- 
 lected from so many sources, into a naive, con- 
 sistent, and affecting whole. But usually, except 
 in one remarkable instance to be noticed hereaf- 
 ter, Tennyson's mode of treatment is as great an 
 advance in art and in refinement on Malory's, 
 as Malory's is on the crudeness and puerility of 
 Waee, or the lusty coarseness of Thomas the 
 Rhymer of Ercildoune. 
 
 The story of " Geraint and Enid " is more 
 purely episodical than any other idyl, and is 
 derived from an entirely independent source. 
 The story of " Gareth and Lynette," as we 
 have .it in Tennyson, belongs wholly to the 
 earlier and happier period of Arthur's reign. 
 Its events bear a general resemblance to those 
 
THE ARTHVRIAD. 255 
 
 which are recounted, in this instance, very much 
 more at length, in Malory ; and the marked 
 peculiarities of Lynette — her rudeness and pet- 
 ulance, and entire lack of the softer graces which 
 belonged, as a rule, to the lady of chivalry — 
 are fully indicated in the old story. In fact, 
 Lynette, or Linet, is called in Malory, the " dam- 
 sel savage ;" although considerable stress is laid 
 on her skill in the arts of healing, which she prac- 
 tised on many a wounded knight besides Gareth, 
 in the Castle Perillous of her beautiful sister, 
 Lyonors. There is a very life-like scene in 
 Malory, where the mother of Gareth, Queen 
 Belicent, alarmed at his protracted absence on 
 his first adventure, appears at Arthur's court, 
 and reproaches the king for the lad's non-appear- 
 ance, with the true unreasoning fierceness, of 
 feminine anxiety. There is also a particularly 
 pretty scene at court, where Gareth and Lyonors 
 finally meet, and both confess to Arthur their 
 love for one another. 
 
 " And among all those ladies, she [Lyonors] 
 was named the fairest and peerless. Then, when 
 Sir Gareth saw her, there was many a goodly 
 look and goodly words, that all men of worship 
 
256 TROUBADOURS AND TROUVkRES. 
 
 liad joy to behold them. Then came King -Ar- 
 thur and many other kings, and Dame Guinevere 
 and the Queen of Orkney, and there the king 
 asked his nephew. Sir Gareth, whether he 
 would have that lady to his wife ? ' My lord, 
 wit you well that I love her above all ladies 
 living.' ' Now, fair lady,' said King Arthur, 
 ' what say ye ? ' ' Most noble king,' said Dame 
 Liones, ' wit you well that my lord. Sir Gareth, 
 is to me more lever to have and hold as my hus- 
 band than any king or prince ; and if I may not 
 have him, I promise you I will never have none. 
 For, my Lord Arthur, he is my first love, and he 
 shall be my last.' " Malory, it will be observed, 
 is that " earlier " author who says, " that Gareth 
 married Lady Lyonors ;" and a stately wedding 
 is described ; while Arthur is represented as 
 taking rather an active part in bringing about 
 the marriage of Lynette to Sir Gaheris, a com- 
 paratively obscure brother of Gareth, Modred, 
 and Gawain, but still a very suit<able parti for 
 that spirited damsel. Malory's Gareth continues 
 to figure with distinction throughout Arthur's 
 reign, and is closely involved in its catastrophe. 
 He was slain by Launcelot's own hand " un- 
 
THE ARTHURIAD. 257 
 
 wittingly," amid the bloodshed which followed 
 the discovery by Modred of the great knight's 
 treason : thus causing Gawain, who, up to this 
 time, quite consistently with his character in 
 Malory, had been inclined to screen the dis- 
 tinguished lovers from Arthur's wrath, to swear 
 an oath of mortal vengeance against Launcelot, 
 in performing which he was himself slain. 
 
 Tennyson's Gawain is identical with the Ga- 
 wain of Malory, and hardly more elaborated : a 
 brave, unprincipled man, adorned with all cliival- 
 ric accomplishments, but of a vindictive temper, 
 as unlike as possible to the proud and patient 
 magnanimity of Arthur, Launcelot, and his own 
 young brother, Gareth. " For," says Malory, 
 " after Sir Gareth had espied Sir Gawain's con- 
 ditions, he withdrew himself from his brother 
 Sir Gawain's fellowship, for he was vengeable, 
 and, where he hated, he would be avenged with 
 murder, and that hated Sir Gareth." 
 
 Gawain, though a frequent, is seldom a prin- 
 cipal, actor in the great Scene of Arthur's life, 
 and the sad story of " Pelleas and Ettarre," 
 in which he figures most conspicuously, is but 
 the briefest of episodes in Malory; illustrating, 
 17 
 
258 TROUBADOURS AND TROUVMES. 
 
 hardly less remarkably than the story of " Mer- 
 lin and Vivien," Tennyson's magnificent power 
 of amplification. It is proper, however, to ob- 
 serve, that the Gawain of all elder romance is 
 a very different person from Malory's, — much 
 more admirable and commonplace. His chival- 
 ric rank is second only to that of Launcelot and 
 Tristram. He is the hero of many an honorable 
 adventure, and is confidently identified with the 
 golden-tongued Gwalzmai of the Welsh triads, 
 as Tristram is identified with Tristan the Tu- 
 multuous, the son of Tallwyz. 
 
 Let us now consider briefly Tenn3'-son's treat- 
 ment of the world-renowned story of " Tristram 
 and Isolt." The high antiquity of this tale, 
 its peculiar picturesqueness, and the prominent 
 place which it occupies in the Arthurian cycle of 
 romances, including Malory's, of which it con- 
 stitutes at least a quarter part, would have led 
 us to expect that the laureate would give it 
 more space than he has done in the dreary 
 fragment of " The Last Tournament." That 
 singular poem, as it first appeared indepen- 
 dently, did certainly seem to deserve much of 
 the severe criticism which it received for ob- 
 
THE ARTHURIAD. 259 
 
 scurity of style, repulsive details, and inconse- 
 quent action. It can hardly be re-read, in its 
 proper connection, without receiving a tribute 
 of admiration. The last ray of sunshine swal- 
 lowed up in storm, the last gleam of honorable 
 courtesy vanishing in a cynical and lazy liber- 
 tinism, the last flaming up of passion quenched 
 by a stealthy revenge, — these things, and the 
 dun, sallow tints of latest autumn in which 
 they are all represented, give " The Last Tour- 
 nament " a mai-vellous fitness for its place in the 
 thick-coming shadows of an imminent tragedy. 
 And yet every verse of the poem presupposes, 
 on the part of the reader, a previous knowledge 
 of the story of " Tristram and Isolt," which 
 most readers doubtless possess, but which the 
 poet had, artistically speaking, no right to as- 
 sume. And we cannot rid ourselves of the fancy 
 that he once meant to have told it in full in a 
 separate and earlier idyl. The epic, even in its 
 latest form, falls short by two books of the 
 canonical number. We infer, from the intro- 
 duction to the fine fragment which first appeared 
 a generation ago, under the title of " Morte 
 d' Arthur," and has since been expanded into the 
 
260 TROUBADOURS AND TROUVMES. 
 
 " Passing of Arthur," that this, in the poet's 
 original scheme, was to have been the eleventh 
 book of the epic. It seems impossible but that 
 the earlier missing canto was to have rehearsed 
 all of the romantic stoty, except its grim catas- 
 trophe, of those lovers who are so constantly 
 compared with Launcelot and Guinevere in all 
 old romance, nay, even poetically styled the 
 only two in the world beside them. Why was 
 this classic tale rejected ? "Was it because the 
 poet deemed it too hackneyed, or because of its 
 utter impracticability for that strenuous moral 
 purpose which came so palpably to modify his 
 treatment of the Arthurian story, and which 
 must have deepened so fast between the purely 
 aesthetic days of the " Morte d' Arthur," and tliose 
 of the supreme idyl of " Guinevere " ? Sir Walter 
 Scott, in the fascinating preface to his edition of 
 Thomas the Rhymer's " Tristram," speaks of the 
 " extreme ingratitude and profligacy of the 
 hero." In Malory, and apparently in the later 
 French prose-romance which he closely fol- 
 lowed, these ugly qualities are veiled by every 
 lesser chivalric grace, by consummate skill in 
 music and the arts of the chase, and by an 
 
THE ARTHURIAD. 261 
 
 almost fantastic magnanimity in combat. But 
 the character is essentially the same. Tristram 
 is the most notorious and the most elegant of 
 libertines ; and the full knowledge and open 
 toleration of his intrigues on the part of Arthur 
 himself, as compared with his noble incredulity 
 and righteous wrath when he was himself 
 wronged, constitute the most glaring inconsist- 
 ency in Malory's romance, and the greatest 
 blemish on the character of his king. In Mal- 
 ory, indeed, the denouement of the story, which 
 is the same as that recorded in " The Last Tour- 
 nament," is retributive, and so may be considered 
 in a general way moral. There is another and 
 much more commonly received ending, which 
 may be called the sentimental, to distinguish it 
 from the other. In this, Tristram, after desert- 
 ing his wife, Isolt of the White Hands, and 
 dalljdng a while with his former paramour, Isolt 
 the wife of King Mark, returns again to Brit- 
 tany, and receives in battle a wound from a 
 poisoned spear, which even the skill of his in- 
 jured wife is powerless to cure. The sick man 
 takes a fancy that Isolt the queen could cure 
 him, and sends his faithful squire, Gouvernail, 
 
262 TROUBADOURS AND TROUVMES. 
 
 to beg her to come and save his life. His 
 weakness warns him that the least delay will 
 be fatal, and accordingly he orders Gouvernail 
 on his return to the Breton coast to hoist white 
 sails if he shall have prevailed on the queen to 
 accompanj' him ; black, if she shall. have refused. 
 Isolt the wife overhears the charge, and heart- 
 sick awaits the return of the vessel : when its 
 approach is announced, and Tristram gasps out 
 a question as to the color of the sails, she tells 
 him a lie, says black, and he dies. And when 
 Isolt the queen arrives, amid the universal 
 lamentation over Tristram, she refuses to sur- 
 vive him. 
 
 It would be interesting to know whether the 
 moral or the sentimental ending of the story is 
 the elder. Sir Walter Scott assumes the latter, 
 but does not give his reasons for so doing; and 
 there seems at least a possibility that the moral 
 ending may also be of great antiquity. Thomas 
 of Ercildoune wrote his metrical romance of " Sir 
 Tristram" somewhere about the middle of the 
 thirteenth century. Sir Walter, in the preface 
 and notes to his edition of this ancient English 
 poem, has illustrated it with all the wealth of 
 
THE ARTHURIAD. 263 
 
 his curious antiquarian lore, and argues with 
 much ardor for the Celtic origin and character 
 of the story. He admits, however, that Marie's 
 " Lay of the Honeysuckle," which relates one of 
 its incidents, and two French metrical fragments 
 which correspond much more closely with the 
 Rhymer's version than the later romances, are 
 earlier than his ; and the best modern French 
 criticism places them nearly a century earlier. 
 Now the Rhymer's "Tristram" is incomplete.. 
 Not only are the illuminations which surmounted 
 the original black-letter cut away from every 
 page, but the last half of the last fytte or canto 
 is gone entirely ; and it is Scott who supplies 
 the defect by adding the usual sentimental end- 
 ing of the story in an exquisite imitation of 
 Thomas's own quaint verse, hardly to be distin- 
 guished from it in style, and much more tender 
 and delicate in spirit. But it is singular that 
 in one of the old French metrical fragments, 
 whose place is near the end of the story, there 
 is a passage which Sir Walter Scott himself 
 quotes in his preface, for its bearing on another 
 question, where the author, after, saying that 
 the tale was even then told in a great many 
 
264 TROUBADOURS AND TROUVERES. 
 
 different ways, proceeds to argue that it is 
 absurd to suppose that Gouvernail could ever 
 have gone to Cornwall and taken away Queen 
 Isolt.^ How this author eventually disposed of 
 the difficulty, we shall probably never know; 
 but we may safely conclude that it was not 
 exactly in the sentimental fashion. Here is a 
 curious point for future researches. 
 
 We have now . glanced at the originals of 
 nearly all the great Arthurian heroes whom 
 Tennyson has restored, except the two who 
 move us most deeply, — Launcelot the Peerless, 
 and Galahad the Spotless. To these imraor- 
 
 1 " Cist fust par tut la part con9us 
 
 E par tut le regne sius, 
 
 Qui de I'amur ert parjurera, 
 
 Et enuers Ysolt messagers. 
 
 Li reis Ten haiet mult forment ; 
 
 Guaiter le feseit k sa gent ; 
 
 E curaent put-il dune venir 
 \ Sun service i la caert offrir," etc. 
 
 " He [Gouvernail] was known in all those parts 
 And throughout the kingdom 
 As being privy to the love of [Tristram and Isolt], 
 And often sent with messages to Isolt. 
 The king hated him for it profoundly, 
 And Iiad him watched by his people ; 
 How, then, could he come 
 To offer his service at the court," etc. 
 
THE ARTEURIAD. 265 
 
 tal figures we must allow a purely French 
 origin.i In Malory, and in the French prose 
 romances of" Launcelot du Lac " and the " Saint 
 Grael," they are father and son. In the refined 
 version of Tennyson it would hardly have been 
 possible to admit this relation, yet it adds a 
 peculiar interest and pathos to some of the 
 scenes in that quest of the Holy Grail in which 
 from motives so dissimilar they both engaged. 
 For example, Malory tells us how once, during 
 that fateful year of the quest, they met on board 
 the ship which was conveying to their last rest 
 
 1 Yet G. S. Stiiart Glennie, in his fascinating " Essay on 
 the Arthurian Localities " prefixed to the republication by the 
 Early English Test Society of the incomplete " Romance of 
 Merlin," quotes M. De La Villemarqiie as pleading for the Scot- 
 tish origin of Launcelot himself : — " Les plus anciens manuserits 
 portent souvent Ancelot. . . . ancel, en langue romane signifie 
 servant, et ancelot est son diminutif. Si, par hasard, Ancelot 
 ^tait la traduction du nom d'un personnage gallois, donfc I'his- 
 toire s'accorderait en tout point avee le roman. Eh bien, c'est 
 ce que je crois avoir decouvert. On troure, en effet, dans les 
 traditions celtiques un chef dont le nom Mael {ser-viteur) repond 
 exactement Ji celui d' Ancelot et ^ qui les anciens bardes, les 
 triades, les chroniques, les legendes, et toutes les autorites 
 armoricaines, galloises, ou etrangferes pretent les memes traits, 
 le meme caraotfere, les mSmes moeurs, les memes aventures, 
 qu'au h^ros du roman franpais." " And if," adds Mr. Stuart 
 Glennie, " we accept this identification, then Launcelot as 
 well as Mordred belongs to Scotland." 
 
266 TROUBADOURS AND TROUVMES. 
 
 the remains of Percivale's holy sister. It was 
 just before Sir Launcelot had the veiled vision 
 •which taught him that his own quest was vain, 
 in an interval of his so-called madness, when he 
 was enjoying a great but transitory peace of 
 mind. 
 
 " ' Ah,' said Sir Launcelot, ' are ye Gala- 
 had ? ' ' Yea, forsooth,' said he. And so he 
 kneeled down and^ asked him his blessing, and 
 after took off his helm and kissed him. And 
 there was great joy between them, for there is 
 no tongue can tell the joy' that they made either 
 of other, and many a friendly word spoken be- 
 tween as kind would, the which is no need here 
 to be rehearsed. And there every each told other 
 of their adventures and marvels that were be- 
 fallen to them in many journeys sith that they 
 departed from the court. ... So dwelled Laun- 
 celot and Galahad within that ship half a year, 
 and served God daily and nightly with all their 
 power. . . . Then came to the ship a knight 
 armed all in white, and saluted the two knights 
 on the high Lord's behalf, and said, ' Galahad, 
 sir, ye have been long enough with your father; 
 come out of the ship and go where the adven- 
 
THE ARTHURIAD. 267 
 
 tures shall lead thee in quest of the Sancgreal.' 
 Then he went to his father and kissed him 
 sweetly, and said, ' Fair, sweet father, I wot 
 not when I shall see you more till I see the 
 body of Jesu "Christ.' ' I pray you,' said Laun- 
 celot, ' pray ye to the high Father that He hold 
 me in his service.' And so he took his horse, 
 and there they heard a voice that said, ' Think 
 to do well, for the one shall never see the other 
 before the dreadful day of doom.' ' Now, son 
 Galahad,' said Launcelot, ' since we shall de- 
 part, and never see other, I pray to the high 
 Father to preserve both me and you both.' 
 ' Sir,' said Galahad, ' no prayer avaQeth so much 
 as yours ! ' " 
 
 Galahad's death occurred shortly after, and 
 Launcelot was never again at ease in his sin. 
 The mighty struggles of this great and tender 
 soul with the guilt that was crushing it are 
 plainly foreshadowed in Malory ; but of course 
 they do not receive any thing like the searching 
 examination with which he is made in Tenny- 
 son to face his own " remorseful pain " at the 
 close of the thrilling episode of Elaine of Asto- 
 lat ; although otherwise, in this episode, Tenny- 
 
268 TROUBADOURS AND TROUVMES. 
 
 son follows Malory with unusual closeness. The 
 cruel reaction of Launcelot's divided loyalties, 
 the deep " dishonor in which his heart's honor 
 was really rooted," are set in stronger light than 
 ever in Tennyson's last edition in two interpo- 
 lated passages of such unusual beauty and signifi- 
 cance that we make room for them, — our last 
 quotations from the " Idyls " here. The first oc- 
 curs on the threshold of the story, before Launce- 
 lot had sought and brought Guinevere to be 
 Arthur's wife, — which, by the way, in Malory, 
 he does not do, — when Arthur had finally 
 broken the might of the last insurgent army : — 
 
 " Then, before a voice 
 As dreadful as the shout of one who sees 
 To one who sins, and deems himself alone 
 And all the world asleep, they swerved and brake, 
 Flying; and Arthur called to stay the brands 
 That hacked among the flyers. ' Ho ! They yield ! ' 
 So, like a painted battle, the war stood 
 Silenced, the living quiet as the dead; 
 And in the heart of Arthur joy was lord. 
 He laughed upon his warrior whom he loved 
 And honored most : ' Thou dost not doubt me king, 
 So well thine arm hath wrought for me to-day.' 
 ' Sir and my liege,' he cried, ' the fire of God 
 Descends upon thee in the battle-field; 
 
THE ARTHURIAD. 269 
 
 I know thee for my Mug ! ' Whereat, the two 
 Sware, on the field of death, a deathless love. 
 And Arthur said, ' Man's word is God in man ; 
 Let chance what will, I trust thee to the death.' " 
 
 And the second is after the final parting of 
 the king and Guinevere : — 
 
 " On their march to westward, Bedivere, 
 Who slowly paced among the slumbering host. 
 Heard, in his tent, the moanings of the king: 
 ' I found Him in the shining of the stars, 
 I marked him in the flowering of His fields. 
 But in His ways with men I find him not. 
 I waged His wars, and now I pass and die. 
 Oh, me ! for why is all around us here 
 As if some lesser godTiad made the world. 
 But had not force to shape it as he would 
 Till the High Grod behold it from beyond, 
 And enter in and make it beautiful ? 
 Or else, as if the world were wholly fair, 
 But that these eyes of men are dense and dim, 
 And have not power to see it as it is? 
 Perchance, because we see not to the close: 
 For I, being simple, thought to work His will. 
 And have but stricken with the sword in vain, 
 And aU whereon I leaned, in wife and friend, 
 Is traitor to my peace; and all my realin 
 Keels back into the beast and is no more. 
 My God, Thou hast forgotten me in my death I 
 Nay, God, my Christ, I pass, but shall not die.' " 
 
270 TROUBADOURS AND TROUVMES. 
 
 So the king goes away into the njist and 
 darkness of that " last dim, weird battle in the 
 west," — a marvellous picture in its wintry tints 
 of white and monotonous gray, indelibly drawn 
 on the memory of the present generation. And 
 this, with Tennyson, is the end. But here, at 
 last, we venture to think that the poet's art has 
 overreached itself, and that his finale, fine and 
 imaginative though it be, is less impressive 
 than that of the simple old master. It seems 
 impossible to read the " Idjds " in their con- 
 nection, and to go directly from " Guinevere " 
 to the " Passing of Arthur," — from the verity, 
 solemnity, and intense humanity of the former, 
 and the extraordinary moral elevation which it 
 induces, to the mists and portents and fairy un- 
 certainties of the latter, — without experiencing 
 a painful shock and chill. The two poems, both 
 so beautiful, belong to different spheres. There 
 is a life-time, a spiritual revolution, between 
 the two. Malory's story and that of his " French 
 book " by no means end with the battle. Is it 
 possible that the absent twelfth book of Ten- 
 nyson's epic was to have related these subse- 
 quent incidents? 
 
THE ARTHURIAD. 271 
 
 At all events, Malory's ending is realistic and 
 credible, — sad, but satisfying. On the morning 
 after Sir Bedivere had seen, as in a dream, the 
 king conveyed away, he came in a maze of grief 
 and weariness to a chapel, where he heard of a 
 hurried funeral which had taken place there the 
 midnight before. Certain weeping ladies had 
 brought to this humble hermitage a stately 
 corpse, and prayed for its sepulture. "Alas," 
 cried Sir Bedivere, " that was my Lord Arthur, 
 and there he lies." And Sir Bedivere straight- 
 way vowed to live always in that hermitage and 
 pray for Arthur's soul. But when the tidings of' 
 Arthur's death had travelled over seas, Launce- 
 lot arose in despair, and, returning to England, 
 prayed for a last interview with Guinevere. It 
 ■was granted, and they met in the cloister of her 
 convent, and in the presence of her nuns. 
 
 " Then she said*to all her ladies, ' Through this 
 man and me hath all this war been wrought, and 
 the death of the most noblest knights of the 
 world ; for through our love that we have loved 
 together is my most noble lord slain. There- 
 fore, Sir Launcelot, wit thou well, I am set in 
 such a plight to get my soul's health ; and yet 
 
272 TROUBADOURS AND TROUVMeS. 
 
 I trust, through God's grace, that after my death, 
 to have a sight of the blessed face of Christ, and 
 at doomsday to sit on His right side ; for as sin- 
 ful as ever I was are saints in heaven. There- 
 fore, Sir Launcelot, I require thee and beseech 
 thee heartily, for all the love that ever was be- 
 twixt us, that thou never see me more in the 
 visage ; and I command thee, on God's behalf, 
 that thou forsake my company, and to thy king- 
 dom thou turn again, and keep well thy realm 
 from war and wrack. For, as well as I have 
 loved thee, my heart will not serve me to see 
 thee : for through thee and me is the flower 
 of kings and knights destroyed. Therefore, Sir 
 Launcelot, go to thine own realm, and there 
 take thee a wife, and live with her with joy and 
 bliss : and I pray thee heartily, pray for me to 
 our Lord that I may amend my misliving.' 
 ' Now, sweet madam,' said Sir Launcelot, ' would 
 ye that I should return again to my country, and 
 there wed a lady ? Nay, madam, wit you well 
 that shall I never do ; for I shall never be so 
 false to you of that I have promised: but the 
 same destiny that ye have taken you to, I will 
 take me unto, for to please Jesu ; and ever for 
 
THE ARTHURIAV. 273 
 
 you I cast me specially, to pray. ... I insure 
 you faithfully, I will ever take me to penance, 
 and pray while my life lasteth, if that I may find 
 any hermit, either gray or white, that will receive 
 me. Wherefore, madam, I pray you kiss me, 
 and never no more.' ' Nay,' said the queen, 
 ' that shall I never do ; but abstain you from 
 such works.' And they departed. But there 
 was never so hard an hearted man but he would 
 have wept to see the dolor that they made." 
 
 In all this there is a grave and simple fitness 
 to the inalienable majesty of the guilty pair. 
 They never met again ; but six years later, after 
 long prayer and penance, there came to Laun- 
 celot, one night, a vision, warning him to seek 
 once more the convent at Almesbury, where 
 he would find Guinevere dead ; and to see 
 that she was buried beside her lord, King 
 Arthur. 
 
 " Then Sir Launcelot rose up or day, and told 
 the hermit. ' It were well done,' said the her- 
 mit, ' that ye made you ready, and that ye dis- 
 obey not the vision.' Then Sir Launcelot took 
 seven followers with him ; and, on foot, they 
 went from Glastonbury to Almesbury, the 
 18 
 
274 TROUBADOURS AND TROUVERES. 
 
 which is little more than thirty miles. And 
 thither they came within two days, for they 
 were weak and feeble to go. And when Sir 
 Launcelot was come to Almesbury, within the 
 nunnery, Queen Guinevere died but half an 
 hour before. And the ladies told Sir Launce- 
 lot that Queen Guinevere told them all, or she 
 passed, that Sir Launeelot had been priest near 
 a twelvemonth. ' And hither he cometh, as fast 
 as he may, to fetch my corpse ; and beside my 
 lord, King Arthur, he shall bury me.' Where- 
 fore the queen said, in hearing of them all, ' I 
 beseech Almighty God, that I may never have 
 power to see Sir Launeelot with my worldly 
 eyes.' ' And thus,' said all the ladies, ' was 
 ever her prayer, these two days, till she was 
 dead.' Then Sir Launeelot saw her visage, 
 but he wept not greatly, but sighed." 
 
 The " Idyls " themselves contain no touch finer 
 than this last. Sir Launcelot's own release was 
 not long delayed, — " For he did never after eat 
 but little meat, nor drank ; and evermore, night 
 and day, he prayed, but sometime slumbered a 
 broken sleep ; and ever he was lying grovelling 
 on the tomb of Arthur and Guinevere." 
 
THE ARTHURIAD. 275 
 
 His brethren remonstrated with him for his 
 despair, but his answer was simple : " ' When I 
 remember me how, by my default, mine orgule, 
 and my pride, that they were both laid full low, 
 that were peerless that ever was living of Chris- 
 tian people, wit you well,' said Sir Launcelot, 
 'this remembered of their kindness and mine 
 unkindness sank so to my heart, that I might 
 not sustain myself.' So the French book 
 maketh mention." 
 
 In six weeks, he also died. " Thou, Sir 
 Launcelot," cried his brother. Sir Ector, as he 
 stood by his wasted remains, " there thou liest, 
 that were never matched of earthly knight's 
 hand ; and thou wert the courtiest knight that 
 ever bare shield ; and thou wert the truest friend 
 to thy lover that ever bestrode horse ; and thou 
 wert the truest lover of a sinful man that ever 
 loved woman ; and thou wert the kindest man 
 that ever strake with sword ; and thou wert the 
 goodliest person that ever came among press of 
 knights ; and thou wast the meekest man, and 
 the gentlest, that ever ate in hall among ladies ; 
 and thou wert the sternest knight to thy mortal 
 foe that ever put spear in the rest." 
 
276 TROUBADOURS AND TROUVkRES. 
 
 It is evident, that both Malory and the author 
 of the " French book " believed far too sincerely in 
 the reality of their characters, seriously to doubt 
 that Arthur's mysterious evanishment was indeed 
 death. However, Malory observes, that " some 
 men yet say, in many parts of England, that 
 Arthur is not dead, but had by the will of our 
 Lord Jesu in another place. And men say that 
 he shall come again, and he shall win the holy 
 cross. I will not say it shall be so, but, rather, 
 I will say, here in this world he changed his life. 
 But many men say that there is written upon 
 his tomb this verse : ' Hie jacet Arihurus, Rex 
 quondam, Rexque futurus.'' " 
 
 May not the laureate have closed his tale 
 with Arthur's mystic removal to AvaUon, rather 
 than with these last affecting incidents, — which 
 undoubtedly confirm our human sympathy with 
 the creatures from whom we are now loath to 
 part, — by way of additional tribute to the char- 
 acter of the Prince Consort, who seemed to him 
 " scarce other than his own ideal knight," as an 
 unspoken professional intimation, that in him 
 the fancy of the early ages had actually found 
 its fulfilment ? 
 
THE ARTHURIAD. 277 
 
 So much for the material out of which the 
 great Victorian poet has constructed the frame 
 of his most durable work. How entirely we 
 owe to himself the spiritual unity and symmetry 
 of it is too obvious for further remark. Yet, we 
 are far from agreeing with those who think that 
 he has defaced the ndivetS of ancient story, by 
 infusing into it a too modern scrupulousness. 
 It is a question whether morality is ever modi- 
 fied by time so much as by those other influ- 
 •ences, — clime and race. The endeavor to cast 
 off the conscience which we know, and to sub- 
 stitute for it the supposed conscience which 
 regulated a by-gone state of society, almost 
 always fails deplorably, sometime^ disgustingly. 
 Thus, the "Defence of Guinevere," and the 
 other Arthurian poems of William Morris, with 
 aU their melody and passion, barely escape repul- 
 siveness ; and, for a similar reason, the studies 
 of Matthew Arnold, in the " Story of Tristram," 
 though pretty, are, in their fancied reality, ex- 
 quisitely unreal. It is the mistake of painting 
 things preposterously, because they "seem so," 
 which is the favorite foible of our generation, in 
 more than one branch of art. Chivalry, the 
 
278 TROUBADOURS AND TROUVkRES. 
 
 motif of all mediaeval romance, was the youngest 
 dream concerning social relations of the modern 
 world after its conversion to Christianity, — a 
 part of the general ecstasy of its recent regen- 
 eration. It was the bright, audacious ideal of a 
 love between mortal man and woman as wholly 
 supersensual as the fabled love of the Redeemer 
 for his bride, the church. The knight assumed, 
 under the formal sanction of the church, a triple 
 vow, which constituted his practical religion, — 
 to serve his master Christ, to succor the defence- * 
 less, to love one woman, and her supremely. It 
 seems not naturally to have occurred to the 
 Latinized mind of Southern Europe to inquire, 
 what woman ? If, as indeed usually happened, 
 she chanced to be the wife of another man, it 
 was equal. The love of chivalry was a something 
 which transcended all accidental relations and 
 prudential arrangements. And the love which 
 is so melodiously celebrated by the more refined 
 of the southern troubadours is, in very truth, 
 just such a sublimated sentiment. It is incapa- 
 ble of coarse offence. Natural jealousy cannot 
 attain unto it. We may listen for hours to the 
 echoes of those rapturous lyrics, and find them 
 
THE ARTBURIAD. 279 
 
 always the same, — sweet, ardent, innocent be- 
 cause unmoral, — breathing an air of sunny li- 
 cense, awakening not the faintest vibration of 
 the sense of right and wrong. 
 
 But the Trouvdres and the minstrels were, for 
 the most part, the descendants, or, at least, the 
 near kindred, of those quaint barbarians of whom 
 Tacitus wrote with languid wonder and approba- 
 tion, " Quanquam severa illio matrimonia neo 
 ullam morum partem magis laudaveris." The 
 theoretic lady-love of the Norman or Scandina- 
 vian knight could hardly be other than his wife, 
 present or future. Behold an earnest restriction ! 
 The path of honor at once becomes narrow, strait, 
 and difficult. All deviations from it are recog- 
 nized as transgressions, all tragic results of such 
 deviations as punishment. "Where, as in the 
 story of "Launcelot and Guinevere," there are 
 struggles, remorse, and a piteous expiation, our 
 keenest sympathies are, no doubt, demanded, 
 and • not vainly, for those who love and sin. 
 But where, as in the story of " Tristram and 
 Isolt," the constitutional instinct of chastity is 
 unblushingly defied, the effect is one of extreme 
 cToarseness. Here is precisely thp spirit of con- 
 
280 TROUBADOURS AND TROUVilRES. 
 
 scious and blasphemous brutality which M. Taine 
 is always encountering amid his researches 
 through our early literature, and which partly 
 fascinates and partly horrifies, but always 
 amazes, him. He barely recognizes the appar- 
 ently irresistible truth, that the very impudence 
 and desperation of the spirit in question argue 
 the presence of a more tyrannous conscience 
 than can be inferred from the milder and more 
 graceful licentiousness of softer climes. 
 
 If there ever could have been a knightly 
 Arthur, and he could ever have founded an 
 ideal code and state, they may well have been 
 essentially the code and state whose brief glory 
 Tennyson has so splendidly portrayed. It was 
 a sublime but very premature dream, the disap- 
 pointment of which appeared inevitable, even in 
 the days of Malory. Let us derive what con- 
 solation we may from the fact that it appears 
 no more than probable in the days of Tennyson. 
 
 Cambridge : Press of John Wilson & Son. 
 
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