iif'V'iiii ,,i!:Vl' !' I !.''• '!, .^ ,. -:\i- ?'!'i:''::l'''''7''':?«;HV'iiiil!'' !12— 901) Ijore with no less virtue and prosperity the titles of Calii>h of the West, and of Emin-1'jl-iloumenym (Prince of the Faithful); and thus the most brilliant exploits, and the highest prosperity of the Jloors of Spain, are connected with the name of Abdalrahman, OF THE TKOUBADOUKS. 83 eleventh century, completed tlieir studies, by a residence of ionoer or shorter duration, in some of the universities of the south of Spain. Campanus of Novara, Gerard of Cai-mona, Atelard, Daniel Moi-ley, and many others, confess, in their writings, that they are indebted to the Arabians for all that they have communicated to the public. The monarchy of the Ommiades gave way, in Spain, to a number of petty Moorish sovereignties, which, ceasing to make war upon one another, became rivals in the cultivation of the arts and of letters. A great number of poets were attached to the courts of the princes of Grenada, of Seville, of Cordova, of Toledo, of Valencia, and of Saragossa; and numbei'S of astronomers, physicians, and chroniclers enjoyed, at those courts, a distinguished rank and the favour of the sovereign. Amongst these many were Christians and M09- arabians, and many belonged, both by religion and birth, to the two languages and the two countries. Whenever they experienced any mortifications at the courts of the Moorish kings, or whenever they felt any apprehension for their liberty or their property, they fled, carrying with them their talents and their industry to the Christians, who received them like unfortunate brethren. The petty princes of the growing kingdoms of Spain, more especially those of Cata- lonia and Arragon, by which, until the year 1112, the Mus- sulman kingdom of Saragossa was surrounded, attached to their persons, the matliematicians, the philosophers, the physicians, and the Troubadours, or inventors of stories and sonn-s, who had received their first education in the schools of Andalusia, and who entertained those courts by the tales and the vrorks of fiction which they borrowed from tlie litera- ture of the East. The union of the sovereignties of Catalonia and Provence, introduced these men of science and the Trou- badours into the states of Raymond Berenger. The various dialects of the Romance were not then so distinct as they are at present, and the Troubadours passed with ease from the Castilian to the Provencal, which was then reputed the most elegant of all the languages of the South.* * la a little work published in 1818, On the Language and Litera- ture of Provence, Augustus William Sclilegel attempts to disprove the influence of the Arabians on the civilization and poetry of the Pro- vcn5als. He attributes to the Spaniards of the Middle Ages, and he 84 ON THE LITERATURE Tims it was that the nations of modern Europe were taujxht the art of poetry ; and the rules which were imposed enable us to recognise the school from which it proceeded. The first rule, which may be called peculiar to modern poetry, was rhyme. The invention of rhyming the terminations of verses, or the middle of tlie verse with the termination, Avas unknown to the Greeks, though it is sometimes to be found in the classical Latin poets, where, however, it appears to have been admitted with a different view than that which we propose to ourselves by the use of rhyme. It was introduced less for the purpose of marking the verses than the sense ; and it was formed merely by a coincidence in the construc- tion of the sentence. One verb, or one noun, was placed in opposition to another, and the effect of the repetition was to indicate, by the ear, that the poet was pursuing analogous has done so on other occasions, the intolerance and religious hatred which their dcvscendants evinced, under the three Philijjs. Historj' does not mention this aversion between the Spaniards and the Moors. Until the time of Alplionso X. of Castile, there was not a single reign in which some Christian prince did not take refuge at a Moorish court, or when a Moorish sovereign did not seek shelter from a Christian king. For a hundred and fifty years, we see at the courts of the two Rogers and the two Williams of Sicily, as well as at that of Frederick II., Arabian courtiers mingled with Italian, and thejudgesofall the provinces in the two Sicilies selected from amongst the Saracens. The two na- tions were intimately blended, in the south of Europe, during at least five centuries. M. llaynouard has produced proofs of the existence of the Eomance language at Coimbra in Portugal, in the year 734, in an ordonnance of Alhoacem, son of Mahomet Alhamar. At this very time, all the provinces of the south of France had been conquered by Abdal- rahman. The taking of Toledo, in 1085, is not, then, the period which the Abbe Andres, M. Ginguene, or myself, have fixed as the a;ra of the Provcn(;-al poetry ; nor does the discovery of tlie Romance poem of Bocthius, anterior to the j'ear 1000, give us the mip de grace. The taking of Toledo merely placed the most celebrated school of the Arabians in the power of the Christians. This school continued to spread the sciences of the Arabians in the AV'est, long after the mixture of the courts had rendered their poetry familiar. The influence of the Moors over the Latins is distinguishable in the study of science, philosophy, the arts, commerce, agriculture, and even religion. It would l)e strange then, indeed, if it did not extend to the songs which enlivened the festivals in which the two nations used to mingle, when we know how passionately fond they both were of music and poetrj'. The same air adapted by turns to Arabian and Romance words, necessarily required the same time in the stanza and the same distribution of the rhymes. OF THE TROUBADOURS. 85 ideas for three or four verses, after which the rhyming -vvia abandoned. The Latin poems of the Middle Ages are more frequently rhymed, even as early as the eighth or ninth century. But it must be recollected that the mixture of the Arabians and the Latins took place in the eighth century, and it would, therefore, be difficult to prove that the first rhymed Latin poetry was not borrowed from the Arabians. So, also, with regard to the German rhymed poetry, the most ancient poems which we find rhymed in couplets, are not near so early as the first poetical attempts, which Avere always in rhyme, of the Arabians, or, indeed, as the first known intercourse between the two nations. It is very pos- sible that the Goths, on their invasion of Europe, may have introduced the use of rhyme from those Eastern countries whence they issued. But the most essential and antique form of versification, amongst the Teutonic nations, was borrowed from the Scandinavians, and consisted in alliteration, and not in rhyme. This alliteration is the repetition of the same letters at the commencement of the words, and not of the same sound at the termination. The Niebelungen, which was written early in the thirteenth centuiy, is rhymed in couplets, and almost, it may be said, in the French style. But the same poem, in the Icelandic traditions, which was versified in the ninth or tenth century, is not rhymed.* The consonants held a very important place in the lan- guages of the North, which abound in them, as do the vowels in those of the South. Alliteration, thei'efore, which is but a repetition of the consonants, is the ornament of the Northern tongues ; while assonance, or the rhyming of the terminating vowels, is peculiar to the popular verses of the nations of the South, although the practice has been reduced into a system only amongst the Spaniards. Rhyme, then, which was essential to all the poetry of the Arabians, and Avas combined by them in various ways to * The following is an example of the alliterations which supplied the place of rhyme. The lines are from the German imitation of Fouque : HqW ver/icissen //at's mcin o/teim, iTurz mein Xeben iiihn mein iust ; -ffasch mein rache, i?aub de;- ausgang, i^^i'essend blut im Ni^^wngenstam. 86 ON THE LITERATURE please the ear, was introduced by the Troubadours into the Provencal hmguage, with all its variations of sound. The most usual form in Arabic poetry, is the rhyming in couplets ; not making tl»e two accordant lines rhyme simply with one another, unconnected with the preceding or subse- quent rhymes, as in the poetry of tlie Niebelungen, or in our heroic verse ; but rliyming every other line together, so that the rhyme is continued through the whole stanza, or the whole poem. This is, likewise, the most ancient form of Spanish poetry. A well-known poem of the Emperor Frederick I. proves that the same order of rhymes was employed by the Proven9als. This emperor, who spoke almost all tlie languages of his time, met Raymond Beren- ger II. Count of Provence, at Turin, in 1 154, and bestowed on him the investiture of liis fiefs. The count was accompanied by a great number of the poets of his nation, of whom almost all were amongst the principal nobility of his court. They delighted Frederick by the richness of their imaginations, and the harmony of their verses. Frederick repaid their attentions by the following lines.* A Frenclimaia I'll have for my cavalier. And a Catalouian damo, A Genoese for his honour clear, And a court of Castilian fame; The Provencal songs my car to please, And the dances of Trevisan, I'll have the grace of the Arragonese, And the pearl of Julian ; An Englishman's hands and face for mo, And a vouth 111 have from Tuscanv. * rias mi cavalier Francez, E la donna Catalana, E I'onrar del Ginocs, E hi court de Castell.ana, Lou cantar Provcn^alez, E la danza Trevisana, E lou corps Aragones, E la pcrla Juliana, La mans c kara d' Angles, E lou donzel de Toscana. [The above translation is borro-^ved from one of the very able articles on the Poetical Literature of Spain, which have appeared in the Kctro- fipcctivc Kcview, and which are, we believe, correctly attributed to the pen of Mr. Bowring. — 7V.] OF THE TUOUBADOURS. 87 III Arabic poetry, also, the second verse of each couplet frequently terminates with the same word, and this repetition has been, likewise, adopted by the Pi'ovenQals. A remarkable example of it may be found in some verses of Geotfrey de Rudel, a gentleman of Blieux in Provence, and one of those Avho were presented to Frederick Barbarossa, in 1154. The occasion on which these lines were composed was an ex- traordinary one, and very illustrative of the wildness of the imagination and manners of the Troubadours. The knights, who had returned from the Holy Land, spoke with enthu- siasm of a Countess of Tripoli, who had extended to them the most generous hospitality, and whose grace and beauty equalled her virtues. Geoffrey Rudel, hearing this account, fell deeply in love with her, without having ever seen her ; and prevailed upon one of his friends, Bertrand d'Allamanon, a Troubadour like himself, to accompany him to the Levant. In 1162, he quitted the court of England, whither he had been conducted by Geoffrey the brother of Richard I., and embarked for the Holy Land. On his voyage, he Avas attacked by a severe illness, and had lost the power of speech, when he arrived at the port of Tripoli. The countess, being informed that a celebrated poet was dying of love for her, on board a vessel which was entering the roads, visited him on shipboard, took him kindly by the hand, and attempted to cheer his spirits. Rudel, we are assured, recovered his speech sufficiently to thank the countess for her humanity, and to declare his passion, when his expressions of gratitude were silenced by the convulsions of death. He was buried at Tripoli, beneath a tomb of porphyry, which the countess raised to his memory, with an Arabic inscription. I have transcribed his verses on distant love, which he composed previous to his last voyage. The French version, which I have added to this ProveiiQal fragment, has no pretensions to poetry, but is merely to be considered as an attempt to pre- serve the measure and rhymes of the original. It is the Proven9al itself, with its • repetitions, its refinement, its occasional -obscurity, though, at the same time, with its simplicity, composed in obedience to rules peculiar to itself but foreign to us, which it is my object to give. If I liad wished to translate the Provencal into French verse, I must have paid a very different degree of attention 88 ON THE LITERATURE to tlie construction of our language, and to its poetical character.* An^ry and sad shall be my way. If I behold not her afar. And yet I know not when that day Shall rise, for still she dwells afar. God ! who hast formed this fair array Of worlds, and placed my love afar. Strengthen my heart witii hope, I pray, Of seeing her I love afar. Oh, Lord ! believe my faithful lay. For well 1 love her though afar, Though but one blessing may repay The thousand griefs I feel afai. No other love shall shed its ray On me, if not this love afar, A brighter one, where'er I stray I shall not see, or near, or far. * [The original Provencal, and M. de Sismondi's version, are both given below. The attempt which the Translator has made to present these singiilar verses in an English dress, is, he is aware, a very imper- fect one. — Tr.] Irat et dolent m'en partray S'ieu non vey cet amour de luench, Et non say qu' oura la veray Car sont trop noutras terras luench. Dieii que fez tout quant van e vay Et forma aqucst amour luench ;My don jioder al cor car hay Esper vezcr I'amour de luench. Segnour, tencs mi pour veray L'amour qu'ay vers clla de luench Car pour un ben que m'en esbay Hay mille mals, tant soy de luench. Ja d'autr'amour non jauzirai S'ieu non jau dcst'amour de luench Qu'una j)lus bclla non en say En Inez cpie sia ny prez ui luench. Irritc, dolent partirai, Si ne vols cet amour de loin, Etne saisquandje le vcrrai. Car sont par trop nos terres loin. Dieu, qui toutes choscs as fait, Et formas cet amour si loin, Donne force a mon cccur, car ai L'espoir de voir m'amour au loiu. Ah I OF THE TROUBADOURS. 89 But the Troubadours did not always adhere to this form, which is essentially of Arabic invention. They varied their rhymes in a thousand different ways. They crossed and intertwined their verses, so that the return of the rhyme was preserved throughout the whole stanza ; and they relied on their harmonious language, and on the well exercised ears of their readers, for making the expectation of the rhyme, and its return after many verses, equally productive of pleasure. In this manner, they have always appeared to me to have been completely masters of rhyme, and to have treated it as their own peculiar property ; whilst the Germans, who pretend to have communicated it to them, managed it in the most timid manner, even in the twelfth century, rhyming their lines together, two and two, when they ought to have rhymed them alternately ; as though they feared that, in a language so heavy as their own, two rhymes, not immediately con- nected, would be lost. Still less did they attempt to restore the rhyme after an interval of several lines. It is true, that at a later j^eriod, in the thirteenth century, the Minne- singers, or reciters of love-songs, the Troubadours of Ger- many, imitated this play upon the rhymes, and all the difficult variations which they saw in use amongst the Provencals. Rhyme was the very groundwork of the Provencal poetry, whence it crept into the poetry of all the other nations of modern Europe. But it did not constitute all the requisites of verse. The number and the accentuation of the syllables were substituted by the Provencals, in imitation of the Arabians, as far as we can judge, in the place of the quantity or the emphasis, which formed the basis of Greek and Latin verse. In the languages of antiquity, each syllable had, in the pronunciation, a sound, the duration of whicli was in- variably fixed. The relative duration of these sounds was likewise determined by an exact standard ; and, all the syllables being distributed into two classes of long and short. Ah ! Seigneur, tenez pour bieu vrai L'amour qu'ai pour elle de loiu, Car pour un bien que j"en aurai, J'ai mille maux, taut je suis loin. Ja d'autr'amour no jouirai, Siuon de cet amour de loin, Qu'une plus belle je ne'n seals, Eu lieu qui soit ni pr^s ni loin. VOL, I, F 90 ON THE LITERATURE the versification was foiindod on tliis primary classification, and very much resembled the measure in music. The verse was formed of a certain number of measures which were called feet, and which marked the rise and fall of the tune, which always comprised the same time, and, whatever varia- tion tiiere miglit be in the sound of the pronunciation, the line still preserved the same uniform measure. This mixture of diiferent feet gave tlie Greeks and IJomans a prodigious number of verses, of various lengths and measures, in which it was essentially necessary to arrange the words in such a manner, tliat the ear might be struck by the equality of the time, and by the uniform cadence of the sounds. In none of the Komance languages can the ear distinguish the syllables into long and short, or assign them a precise and propor- tionate quantity. Accent, in them, sujiplies the i)lace of quantity. In all of them, with the exception of the French, there is some one syllable, in every word, upon which the stress of pronunciation is laid, and which seems to determine the predominant sound of the word. The Provencal in particular, is strongly accentuated. The Troubadours, per- ceiving this, and being probably unacquainted with the liarmony of Latin verse, produced something analogous to it in their own poetry, by mixing accentuated with Unaccentu- ated syllables. The ear alone was their guide, for they did not, in their poetry, attempt to imitate tlie classical authors. Indeed, they ill understood the rules which they tliemselves obeyed, and would have found it dillicult to communicate them. The organization of their verse was more simple than that of the ancients. They only employed a measure which consisted of two syllables unequally accentuated, and that of two kinds, the trochee, consisting of a long and short syllable, and the iambic, of a short and a long ; and tliey preferred for constant use, and for the ground-work of their verse, the iambic, as did afterwards the Italians. The Spaniards, on the contrary, in their ancient poetry, made choice of the trochee, and preserved also, in tiicir lieroic poetry, Aw versos de arte mayor, the dactyl, consisting of a long and two short syllables, or the amphibrach, of a long syllabic, between two short ones. But it must not be supposed that the Provencals, the Spaniards, and tlie Italians, or even the Greeks and Romans, took any extraordinary pains in the selection of the syllables, OF THE TROUBADOURS. 91 SO as to place the long and short syllables alternately and in the requisite order. Certain parts of the line required an accent or a long syllable. There were thus two or three syllables in each verse, as the fourth or the sixth, the eighth and the tenth, the quantity and position of which were fixed ; and, in consequence of the regular proportion in the modern languages, between the accentuated and the unaccentuated syllables, the former naturally drew the others into their proper places and communicated the measure to the verse. These syllables, the quantity of which is fixed in the modern languages, are those which mark the cajsura, those which correspond with it, and those which terminate the verse. The ccesura is that point of rest which the ear, in accordance with the sense, determines in the middle of the line, dividing it into two parts of uniform proportion. In the verse of ten syllables, which is most frequently met with in the Romance languages, this point, which ought naturally to occur after the fourth syllable, may, according to the taste of the poet, be deferred to the sixth ; and it is one branch ol the art, so to intermix these unequal proportions as to pre vent the ear from being fatigued with the too great monotony of the verse. When the ca3si!ra is placed regularly after the fourth syllable, that syllable ought to be strongly accentuated ; so ought the eighth, with which it corresponds at an equal disiance ; and the same is to be observed with regard 1o the tenth syllable, upon which the voice dwells, at the end of the verse. In those verses, in wliich this disposition of the accents is varied, and the first hemistich is longer than the second, the cajsura falls upon the sixth syllable, which ought to be accentuated as well as the tenth. When all the equal syllables are accentuated, it almost necessarily happens that the unequal ones are not so, and the verse naturally divides itself into five iambics. The poet has only the power of sometimes substituting a trocliee in the place of the first and third foot, or of the first and second ; and the quantity of the line cannot be false, unless when the fourth, the eighth, and the ninth, or the sixth and the tenth, are not accentuated.* * However fatiguing these details may appear, I have thought it necessary to add, in a note, some examples, drawn from different lan- guages, ifor the benefit of those only who arc desirous of seriously study- ing the laws of versification, in foreign languages. In fact, the prosody f2 92 ON THE LITERATURE I must claim the indulgence of the reader, for tiiese dry and fatiguing details, into which I am compelled to enter. The laws of versification which the Troubadours discovered, Avhich the Proven9als invented, is universally adopted in the modern languages, with the exception of the French. The French, who are strangers to these rules, are inclined to deny their existence. They judge of the verse of other nations by their own. They count the sylla- bles and observe the rhyme, but whilst they neglect the study of the jirosody, it is impossible for them to feel that harmony of language to which poetry owes its most powerful eilects. In prosody, two marks are employed ; the one ( — ) distiugiiishes the long or accentuated syllables ; the other ( ^ ) the short syllables. These 1 have placed over the corresponding syllables in the verse, and I have divided the hemistich after the caesura by this mark (=). Lo joru que us vi=o donna primament Quant S, vos plac = que us mi laisest vezer Parti men cor = tot autre pensamen, E forum ferm en vos = tuit mei voler Que sim passez = Donna en mon coi I'enveia A un dolz riz=et ab un dolz esgard Mie quant cs = mi fezes oblidar Arnaud de Ilarveilh. In the Proven9al ^■erse.?, at least in those of ten syllables, the quantity IS more difficult to fix, since the poet has the choice of such a variety of measures, and has only one, or at most two feet, in the verse, the quan- tity of which is determined. Still it is always the variation of the accent which gives the verse its harmony. The same rules apply, without exception, to all the other modern languages; and the Italian verses, for instance, ought to be scanned, on the Froven^al principle, thus : Miser chi mr.l o pnin = do si con lida Ch' ognor star deb = bia il maleficio occulto, o .Miu r-.e^— »• u — to— a Che quando ogn' altro tac = cia intorno grida L' aria e la terra stes = sa in ch' h sepulto. Ariosto. It should be remarked, that tlie emsura often divides a word in th(! middle, but, in this case, the accent is on the first syllable; and thus, the mute syllable which follows, being scarcely sounded, re-attaches itself to the first hemistich. The linos, in Italian, terminate almost OF THE TROUBADOURS. 93 are of very general application. They extend to the litera ture of all those nations, of which I propose to treat. They have been adopted by all the countries of the south, and by iilwavs with a mute syllable, so that they are composed of five iambics and a half. The Spanish and Portuguese verses, after the time of Cliarles V., are perfectly similar. Solo y penso = so en prados y desiertos Mis passes doy=cuy dosos y cansados Y entrambos o =jos traygo levantados A ver no vea alguien=mis deseonciertos. Boscan. u « > o De tamanhas victo = rias triumphava velho Afon = so Principe subido Quando quem tudo em fim = vencendo andava Da larga e muita ida = de foi vencido. Camoens. But the Spanish or Portuguese redondllha, employed in romances, songs, and dramatic dialogues, is composed of trochees, which arc the inverse of the iambics. Sentose el conde a la mesa No cenava ni podia — . tj.— o*.- u»— « Con sus hijos al costado Que muy mucho los queria. Romance cV A larcos. Canta o caminhante ledo No caminho trabalhoso Por entre o espesso arvoredo E de noite o temeroso . Cantando refrea o medo. Camoens, Kedondilhas. The ancient heroic verse of the Spanish and Portuguese, which they call verso de arte manor, was composed of four dactyls or amphibrachs, or of three dactyls and a spondee. Como 94 ON THE LITKRATURE most of the people of the nortli of Europe. This structure of the verse, this inechanioal part of poetry, is singularly connected, by some secret and mysterious associations, with our feelings and our emotions, and with all that speaks to our imaginations and our hearts. It would be wrong, in studying the divine language of poetry, to regard it merely as the trammels of thought. Poetry excites our emotions, and awakens or captivates our passions, only because it is some- thing which comes more home to our bosoms than prose ; something, which seizes upon our Avhole being, by the senses as well as by the soul, and impresses us more deeply than language alone could do. Symmetry is one of the properties of the soul. It is an idea which precedes all knowledge, which is applicable to all tlic arts, and which is inseparable from our perceptions of beauty. It is by a principle, anterior to all reflection, that we look, in buildings, in furniture, and — • u u * ^> Como no creo que fosseii menorcs De los Africanos los heclios del Cid ] Ni que feroces menos en la lid Xintra-ssen los nuestros que los Agenoresl Juan de Mena, Labyrintho. Lastly, the English heroic, and the German dramatic verse, com- pletely resemble the Proven9al and Italian iambic of ten syllables. The former I have scanned. ]S ow morn her rosy steps = in th' eastern clime Advancing sowed = the earth with orient pearl When Adam wak'd = so custom'd, for his sleep Was airy light = from pure digestion bred. Milton, however, is not so easy to scan, as he often attempted to imitate the Latin prosody in his Engli.sh verses. Of all modern pro- sodies, the German is the most fixed, for it always agrees with the grammar. Ha welche woune fliesst=in diesem blit-k Auf einmal mir = durch alle mcine Sinnen I Ich fuhle inn' = ge heilgcs Lebens gluck, iNeu gliihend mir= durch nerv und adern rinnen. GoHhe, Faust. OP THE TROUBADOURS. 95 in every production of human art, for the same proportion which tiie hand of Nature lias so visibly imprinted on tlie figui-e of man and of the inferior animals. This symmetry, Avhich is founded on the harmonious relation of the parts to the whole, and is so different from uniformity, displays itself in the regular return of the strophes of an ode, as well as in the correspondence of the wings of a palace. It is more dis- tinguishable in modern poetry than in that of antiquity, in consequence of the rhyme, which harmonizes the different parts of the same stanza. Riiyme is an appeal to our memory and to our expectations. It awakens the sensations we have already experienced, and it makes us wish for new ones. It encreases the importance of sound, and gives, if I may so ex- press myself, a colour to the words. In our modern poetry, the importance of the syllables is not measured solely by their duration, but by the associations they afford ; and vowels, by turns, slightly, perceptibly, or emphatically marked, are no longer unnoticed, when the rhyme announces their approach and determines their position. What would become of the Provencal poetry, if we perused it only to discover the sentiment, such as it would appear in languid prose ? It was not the ideas alone which gave delight, when the Troubadour adapted his beautiful language to the melodious tones of his harp ; when, inspired by valour, he uttered his bold, nervous, and resounding rhymes ; or, in tender and voluptuous strains, expressed the vehemence of his love. The rules of his art, even more than the words in which he expressed himself, were in accordance witli his feelings. The rapid and re- curring accentuation, which marked every second syllable in his iambic verses, seemed to correspond with the pulsations of his heart, and the very measure of the language answered to the movements of his own soul. It was by this exquisite sensibility to musical impressions, and by this delicate organization, that the Troubadours became the inventors of an art, which they themselves were unable to explain. They discovered the means of communicating, by this novel har- mony, those emotions of the soul, which all poets have endeavoured to produce, but which they are now able to effect, only by following the steps of these inventors of our poetical measures. chaptp:r IV ON THE STATE OF THE TROUBADOPKS, AND ON THEIR AMATORY AND MARTIAL P0EM3. The Counts of Provence were not the only sovereigns, amongst those of the south of France, at whose court the Langue d'Oc, or Romance Provencal, Avas spoken, and where the reciters of tales, and the poets, who had been formed in the Moorish schools, found a flattering reception and sure protection. At the conclusion of the eleventh century, one half of France was governed by independent princes, whose only common bond was the Proven9al language, wiiich was sjwken alike by them all. The most renowned of these sovereigns were, the Counts of Toulouse, the Dukes of Aquitain, of the house of Poitou, the Dauphins of Viennois and of Auvergne, the Princes of Orange, of the house of Jiaux, and the Counts de Foix. After these, came an infi- nite number of viscounts, barons, and lords, who in some petty province or town, or even castle, enjoyed the preroga- tives of sovereignty. To these inferior courts, the physicians, the astrologers, and the reciters of tales, resorted, in pursuit of fortune, and introduced into the Nortli an acquaintance with the learning and the arts of Spain. Their highest am- bition, probably, was to amuse the leisure of the great, and to please them by their flatteries. The recompense which they promised themselves, and which they received alike from the Christian and Moorish princes, was the permission to take a part in the festivals, to which they gave animation by their recitals and their songs, and to accept the presents of rich habits and of horses which were there bestowed upon them. But it was to heroes they addressed themselves ; and as they sang of love and glory, their verses, penetrating to the inmn.st hearts of their hearers, communicated to them the deep emo- tion which swelled within the poet's own bosom. It was thus that the subject of their songs gave an elevation to their characters, and that the fugitives from the Moorish territories THE TROUBADOURS. 97 became the instructoi-s of princes. Scarcely had the art of song been introduced into southern France, and the rules of veroification been invented, when poetry became the recrea- tion of the most illustrious men. The lyric form, which it had received from the Arabians, rendered it proper to convey only the noblest sentiments. In verse, the poet sang his love, his martial ardour, and the independence of his sonl ; and no sovereign sate upon so proud a throne, as not to think him- self honoured in the capacity of expressing such sentiments. The amorous monarchs celebrated their mistresses in verse ; and when the first sovereigns of Europe had thus assumed their rank, amongst the poets or Troubadours, there was not a single baron or knight, who did not think it his duty to superadd to his fame, as a brave and gallant man, the reputa- tion of a gentle Troubadour. To these poetical pursuits, nothing more was necessary, than a perception of what is musical and harmonious. In obedience to this faculty, the words naturally fell into the order most agreeable to the ear, and the thoughts, the images, and the sentiments, acquired that general accordance and melodious congruity which seem to proceed from the soul, and to which study can add nothing. It is astonishing to observe what very slight traces of learn- ing, the poetry of the Troubadours displays. No allusion to history or mythology ; no comparison, borrowed from foreign manners ; no reference to the sciences or the learning of the schools, are mingled with their simple effusions of sentiment. This fact enables us to comprehend, how it was possible for princes and knights, who were often unable to read, to be yet ranked amongst the most ingenious Troubadours. Several public events materially contributed to enlarge the sphere of intellect of the knights of the Langue d'Oc ; to make enthusiasm, rather than interest, their spring of action ; to present a new world to their eyes, and to strike their imaffinations with extraordinary images. Never does a nation display a more poetical character, than when some great and uncommon circumstances operate upon minds, yet endowed with all the vigour of youth. The first of these events was the conquest of Toledo, and of all New Castile, by Alfonso VI. King of Castile. That monarch, who was then seconded by the hero of Spain, the Cid Rodriguez, or Ruy Diaz de Bivar, invited a number of 98 ON THE LITKUATUUE French, Provencal and Gascon knights, who were connected with him by liis niarriuge with Constance of Burgundy, to take part in the expedition, in which he was engaged from 1083 to 1085, and the result of which more tlian doubled his territories, and confirmed the preponderance of the Christians in Spain. This was the first war against the infidels, in which, for two hundred years, the French had been engaged, and it preceded, by ibrty years, the i)reaching of the first crusade. The warriors, gathered together in one army from various states, finding themselves thus in the midst of stranger nations, became still more deeply attached to glory. The fame of tlie Cid was ])i-e-eminent above that of every other man of his age. The Moorish and Castilian poets had already begun to celebrate it, and to prove how well th(?ir popular songs were calculated to spread the renown of their heroes. The conquest of Toledo, also, m'.ngled t!ie Moors and the Christians in a more intimate manner. A complete toleration was granted to such of the Moors as remained subject to the King of Castile ; and Alfonso engaged, even by oath, to permit them to use the cathedral as a mosque. Of this, however, he afterwards deprived them, at the solicitation of his wife, and in obedience to a pretended miracle. From this period, even until the reign of Philip III., for the space of 530 years, Toledo always contained a numerous Moorish population, intermingled with the Ciiristians. This city, one of the most celebrated universities of the Arabians, retained its schools and all its learned institutions, and spread, amongst the Christians, the knowledge of Eastern letters. The IMo^- Arabians assumed a rank in the court and the army, and the French knights found themselves residing amongst men, Avhose imagination, intellect, and taste, had been developed by the Saracens. AVhen, after the capture of Toledo, on the 25th of May, 1085, theyreturned from this glorious expedition, they carried back with them, into their own country, a por- tion of that cultivation of mind, which they had witnessed in Spain. The second circumstance, which contributed to impress a poetical character on the eleventh and twelfth centuries, was the preicliing of the crusade in 1095, and the continued com- munication, which was in consequence established, between Christendom and the Levant. The crusade appears to have OF THE TROUBADOURS. 99 been preached with much zeal in the countries of the Langue d'Oc. Clermont d'Auvergne, where the council was held, was within that territory. Tiie Pontifical Legate at the cru- sade, the Bishop of Puy, the Count of Toulouse, Raymond de Saint-Gilles, and the Duke of Acquitain, William IX. Count of Poitou, were at that time the principal sovereigns of the south of France, and amongst the most distinguished, of the Crosses. Of all the events recorded in the history of the world, there is, perhaps, not one of a nature so highly poetical as the crusades ; not one, which presents a more powerful picture of the grand eifects of enthusiasm, of noble sacrifices of self-interest, which is ever prosaic in its nature, to faith, sentiment, and passion, which are essentially poetical. Many of the Troubalours partook of the enthusiasm of their countrymen, and accompanied them to the crusade. The most distinguished of these poets as well as warriors, was "William IX. Count of Poitou, and Duke of Acquitain, the oldest of tlie poets, whose works M. de la Curne de Sainte- Palaye has collected. He was born in 1071, and died in 1127. The famous Eleanor, Queen of France, and after- wards of England, who, when divorced by Louis le Jeune, transferred the sovereignty of Guienne, Poitou, and Saint- onge, to Henry II. of England, was grand-daughter to this prince. The succession of the kings of England to the sovereignty of a considerable part of the countries where the Langue d'Oc prevailed, was the third great political event which influenced the manners and opinions of the people, and consequently of the Troubadours also, by mingling the different races of men, introducing poets to the courts of the most powerful monarchs, and extending to literature something of that national inte- rest, to \\hich the long rivalry between the Kings of France and England had given rise. On the other hand, the encou- ragement given to the Troubadours, by the kings of the house of Plantagenet, had a great influence on the formation of the English language, and furnished Chaucer, the father of Eng- lish literature, with his first model for imitation. This language was adopted, at one and the same time, by the sovereigns of one half of Europe. We find Proven9al verses composed by the Emperor of Germany, Frederick Barbarossa, Richard I. of England, Alfonso II. and Peter III. 100 ON THE LITEKATURK of Aragon, Frederick III. of Sicily, the Dauphin of Au- vergne, the Count de Foix, tlie Prince of Orang', and the Marquis of Montferrat, King of Tliessalonica. It well de- served the preference which it ohtained over all other lan- guages. The grammar was regular and complete ; the verbs had the same inflexions which the Italian verbs have at the present day. and even more.* The regularity of their moods allowed the suppression of the pronouns, and thus added to the rapidity of the expression. The substantives had u quality peculiar to this language, of being employed eitiier as masculines or as feminmes, at the option of the writer. | The flexibility of the substantives gave the language a more figurative character. Inanimate beings were clothed with a sex at the will of the poet, and were by turns masculine and fierce, or sweet and voluptuous, according to the gender which was assigned to them. The substantives, as well as the adjectives, had terminations which expressed all the mo- difications, both of augumentation and diminution, which denoted either agreeable or disagreeable ideas, contempt, ridicule, or approbation. This is still the case in the Italian and Spanish; whilst, in French, the diminutives have become solely expressive of the ridiculous, and augmentatives are no longer known. The Provcn9al language, as we now find it written, appears to us to be studded with consonants, but most of those which terminated the words were sujipressed in the pronunciation. On the other hand, almost all the diph- thongs were pronounced with the two sounds united in the same syllable (for example, daurada, and not dorada), which gave greater fulness and richness to the language. A great * As, for instance, a peculiar gerund — tout-harjan, signifying the duration of tlie act of speaking ; espandiguen, tlie duration of the act of extending. f Thus they said lou cap, or la capa, the head ; Vos, or Vossa, the bone ; unfaii, or una faissa, a burden ; lou ruse, or la rusca, the bark; lou ram, or la rama, tlie foliage; unfielli, or unafiilha, a leaf, &c. Another peculiarity of this language, which is not to be found in any other, is its having preserved, instead of declensions, a sign which dis- tinguishes the nominative and the vocative from the other cases. In general the nominative singular has its termination in .1, which is abandoned in the other singular cases; whilst the nominative plural wants the .s% and the other plural eases have it. Some words have their termination in aire in the nouiiiiativc, and in ador in other eases : El Trobaire diz al Trobador — the Troaltadour said to the Troubadour. OF THE TROUBADOURS. 101 number of the words were figurative, and expressed their signification in their sound. Many were j^eculiar to the language, and can only be translated by employing a peri- phrasis.* This beautiful language was exclusively employed, for a long time, in those compositions to wliich it was so peculiarly appropriate — in amatory and martial songs. The multitude of Provencal poems whicli are extant, may be classed under one or the other of these two divisions ; and although they bear different names, they all of them equally belong to th.e lyrical style of composition. Love and war furnished tiie only occupation, the only delight of all the kings and soldiers, of the most powerful barons and the most humble knights of the age. Now kneeling at the feet of their mistresses, whom they often addressed in language applicable only to tlie Deity, and now braving their enemies, their verses bear the double imprint of their pride of character and of the power of their love. The poems of the Provencals, according as they ex- pressed the one or the other of these passions, were divided into chanzos and sirventes. The object of the former was gallantry ; of the latter, war, politics, or satire. The struc- ture of both was the same. The Provencal songs were, in general, composed of five stanzas and an envoy. The form of the stanza was perfectly regular, and often so uniform, that the same rhyme was repeated in the same place in. each stanza. These rhymes were distinguished, as in the French, into masculine and feminine; that is to say, into those accen- tuated on the last syllable, and those on the penultimate; and were dexterously interwoven, not so as to follow one another in the regular order of our poetry, but in such a manner that their disposition always produced a harmony, conformable to the sense of the verse and the feelings of the hearer. This original perception of harmony afterwards gave place, it is true, to the refinement of affecting to vanquish difficulties, and the Troubadours, by imposing upon themselves rules which were both ridiculous and dithcult to obey, with regard to the return of the same rhymes, or of the same words at the termination of the vei'ses, contracted a puerile habit of playing with words, to which they too often sacrificed both « See M. Fabre D'Olivet, Preface to his Poesies Occifaniques. 102 ON THE LITERATUHE the idea and the sentiment. They displayed a more delicate and correct taste in the choice of tlie dilferent metres which they employed; in the mixture of long and short verses, from the heavy Alexandrine to the lines of one or two syllables ; and in the skilful use of the i*02rular terminations in the Stanza. All our knowledge upon this subject is derived from their experience. It was they who invented those varied measures of the stanzas, -which give so rauch harmony to the canzoni of Petrarch. We are likewise indebted to them for the forms of the French ode, and particularly for the beautiful stanza of ten lines, in one quatrain and two tercets, which J. B. Rousseau has employed in his most elevated subjects. Some sonnets are also found in their language, but, at the same time, it appears to me, that they are posterior to the earliest Italian sonnets, and even to those of Petrarch. Lastly, the ballad, the first verse of which is converted into a burthen for the others, and in which tlie return of the same thought produces such a graceful and pleasing effect, is of Provencal origin. It is my wish rather to familiarize my readers with the Troubadours themselves, and to make them acquainted with their poems, than to detail the opinions which have been entertained respecting them, and the I'omances of which they have been the heroes. But of all the poems which it will be necessary for us to notice, these are the least likely to pro- duce an impression in a translation. We must not look, in them, for that Avit and that faculty of invention, which in modern poetry shed such brilliancy upon the ideas, by inge- nious contrasts and by happy reflections of light. Is or must we look fur profound thoughts. The Provencals were too young a nation, they had seen too little, and they had not sufficiently analyzed and compared what they saw, to entitle them to lay any claim to the empire of thought. Invention seems to have been out of the question in so narrow a field, and in compositions which never dwelt on more than two sentiments. Their merit entirely consists in a certain har- mony and simplicity of expression, which cannot be trans- ferred to another language. I have therefore been obliged, whenever I have wished to give an idea of their imagination and tlieir sensibility, or of the cliarm and elegance of their style, to direct the attention of my readers to their personal OF THE TROUBADOURS. 103 character. It is not in my power to awaken, for their talents, an admiration which can only be felt by those who thoroughly understand their language; but without judging of them as poets, their adventures may yet excite our interest. The connexion, between a romantic life and the wild imaginations of the poet, is not altogether ideal. Such of the Troubadoui's as were regarded as the most celebrated men of their day, were likewise those who had met with the mo;^t renowned adventures. The poet has always been a hero to his bio- grapher. The latter has ever persuaded himself that the most beautiful verses were addressed to the most beautiful women ; and as time has passed away, our imaginations have invested the Troubadour knight with new glories. No one has experienced this good fortune in an equal degree with Sordello of Mantua,* whose real merit consists in the harmony and sensibility of his verses. lie was amongst the first to adopt the ballad-form of writing, and in one of those, which has been translated by Millot, he beauti- fully contrasts, in the burthen of his ballad, the gaieties of nature, and the ever-reviving grief of a heart devoted to love.j Sordel, or Sordello, was born at Goito, near Mantua, and was, for some time, attached to the household of the Count of S. Bonifiizio, the chief of the Guelph party, in the march of Treviso. He afterwards passed into the service of Raymond Berenger, the last Count of Provence of the house of Barcelona. Although a Lombard, he had adopted, in his compositions, the Pi'oven^al language, and many of his coun- trymen imitated him. It was not, at that time, believed that the Italian was cai)able of becoming a polished language. The age of Sordello was that of the most brilliant chivalric virtues, and the most atrocious crimes. He lived in the midst of heroes and monsters. The imagination of the people was still haunted by the recollection of the ferocious Ezzelino, tyrant of Verona, with whom Sordello is said to have had a contest, and who was, probably, often mentioned in his verses. The historical monuments of this reign of blood were, however, little known, and the people mingled the name of their favourite poet with every revolution which had * [See Parnasse Occitanien, I. 145. Tr.] f Aylas e que mTan miey huelh Quar no vezon so qu'ieu vueilh. 104 ON THE LITERATURE excited tlieir terror. It was said that he had carried off the wife of the Count of S. Bonifazio, the sovereign of Mantua, that he had married the daugliter or sister of Ezzelino, and that lie had fought this monster, with glory to liimself. He united, according to popubr report, the most brilliant military exploits to the most distinguished poetical genius. By the voice of Saint Louis himself, he had been recognized, at a tourney, as the most valiant and gallant of knights ; and, at last, the sovereignty of IMantua had been bestowed upon this noblest of the poets and warriors of his age. Historians o.f credit have collected, three centuries after Sordello's death, these brilliant fictions, which are, however, disproved by the testimony of contemporary writers. The reputation of Sor- dello is owing, very materially, to the admiration which has been expressed for him by Dante ; who, when he meets him at the entrance of Purgatory, is so struck with the noble haughtiness of his aspect, that he compares him to a lion in a state of majestic repose, and represents Virgil as embracing him, on hearing his name. M. de la Curne de Saiiite-Palaye has collected thirty-four poems of Sordello's. Fifteen of these are love-songs, and some of them are written in a pure and delicate style. Amongst the other pieces, is a funeral eulogium on the Chevalier de Blacas, an Aragonese Trouba- dour, whose heart, Sordello says, should be divided amongst all the monarchs in Christendom, to supply them with the courage of which they stand in need. At the same time, we find amongst the compositions of Sordello, some pieces, little worthy of the admiration which has been bestowed upon his personal character, and not altogether in accordance with the delicacy of a knight and a troubailour. In one, he speaks of his success in his amours, with a kind of coarse complacency, very far removed from the devotion which was due to the sex from every cavalier. In another, he thus replies to Charles of Anjou, who pressed him to follow him to the crusade. " My lord Count, you ought not to ask me, in this manner, to affront death. If you want an expert seaman, take Ber- trand d'Alamanon, who understands the winds, and who wishes for nothing better than to be your follower. Every one is seeking his salvation by sea ; but, for my own part, I am not eager to obtain it. My wish is, to be transported to another life as late as possible." In a tenson, in which he OF THE TROUBADOURS. 105 is an interlocutor, he sustains the least heroic side of the question. The Tensons, or jeux partiii, were songs, in dia- logue, between two speakers,* in which each interlocutor recited successively a stanza with the same rhymes. The other party wlio, in this tenson, disputes with Sordello, is the same Bertrand d'Alamanon, whom, as I have just related, he recommended as a crusader. " Sordello. If it were necessary either to forego the delight of lady-love, and to renounce the friends whom you possess or may possess, or to sacrifice to the lady of your lieart, the honour which you have acquired, and may acquire, by chivalry, which of the two Avould you choose ? " " Bertrand. The mistresses whom I have loved, have despised me so long, and so little have I gained by them, that I cannot compare them to chivalry. Yours may be the folly of love, the enjoyment of which is so frail. Still continue to chase the pleasures, which lose their value as soon as tasted. But I, in the career of arms, ever behold before me new conquests and new glories. " Sordello. What is glory without love ? How can I abandon joy and gallantry for wounds and combats ? Thirst and hunger, a burning sun or piercing frost, are these to be preferred to love ? Ah ! willingly do I resign to you these benefits, for the sovei'eign joys which my mistress bestows. "Bertrand. Wliat ! dare you then appear before your mistress, if you dare not draw your sword for the combat ? Without valour, there is no real pleasure ; it is valour which elevates man to the highest honours, but love is the degrada- tion and the fall of those whom he seduces, " Sordello. Let me but be brave in the eyes of her I love, and I heed not the contempt of others. From her, all my happiness flows ; I seek for no other felicity. Go then, overthrow your castles and your Avails, while I enjoy the sweet kisses of my mistress. You may gain the esteem of all noble Frenchmen ; but, for my part, I prize more her inno- cent favoui's, than all the achievements of the lance. * [Sometimes the interlocutors were moi'e than two, in which case it was called a Torueyamen. A specimen of this species of composition is given by ^I. liaynouard, vol. ii. p. 199. The interlocutors are, Savari di JMauleon, Hugues de la Bachelerie, and Gaucelm. Faidit. A para- phrase is given by Millot, 7'r.] VOL, I. G 106 ON THE LITEKATURE " Bertrand. But, Sordello, to love without valour, is to deceive her whom you love. . I would not wish for the love of her I serve, did I not at the same time merit her esteem. A treasure, so ill acquired, w'ould be my grief. Do you, then, be the protector of tlie follies of love, whilst the honour of arms is mine ; since you are so deluded as to place false joys ill the balance against real happiness." This tenson may, perhaps, give an idea of those poetical contests, which were the great ornament of all festivals. When the haughty baron invited to his court the neighbouring lords and the knights his vassals, three days were devoted to jousts and tourneys, the mimicry of war. The youthful gentlemen, who, under the name of pages, exercised them- selves in the profession of arms, combated the first day ; the second was set apart for the newly-dubbed knights ; and the third, for the old warriors. The lady of the castle, surrounded by youtliful beauties, distributed crowns to those who were declared, by the judges of the combat, to be the conquerors. She then, in her turn, opened her court, constituted in imitation of the seignorial tribunals, and as her baron collected his peers around him, when he dispensed justice, so did she form her Court of Love, consisting of young, beau- tiful, and lively women. A new career was opened to those who dared the combat, not of arms but of verse, and the name of Tenson, whicli was given to these dramatic skir- mishes, in fact signified a contest.* It frequently happened that the knights, who had gained the prize of valour, became candidates for the poetical honours. One of the two, witli his harp upon his arm, after a prelude, proposed the subject of the dispute. The other then advancing, and singing to the same air, answered him in a stanza of the same measure, and very frequently having tlie same rhymes. This ex- tempore composition was usually comprised in five stanzas. The court of love then entered upon a grave deliberation, and discussed, not only the claims of tlie two poets, but the merits of the question ; and a judgment or arret-crnviour was given, frequently in verse, by wliieh the dispute was supposed to be decided. At the present day, we feel inclined to believe that these dialogues, though little resembling those of Tityrus and Melibajus, were yet, like those, the production * [According to Raynouard, it was derived from Contentio. Tr.'\ OF THE TROUBADOURS. 1U7 of the poet sitting at ease in his closet. But, besides the historical evidence which we possess of the Troubadours having been gifted with those iraprovisatorial talents, whicli the Italians have preserved to the present times, many of the ^e«.^o/u* extant bear evident traces of the rivalry and animosity of the two interlocutors. The mutual respect, with Avhich the refinements of civilization have taught us to regard one another, was at this time little known. Thei-e existed not the same dehcacy upon questions of honour, and injury re- turned for injury was supposed to cancel all insults. We have a tenson extant, between tlie Marquis Albert Malespini and Ranibaud de Vaqueiras, two of tlie most powerful lords and valiant captains, at the commencement of the thirteenth century, in which they mutually accuse one another of having robbed on the highway and deceived their allies by false oaths. We must charitably suppose, that the perplexities of versification and the heat of their poetical inspiration com- pelled them to overlook sarcasms, which they could never have suflferod to pass in plain prose. Many of the ladies, who sate in the Courts of Love, were able themselves to reply to the verses which they inspired. A few of their compositions only remain, but they have alw^ays the advantage over those of the Troubadours. Poetry, at that time, aspired, neither to creative energy, nor to sublimity of thought, nor to variety. Those powerful conceptions of genius whicli, at a later period, have given birth to the drama and the epic, were yet unknown ; and, in the expression of sentiment, a tenderer and more delicate in- spiration naturally endowed the productions of these poetesses with a more lyrical character. One of the most beautiful of these songs is written by Clara d'Andusa, and is unfinished. A translation is subjoined, which can give but little idea of a poem, the excellence of which so essentially consists in the harmony of the verse.* Into what cruel grief and deep distress The jealous and the false have plunged my heai-t. Depriving it hy every treacherous art Of all its hopes of joy and happiness : * [The French prose translation given by M. de Sismondi, is by M. Fabre d'Olivet, Poesies Occitaniques, vol. vii. p. 32. The original, g2 JOS ox THE LITERATURE. For they have forced thee from my arms to fly. Whom far above this evil life 1 prize ; And they have hid thee from my loving eyes. Alas ! with grief, and ire, and rage 1 die. Yet they, who blame my passionate love lo thee, Can never teach my heart a nobler flame, A sweeter hope, than that which thrills my frame, A love, so full of joy and harmony. Nor is there one— no, not my deadliest foe. Whom, speaking praise of thee, 1 do not love, Nor one, so dear to me, who would not move My wrath, if from his lips disjiraisc should flow. Fear not, fair love, my heart shall ever fail In its fond trust — fear not that it will change Its faith, and to another loved one range ; No ! though a hundred tongues that heart assail — which follows, is extracted from the Parnasse Occitanien, vol.i. p. 252. — Tr.] En greu esmai et en greu pcssamen An mes mon cor, et en granda error Li lauzengier el fals devinador, Abaissador de joi e de joven ; (^uar vos, qu ieu am mais que re qu'el mon sia An fait de me departir e lonhar Li qu' ieu nous pose vezer in remirar, Don muer de dol e d' ir' e de feunia. Cel que m blasma vostr' amor ni m defon Mo podon far en re mon cor melhor, Ni'l dous desir qu 'ieu ai do vos major, Ni Tenveja. ni '1 dezir ni '1 talen. E non es horn, tan mos enemies sia. Si '1 u'aug dir ben, que no '1 tenha en ear ; E si' n ditz mal, mais no m pot dir ni far, Negima re qucz a plazer me sia. Ja nous donets, bels amies, espaven Qucz ieu ves vos aia cor trechador, Ni queus camge per nul autr' amador Si m pregavon dautras domnas un ceu ; Qu 'amors que in te per vos eu sa bailia. Vol que mon cor vos estuj'e vos gar ; E farai o : e s'ieu pogues emblar Mon cors, tals 1' a que jamais no 1 'auria. Amies, tan ai d'ira c de feunia Quar no vos vei, que quant ieu cug cantar Plang c sospir ; per qu' ieu no pose so far A mas coblas que '1 cor complir volria. OF THE TROUBADOURS. 109 For Love, who has my heart at his command, Decrees it shall be faithful found to thee, And it shall be so. (^h, had I been free. Thou, who hast all my heart, hadst had my hand. Love ! so o'ermastering is my soul's distress, At not beholding thee, that, when I sing. My notes are lost in tears and sorrowing, Nor can my verse my heart's desires express. We have already said that the Sirventes, which constitute the second class of Proven9al poems, were martial and poli- tical songs. At a period, when almost all the poets were knights likewise, and when the love of combats, and the in- fatuation of dangers, were the prominent passions of the soul, we naturally look to the martial songs for instances of the noblest inspiration. Tiius, Guillaume de Saint-Gregory, in an harmonious sirvente, in stanzas of ten lines, like those of our odes, celebrates his love of war, and seems to feel the inspiration of the field of battle.* The beautiful spring delights me well. When flowers and leaves are growing; And it pleases my heart, to hear the swell Of the birds' sweet chorus flowing In the echoing wood ; And I love to see all scatter'd around, Pavilions and tents, on the martial ground ; And my spirit finds it good To see, on the level plains beyond, Gay knights and steeds caparison'd.f * [This Sirvente is attributed by M. EajTiouard to Bcrtrand de Born, Poesies tie Troubadours, ii. 201), and in the Pamasse Occitatiien, i. 65, where a difFei'ent version of it is given. The text is taken from M. RajTiouard, and for the translation the editor is indebted to the kind- ness of a friend. — Trl] t Be m play lo douz temps de paseor, Que fai fuelhas e flors venir ; E play mi quant aug la vaudor Dels auzels que fan retentir Lor chan per lo boscatge ; E plai me quan vey sus els pratz, Teudas e pavallos fermatz ; E plai m'en mon coratge ; Quan vey per campanhas rengatz Cavalliers ab cavals armatz. E play 110 ON THE LITERATURE It pleases mc, when the lauccrs bold Set men and armies flying ; And it pleases me, too, to hear around The voice of the soldiers crjing ; And joy is mine. When the castles strong besieged shake, And walls uprooted totter and quake. And I see the foe-men join On the moated shore, all conipass'd round With the palisade and guarded mound. »r * * * Lances and swords, and stained helms. And shields dismantled and broken, On the verge of the bloody battle-scene, The field of wrath betoken; And the vassals are there. And there fly the steeds of the dying and dead ; And where the mingled strife is spread, The noblest warrior's care Is to cleave the foeman's limbs and head, The conqueror less of the living than dead. I tell you that nothing my soul can cheer, Or banqueting or reposing. Like the onset cry of " charge them" rung From each side, as in battle closing ; Where the hoi"ses neigh. E play mi quan li corredor Fan las gens els aver fugir ; E plai me quan vey aprop lor Gran ren d'ai-matz ensems brugir ; E ai gran alegratge, Quan vey fortz castels assetjat/, E murs fondre e derolatz ; E vey I'ost pel ribatge Qu'es tot entom claus de fossatz, Ab lissas de fortz pals serratz. Atressi m play de bon senhor, Quant es primicrs a I'cnvazir, Ab caval armat, ^es tomor : C'aissi fai los sieus enurdir, Ab vallen vassallatge ; E quant el es el camp intratz, Quascus deu esser asserniatz, E segr el d'agradatge, Quan nulhs horn non es rea prezatz Tro qu'a manhs colps pres e donatz. Lansas e brans elens de color, Escutz trancar e dcsguamir, A^'eyrem OF XnE TROUBADOURS. Ill And the call to " aid " is echoing loud, And there, on the earth, the lowly and proud In the foss together lie ; And yonder is piled the mingled heap Of the brave that scaled the trench's steep. Barons ! your castles in safety place. Your cities and villages, too. Before ye haste to the battle-scene : And, Papiol ! * quickly go. And tell the Lord of " Yes andNo,''-\ That peace already too long hath been ! This warlike ode is dedicated to Beatrix of Savoy, the wife of Raymond Berenger V. the last Count of Provence. Beatrix was the mother of four queens of France, of Ger- many, of England, and of Naples. Like lier husband, she was a great patroness of the Troubadours, and some verses of this illustrious couple are still preserved, which ai'e want- ing neither in poetical skill nor in delicacy. The lines written by the countess are addressed to her lover, in which she Veyrem a Vintrar, de I'estor, E manhs vassalhs ensems fcrir Don auaran a ratge, Cavalhs dels mortz e dels uafratz ; E la pus I'estorn er mesclatz ; Negus horn d'aut paratge Non pens mas d'asclar caps e bratz Que mais val mortz que vius sobratz. Je us die que tan no m'a sabor jMangars ni beui-e in dormir. Cum a quant aug cridar ; a lor ! D'ambas las partz ; et aug agnir ! Cavals voitz per I'ombratge, Et aug cridar : aidatz ! aidatz ! E vei cazer per los possatz Panes e grans per I'erbatge ; E vei los mortz que pels costazt An los tronsons outre passatz. Baros, metetz en gatge, Castels e vilas e ciutatz, Enans q'usquecs no us guerreiatz Papiol, d'agradatge. Ad oc e no, ten vai viatz. Die li que trop estan en patz. ^' The name of the Troubadours Jongleur, or page. t Eichard Cceur de Lion. 112 ON THE LITERATURE reproaches him with being too reserved and timid. For the honour of the princess, we must suppose that this reproach is a mere sally of wit. But the war, of all others, most fitted to inspire a poet, was the crusade. Wliilst the preachers, from every pulpit, announced salvation to those who should shed their blood to deliver the tomb of Christ, tlie Troubadours, who partook of the same enthusiasm, were still more strongly influenced by the new and strange adventures, whicli tlie fairy realms of the East promised them. Their imaginations wandered with delight over those romantic countries, and they sighed as well for the conquest of that terrestrial paradise, as for that which was promised them in heaven. Many of them were, however, detained in Europe by the bonds of love ; and the contests between these two passions, these two reli- gions of their hearts, frequently gave an interesting cliaracter to the poems which were composed to animate the crusaders. This conflict is no where more agreeably described tlian in a tenson between Peyrols and Love. Peyrols was a luiight of slender fortune, from the neighbourhood of Roquefort in Auvergne.* His distinguislied talents for poetry introduced him to the court of the Dauphin of Auvergne. He there fell passionately in love with the sister of tliat prince, the Baroness de Mercocur ; and the Dauphin prevailed u[)on his sister to return the passion of his Troubadour, in order to encourage those poetical talents which were the ornament of his court. Neither the Baroness nor the Troubadour were able rigorously to preserve the strict bounds of a ])oetic;d attachment ; and Peyrols, who for a considerable time had only celebrated, in his verse, the cruelty of his mistress, at length sang tlie victories and the exultation of a liappy lover. The Baron de IMercoeur was ofiended. The Dauphin resented the injury which he believed his brother-in-law had sustained, and Peyrols was banished. Other attachments succeeded this first love, wliich are also celebrated in his verses. The preaching of the second crusade changed, at once, his mode of life. The following is his dialogue with Love, tiie original of Avliich has been published by M. Fabre d'Olivet, who has * [Three poems by Peyrols are given in the Parnasse Occitanien, i. 83, and six, in llaynouavd, iii. 26S. — Tr.] OK THE TROUBADOURS. 113 happily mingled in his " Court of Love" many ancient frag- ments with his own verses.* Love ! I long have been your slave, Till my heart is broken ; What is the re\yard I have ] Where, my duty's token ] Peyrols ! can you then forget That same blooming Beauty, Whom with such delight you met, Swearing love and duty .' That 's the way I paid the debt ! Let me tell you, your light heart Tender thoughts dispei-scs ; When you act the lover's part You falsify your verses. Love ! I've still been true to you, And if now I leave you, 'Tis what I am forced to do ; Do not lot it grieve you. Heaven will see me safely through ! Heaven, too, make the kings agree ! Keep them both from fighting ! Lest Saladin their folly see Which he "11 take delight in. Peyrols ! do the best you will, You alone can't save it ; Every Turk you cannot kill, That storms the Tower of David ; Here remain and sing your fill ! You 're not wanted by the kings ; Stay then and amuse you. They 're so fond of quarrelings They can well excuse you. Love ! I 've felt your power depart ; Though my fair one's beauty Lingers still about my heart. Yet I "11 do my duty. Many a lover nor/ must part ; Many hearts must now begin To feel their sad griefs springing, Which, but for cruel Saladin, Had joyously been singing. Peyrols did, in fact, visit the Holy Land, and a sirvente, composed by him in Syria, after the Emperor Frederic Bar- * [The original of this curious poem is not given by M. de Sismondi. It is to be found, with some variations, in the Faniasse Occitanien, vol. i. p. 90, and likewise in Kaj-nouard, iii. 279. 2'>-.] 114 ON THE LITEllATUUE barossa had lost liis life, and the Kings of England and France had abimdoued the Ci-usade, is slill preserved. I have seen the Jordan river, I have seen the holy gi-ave ; Lord ! to thee my thanks I render For the joys thy goodness gave, Shewing to my raptured sight, The spot wherein thou saw'st the light. Vessel good, and favouring breezes. Pilot trusty, soon shall we Once more see the towers of Marseilles Rising o'er the briny sea. Farewell, Acre ! ferewell, all Of Temple or of Hospital ! Now, alas ! the world's decaying — When shall we once more behold Kings like lion-hearted Richard — France's monarch, stout and bold — Jloutferrat's good ^larquis — or The Empire's glorious Emperor ! Ah ! Lord God, if you believed me. You would pause in granting powers Over cities, kingdoms, empires, Over castles, towns, and towers; For the men that powerful be Pay the least regard to thee.* Tlie poem terminates with a violent invective against the reigning emperor. This was caused by the treacherous con- duct of Henry VJ., who detained in his prisons Richard Cueur de Lion, when, on his return from the crusade, after having been shipwrecked on the coast of Istria, he was seized, as he traversed Germany, in the disguise of a pilgrim, by Leopold, Duke of Austria, in 1192. llichard, who was tlie hero of tlie age ; who had humbled Tancred and Pliilii) Augustus ; who, in a short space of time, had conquered the island of Cyprus, and had bestowed that kingdom on the unfortunate Lusignan ; who had vanquished Saladin in a pitclied battle, and hail dispersed tlic innumerable armies of the Kast ; who liad inspired such terror into the inlidels, that his name alone was long the signal of affright ; who had remained, after the return of all the other sovereigns from the crusade, and had * [The Translator has been unable to discover the original of this Sirvente ; the lines in the text are, therefore, only a version of the French prose translation.] OP THE TROUBADOURS. 115 alone commanded the Christian liost ; and wlio had signed the treaty, in virtue of which the pilgrims were allowed to accom- plish their long journey to the Holy Sepulchre — Richard was equally dear to all the Crosses. They pardoned the vices and the ferocity, which were inseparable from the manners of the ap-e. They reproached him not with the odious massacre of all the prisoners whom he had captured from Saladin; and, in short, they seemed to think that so much valour mi"-ht dispense with all other virtues. But, above all, Richard was dear to the Troubadours. Himself a royal poet and knight, he united in his own person all the brilliant qualities of the age. He was a bad son, a bad husband, a bad brother, a bad king ; but he was the most valiant and intrepid warrior in the army. His companions in arms loved him with a kind of idolatry. The devotion of William des Preaux, one of his followers, saved him, contrary to all expectation, from a Saracen prison. He was sleeping under the shade of a tree in Syria, with six of his knights, when he was surprised by a troop of the enemy. He had only time to mount his liorse, and defend himself with his accustomed bravery ; and four of his companions having fallen, he was on the point of being taken pi-isoner, when William des Preaux, seeing his master's danger, exclaimed in Arabic, " Spare me ! I am the King of England !" The Saracens, who had not sus- pected that a prisoner of such importance was in their power, threw themselves immediately on Des Preaux, that they might all claim a share in the capture, and paid no attention to Richard, who gallopped away. Fauchet asserts, that he like- wise owed his liberty in Germany to the zeal of his minstrel, Blondel ; and this is the story which has been dramatised. We cannot help regretting that this tale has been ranked amongst the apocrypha of history. Henry VI., according to Fauchet, carefully concealed the fact of his having detained the King of England as a prisoner, lest he should incur the excommunication of the Crusaders, Blondel, who had been shipwrecked with him on the coast of Istria, and who had sought him in all the fortresses of Germany, sang, beneath the tower in which he was confined, a tenson which he and Richard had composed in common. Scarcely had he finished the first stanza, when Richard commenced the second. Blon- del, having discovered his master, carried into England the 116 ON THE LITERATURE tidings of his captivity, and engaged his brother to treat for his ransom. If this ie/i.sun, which delivered the King of Enghind from captivity, had been preserved, it miglit liave been some confirmation of an anecdote to which we are so willing to give credit. We do, however, possess a .sirvente which he composed in prison, after fifteen months' captivity.* The uniform and masculine rhymes, no doubt, augmented, to the ear of Richard, the melancholy of his verses. * It is not kno-sNTi in what language this song was originally written, for the different manuscripts in wliich we find it, with many variations, give it in the Trovcnc/al and Languc d'Oil. It seems to me an agreeable task to compare, in the words of the brave King Richard, the two lan- guages which so long divided France between them. Below, I have given the two first verses in Proven9al, from a manuscript of M. de la t'urne de Sainte-Palaye, and also the entire song in old French, together with the sixth stanza, and an envoy, from a manuscript in the Royal Lil)rary. Ja nul hom prfcs non dini sa razon Adreitamen, so come hom doulen non ; Mas per conort pot el faire canson. Prou ha damicz, ma padre son li don ! Houta y auran se por ma rehezon Souy fach dos hivers prez. Or sachan ben mici hom e miei baron, Angles, Xorman, Peytavin et Gascon, Qu'yeu non hai ja si patlre compagnon Que per ave, lou laissesse en prezon ; Faire reproch, ccrtas yeu voli non, Mas souy dos hivers prez. La ! nus homs pris ne dira sa raison Adroitement, se dolantemcnt non, Mais por effort puetil faire ehanyon ; Moftt ai amis, mais poiire sont li don, Honte i auront se por ma rcan^on Sui ca dos yvers pris. Ce sevent bien mi home et mi baron Ynglois, Normans, Poitevin et Gascon, Que je n'ai nul si pauvre compaignon Que por avoir je les.saissc en prison. Je vous di mie por nule retra^on. Car encore sui pris. Or sai-jc bien de voir ccrteinement Que je n'ai pu ne ami ne parent, Quand on me faut por or on por argent, MoCit OF THE TROUBADOURS. 117 SONG, BY RICHARD I. ■WRITTEN DURING HIS IMPRISONMENT IN THE TOUR TENEBREUSE, OR BLACK TOWER. No ■^vretched captive of his prison speaks, Unless with pain and bitterness of soul. Yet consolation from the Muse he seeks, Whose voice alone misfortune can control. Where now is each ally, each baron, friend, Whose face I ne'er beheld without a smile 1 Will none, his sovereign to redeem, expend The smallest portion of his treasures vile 1 Though none may blush that, near two tedious years, Without relief, my bondage has endured. Yet know, my English, Norman, Gascon peers, Not one of you should thus remain immur'd : Modt m'est de moi, mais plus m'est de ma gent Qu'aprfes lor mort aurai reprochement Si longuement sui pris. N'est pas mervoilh, se j'ai le cuer dolent Quand mes sire mest ma terre en torment, S'il li membrast de notre sacrement Que uos feismes ii Deua communement, Je sal de voir que ja trop longuement Ne serie ca pris. Que sevent bien Angevin et Lorain, Al Bacheler qui or sont riche et sain, Qu'encombres suis loing d'eux en autre main, Fort moCit m'aidessent, mais il n"cn vient grain De belles armes sont ore vuit et plain, Force que je suis pris. Mes compagnons que j'amoie et que jam, Ces de Chacu, et ces de Percheram, Di lor chanson qu'il ne sunt pas certam, C'onques vers eux ne vi fans cuer ne vam, S'ils me guerroient il feront que vilam, Tant com je serai pris. Contesse suer votre pris soverain, Vos saut et gart, al acunement claim, Et porce suis-je pris. Je ne di mie a cele de chartain La mere Loeys. [The English translation given in the text is taken from Bumeys History of Music, vol. ii. p. 238. The original, as given by him, which frequently varies from the copy in the foregoing note, is to be found in the preface to the Roman de la Tour Tenebreuse, printed at Paris in 170.5. Tr.] 118 ON THE LITERATUrvE The meanest subject of my wide domains. Had I been free, a ransom should have found ; I mean not to reproach you with my chains. Yet still I wear them on a foreign ground ! Too true it is^so selfish human race I " Nor dead nor captive, friend or kindred find ;" Since here I pine in bondage and disgrace, For lack of gold my fetters to unbind ; Much for myself I feel, yet ah ! still more That no compassion from my subjects flows : What can from infamy their names restore. If, while a prisoner, death my eyes should close 1 But small is my surprise, though great my grief, To find, in spite of all his solemn vows. My lands are ravaged by the Gallic chief, While none my cause has courage to espouse. Though lofty towers obscure the cheerful day. Yet, through the dungeon's melancholy gloom, Kind Hope, in gentle whispers, seems to say, " Perpetual thraldom is not yet thy doom." Ye dear companions of my hapj^y days. Of Chail and I'ensavin, aloud declare Throughout the earth, in everlasting lays. My foes against me wage inglorious war. Oh, tell them, too, that ne'er, among my crimes. Did breach of faith, deceit, or fraud appear; That infamy will brand to latest times The insults I receive, while captive here. Know, all ye men of Anjou and Tnnrainc, And every bach'lor knight, robust and brave, That duty, now, and love, alike arc vain, From bonds your sovereign and your friend to .save : Remote from consolation, here I lie. The wretched captive of a powerful foe, AVho all your zeal and ardour can defy, Kor leaves you aught but pity to bestow. We have only two sirventes by Richard, and tlie second is not very wortliy of remark. But a kniglit, \vlio was inti- mately connected witli that monarch, and whose ungoverned passions luid a powerful influence over the destiny of the royal family of England, Bertrand de Born,* Viscount of * [Three poems, by liertrand do Born, are given in the Parnas<;e OrcilKnicn, i. 65, two of which are likewise given hy Jlai/nouard, i. 135. In addition to these, a number of other poems by Bertrand de Born will be found in the fourth volume of M. Kcnouard's work, which has been recently published. Tr.] OF THE TROUBADOURS. 119 TIautefort, in the diocese of Perigeux, has left a number of original poems, which, it is much to be regretted, have never been printed in the original language. The most ardent and impetuous of the French knights, he breathed nothing but war. Exciting and inflaming the passions of his neighbours or of his superiors, in order to rouse them to combat, he ao-itated, by intrigues and arms, the provinces of Guienne, during the latter lialf of the twelfth century, and in tlie reigns of the English monarchs, Henry II. and Richard I. In every nevv^ war in which he engaged, he animated liis soldiers, encouraged his allies, and sustained his own hopes, by disburdening his mind, in a sircente, of those passions which had prompted him to take up arms. Having attempted to despoil liis brotlier Constantine of his share of their pater- nal inheritance, Richard Coeur de Lion, who was then only Count of Poitou, took the latter under his protection ; and Bertrand de Born, on account of this war, composed the first of those sircentes, in which he has, with such truth, pour- trayed that inflexible soul, which no dangers could cast down, nor any violence subdue. " What," says he, " are happy or evil days to me ? AVhat are weeks or years ? At all times my desire is to destroy those who offend me. Let others em- bellish their mansions, if they will ; let them surround them- selves with all the conveniences of lifs — but, for me, my sole desire is to collect lances and casques, and swords and horses. I am disgusted with the advice they give me ; and, by Jesus, I know not to whom to listen. They tell me I am imprudent in refusing peace, but were I to accept it, who is there that would not call me coward ?" At the conclusion of this war, Bertrand de Born, being irritated against Richard, w^ho had ravaged his territories, attached himself to the eldest brother of that prince, Henry Duke of Guienne, the heir ap- parent to the crown of England. On all sides, he roused the enemies of Richard, and formed powerful leagues against him, while, with all the martial ardour of Tyrtajus, he sang anew the combats to which he was leading his allies. " Ventadour and Comborn, Segur and Turenne, Montfort and Gordon, have made a league with Perigueux. The citizens labour at the intrcnehments of their towns. The walls are rising around them. Lot me strengthen their resolution with a sirvente ! What glory awaits us ... . Should a crown be 120 ON THE LITERATURE offered me, I should blusli not to enter intotliis alliance or to desert it." Being soon afterwards abandoned by Henry, he composed a s'trvente against him, and addressed another to Richard, who, after having besieged him in his castle, and forced him to capitulate, had generously restored to liim his property. Shortly after this time, Henry died, in 1183 ; and Bertrand, who had again leagued himself witli him, and had engaged him in a second revolt against his father, celebrated his praises in some sirventes, which breathe the tenderest affection. " I am devoured," says he, " with a grief, which Avill end but with my life. There is no longer any joy for me ; I liave lost the best of princes. Great God ! you have snatched him from the age, and our wickedness has but too Avell merited it. Noble Henry ! it was reserved for you, to be the king of the courteous and the emperor of the brave ! " The deatli of his friend, the prince, left Bertrand exposed to great danger. Henry II. with the forces of two kingdoms, besieged the lord of a little castle in Hautefort. Bertrand defended liimself to the last extremity, until, the walls falling around him, he was taken prisoner with his garrison. But, when he was led before the king, and reminded the monai'ch, by a single word, of the tender friendship which he had en- joyed with the young prince, the unfortunate father burst into tears, and in the name of the son whom he haa lost, restored to him his castle, his fief, and his riches. These reverses could not discourage the high spirit of Bertrand de Born. Scarcely had he escaped one danger, when he provolced new enemies. lie wrote many sii-veittcf! against Alfonso II. of Aragon, in which he endeavoured tc excite his subjects to rebellion. He likewise took an active part in the war between Richard and Piiilip Augustus ; and when it appeared to relax, he rekindled it with his verses, in which he alternately roused the shame of the one sovereign or the other, by imputations of cowardice. This ardent warrior, whose whole life was spent in the licld, was not, however, insensible to tlie passion of love ; and here his success was not unworthy of his glory in arms. He was attached to Helen, the sister of King Richard, who afterwards married the Duke of Saxe, and was the mother of tlie Emperor Otho IV. Richard beheld, with pleasure, his sister, celebrated by so valiant a warrior and so illustrious a OF THE TROUBADOURS. 121 Troubadour. Nor was Helen insensible to the homage of a man, who was even more distinguished by his talents than by his rank. Only one of the songs, which Bertrand composed in honour of this princess, has survived. It was written in the camp, at a time when the army was without provisions ; and the Troubadour endeavoured to forget his hunger, in poetry and love. He was afterwards passionately attached to Maenz de Montagnac, the daughter of the Viscount de Tu- renue, and wife of Taleyraud de Perigord. His love was returned, and he was recognized by the lady as her knight ; but jealousy disturbed their enjoyments. To her, in order to exculpate himself from a charge of infidelity, he addressed a song, which appears to possess much originality. It places before us the real knight of former times, all busied in war and the chase, the labour and the delight of our fathers, suc- cessively appealing to every thing that is dear to him in life, to every thing which has been the study of his youth and of his riper age, and yet esteeming them all light, in comparison with love. * I cannot hide from thee, how much I fear The whispers breathed by flatterers in thine ear. Against mj' faith. But turn not, oh ! I pray, That heart so true, so faithful, so sincere, So humble and so frank, to me so dear. Oh lady I turn it not from me away. * The following is the original apology of Bertrand de Bora :— unfortunately, manj' of the verses have been corrupted by the tran- scribers, to the injury both of the sense and the prosody. Jeu m' escondic que mal non mier De so qu' eus an de mi dig lauzengier. Per merce' us pres c' om uom puezca mezclar Lo vostre cor fin lial vertadier Humilz e francz e plazentier Ab mi Dona per messonjas comtar. Al premier get perdleu raon espaiwier, Que'l m'ausian al ponh falcon lanier E porton Ten qu'icl lor veya plumar. Si non am mais de vos lo cossirier No faz d'autra jauzir lo desirier Que 'm don samor ni' m retenh 'al colcar. Autr' escondig vos farai pus sobrier, E non m' en puesc onrar, pus eucombrier, VOL. I. n S' ieu 122 ox THE LITERATURE So may I lose my hawk, ere he can spring, Borne from my hand by some bold falcon's wing, j\Ianglcd and torn before my very eye, If every word thou uttercst docs not bring More joy to me than Fortune's favouring, Or all the bliss another's love might buy. So, with my shield on neck, mid storm and rain, With vizor Idinding me and shortea'd rein, And stirrups far too long, so may I ride, So may my trotting charger give me pain. So may the ostler treat me with disdain. As they who toll those tales have grossly lied. "When I approach the gaming hoard to play, May I not turn a penny all the day. Or may the board be shut, the dice untnie, If the truth dwell not in me, when I say No other fair e'er wiled my heart away, From her I've long desired and loved — from you. Or, prisoner to some noble, may I fill Together with three more, some dungeon chill Unto each other odious company ; Let master, servants, porters, try their skill. And use me for a target if they will. If ever I have loved aught else but thee. So may another knight make love to you. And so may I be puzzled what to do ; So may I be becalmed 'mid oceans wide ; May the king's porter beat me black and blue, And may I fly ere I the battle view. As they, that slander me, have grossly lied. Bertrand de Born Avas reconciled to Maenz de Montagnac, by another celebrated woman of that time, Dame Natibors, or S' ieu anc falli ves vos, veys, del pensar. Can serem sols en cambro dins vergier, Falham poders de vos mon companhier De tal guiza que nom puesc aiudar. Escut al col cavalq' ieu al tempier, E port salat capairon traversier, E regnas brevs que non quesc alongar, Et estnieps loncs, e caval mal trotier, Et al ostal truep irat lo stalier, Si no us menti qu'icn o avcs comtar. S' ieu per jangar m' asseti al taulier Ja no y puesca baratar un denier, Ma ab taula prcsa non puesca intrar, Anz giet a dez lo rcir azar dcrrier; S' ieu mais antra dona am ni enquiev Mais vos, cuy am, c dezir, e tern car OF THE TROUBADOURS. 123 Tiberge cle Montaiizier, herself a i>oetess, and one whose praises had frequently been sung by the Troubadours. Dis- gusted with the world, he, at last, retired into a monastery, where he died, after having assumed the habit of a Cistercian monk. But the history of the great men of this age does not terminate with their lives. The terrible fictions of Dante, before whom they are, as it were, placed in judgment, seem to possess a sort of reahty ; and Bertrand de Born, who, as a poet and warrior, had played so brilliant a part, and exercised such nosious influence over his contemporaries, was not likely to be passed over in neglect, by the bard of the Divina Comedia. The poet, in fact, meets him in hell. He beholds, with horror, a body advancing without a head, or rather holding its head by the hair, in its right liand. The severed head is raised by the hand, and thus addresses the poet : " Now, behold This grievous torment, thou, who Ijreathing goest To spy the dead : behold, if any else Be terrible as this. And that on earth Thou may'st bear tidings of me, know that I Am Bertrand, he of Born, Avho gave King John The counsel mischievous. Father and son I set at mutual war. For Absalom And David, more did not Ahitophel, Spurring them on maliciously to strife. For parting those so closely knit, my brain Parted, alas ! I carry, from its source, That in this tnmk inhabits. Thus the law Of retribution fiercely works in me." Inferno, Canto xxviii. Senher sia ieu de Castel parsonier, Si qu' en la tor siam quatre parsonier, E r un r autre noc aus pusiam amar, Auz m'aion obs tos temps albalestricr M&tre, sirvens, e gaitas, e portier, S" ieu anc ai cor d' antra dona amar. Ma Don' aim lais per autre cavayer E pueis no say a que m' aia mestier, E falham vens quant iray sobi-e mar ; En cort de Rey mi batan li portier. En cncocha fasa 1' fogir primier, Si no us menti quien m' an ot encusar. A als envios se mentitz lauzengier Pus ab mi dons m' aves encombrier Ben lauzera quen laisaretz estar. h2 124 ON THE LITERATURE NOTE. M. de Sismondi has announced his intention of devoting his attention, hereafter, to the production of a simihir worlc on the Literature of tl\c North. He will, probably, there give an account of the poets who, in Germany, under the name of ilinncsingers, were equally prolific with the Troubadours, during precisely the same ajra. The emperors of the Suabian line were great patrons of the Muses. M. de Sismondi has cited a little piece, usually attributed to Frederic Barbarossa. Their connexion with Italy, Sicily, and Provence, unites the German literature of that age so intimately with that of the southern dialects, that it would have been very desirable if all could have been brought under one view, to illustrate their mutu.il affinities and influences. So popular was the Gennan Muse, that there are even instances of Italian poets composing in that language, as well as in the Provencal. In comparing the poetic merits of the Troubadours and ]\Iinne- singers, it seems impossible to avoid differing from the opinion expressed by M. de Sismondi, and awarding the palm to the latter. They partake very little of the metaphysical speculations, and refinements of the Troubadours, while the hannony and grace of their versification are pre-eminent. The unbounded gaiety with which it revels in the charms of nature, and the spirit of tenderness and affection which it displays, give their poctiy charms which very seldom adorn that of their rivals. The translator trusts that he may be excused for adding two .speci- mens of the lighter pieces of these "singers," for which, as well as for a few of the translations of the Troubadours, inserted in this work, he is indebted to the papers of a friend, who, for the purpose of bringing all the contemporary songsters of this age into one view, is preparing a volume for publication. It is entitled, " Sjiecimens selected and translated from the Lyric Poetry of the German Minnesingers or Trou- badours of the twelfth, thirteenth, and fourteenth centuries, illustrated by similar Selections and Translations from the Poets of the Provencal and other Southern Dialects." The following Song is the production of Dictmar von Aste. There sate upon the linden tree A Ijird, and sang its strain; So sweet it sang, that as I heard My heart went back again. It went to one rememberd spot, It saw the rose-trees grow. And thought again the thoughts of love There cherish'd long ago. OF THE TROUBADOURS. 125 A thousand years to me it seems, Since by my fair I sate ; Yet tlius to be a stranger long, Is not my choice, but fate : Since then I have not seen the flowers, Nor heard the bird's sweet song : My joys have all too briefly past, My griefs been all too long. The following song of Earl Conrad of Kirchberg, is translated very closely, and in the same measure as the original : May, sweet May, again is come ; May, that frees the land from gloom . Children, children, up and see All her stores of jollity ! O'er the laughing hedgerows' side She hath spread her treasures wide ; She is in the greenwood shade, Where the nightingale hath made Every branch and every tree Eing with her sweet melody ; Hill and dale are May's own treasures, Youth, rejoice in sportive measures ; Sing ye ! join the chorus gay ! Hail this merry, merry May ! Up, then, children, we will go Where the blooming roses grow. In a joyful company We the bursting flowers will see ; Fp ! your festal dress prepare ! Where gay hearts are meeting, there May hath pleasures most inviting, H3art, and sight, and ear delighting. Listen to the bird's sweet song. Hark ! how soft it floats along ! Courtly dames our pleasures share, Never saw I May so fair ; Therefore, dancing will we go : Youths rejoice, the flowrets blow; Sing ye ! join the chorus gay ! Hail this merry, merry May ! Our manly youths, — where are they now 1 Bid them up, and with us go To the sporters on the plain ; Bid adieu to care and pain, Now, thou pale and wounded lover ! Thou thy peace shalt soon recover : 126 THE TROUBADOURS. Slany a laughing lip and eye Speaks the liglit lieurt's gaiety. Lovely flowers around we And, In the smiling verdure twined. Richly steep'd in May dews glowing : Youths ! rejoice, the flowers are blowing Sing ye ! join the chorus gay ! Hail this merry, merry ilay ! Oh, if to my love restored. Her, o'er all her pex adored. What supreme delight were mine ! How would Care her sway resign ! Jlerrily in the bloom of May, I would weave a garland gay; Better than the best is she. Purer than all purity ! For her spotless self alone, I will sing this changeless one ; Thankful or unthankful, she Shall my song, my idol, be. Youths, then, join the chorus gay ! Hail this merry, merry May ! CHAPTER V. ON SOME OF THE MOKE CELEBRATED TEOUBADOUKS. In examining the literature of Provence, we have not the same advantages which we enjoy in enquiring into that of other countries. We are not directed, by public opinion, to a few celebrated authors ; to a fev/ compositions, which have been ranked amongst the masterpieces of the human intellect. All the Troubadours, on the contrary, have nearly an equal title to fame. We find them, it is true, divided into two very distinct classes ; the Troubadours, and the Jongleurs or min- strels. Bat it is in their rank rather than in their talents; in their employment rather than their renown, that the dis- tinction consists. The Troubadours, as their name imports, were men qui trouvaient, who composed, new poems ; j ust as the JPoets, a name which has passed, from the Greek, into all other languages, were those who made or created: for at the origin of poetry, invention was always considered as the essence of the art. The Troubadours often themselves sang their treuces in courts and festivals, but more frequently these were sung by their Jongleui's. It was the duty of the latter, who Avere altogether of an inferior rank, to entertain the companies into which they were admitted, by the recitation of tales and verses which they had learned, and which they accompanied on different instruments, and even by juggling tricks and buffoonery. Even though thus degraded, they learned to com- pose verses, in imitation of those which they recited from memory. The Provengal poetry was founded on the sen- timent of harmony, and required no previous knowledge in the poet ; and those, therefore, who lived by reciting verses, soon learned to compose them. Thus the corruption and degradation of the Jongleurs, who, as soon as they began to rhyme themselves, assumed the name of Troubadours, con- tributed, more than any thing else, to the destruction of the fraternity. Giraud de Calanson, a Troubadour, or rather a 128 ON THE LITERATURE Jongleur, of Gascony, has given, in a curious sirvente, the following advice to a Jongleur. lie tells him tliat he must know how to compose and rhyme well, and how to propose a jctipcrti. He must play on the tambourine and the cymbals, and make the symphony resound. To throw and catch little balls, on the point of a knife ; to imitate the song of birds ; to play tricks, with the baskets ; to exhibit attacks of castles, and leaps (no doubt, of monkeys) through four hoops ; to play on the citole and the mandore ; to handle the claricord and the guitar ; to string tlie wheel with seventeen chords, to play on the harp, and to adapt a gigue so as to enliven the psaltiy, are indispensable accomplishments.* The Jongleur must prepare nine instru- ments with ten chords, which, if he learns to play well, will be sufficient for his purpose ; and he must know how to sound the lyre and the bells. After an enumeration of the romances and the tales, which the Jongleur ought to be able to recite, the poet tells him, tliat he must know how Love runs and flies, how he goes naked * [It is difficult to determine what was the nature of all these various musical insti-uments. The gigue seems to be unknown. Burney, Hist, of Music, vol. il. p. 270. The mandore was a species of lute, about two feet long, and strung with four cords. The manicord, or claricorde, was a sort of spinet resembling the virginals, and is said, by Scaliger, to be more ancient than the harpsicord or the spinet. The paaltry is described by Burney, vol i. p. 519, and in the Esmi siir la Musique, vol i. p. 302. Burney likewise gives a fragment, in which all the accomplishments of a Jongleur are catalogued. " All the min.strcl art I know ; I the viol well can play ; I the pipe and syrinx blow, Harp and gigue my hand obev ; Psaltry, symphony, and rote, Help to charm the listening throng, And Armenia lends its note While I warble forth my song. I have tales and fables plenty, Satires, pasfrals, full of sport, Songs to Yielle I 've more than twenty. Ditties, too, of every sort. I from lovers tokens bear, I can flowery chaplets weave, Amorous belts can well prejiaie. And with courteous speech deceive." — Tr.] OF THE TKOUBADOURS. 129 and unclothed, and how he repulses Justice with his keen darts, and his two arrows, one of which is made of dazzling gold, and the other of steel, which inflicts wounds so deep that they cannot be healed. He must learn the ordinances of Love, its privileges and remedies ; and be able to explain its different degrees ; how rapid its pace ; on what it lives ; how it departs ; the deceptions it then exercises ; and how it destroys its worshippers. He then tells him, that, when he knows all this, he must seek the young king of Aragon, for that no one can better appreciate such accomplishments ; and that if he there plays his part well, and distinguishes himself amongst the foremost, he will have no occasion to complain of that monarch's want of liberality. And lastly, that if he does not rise above mediocrity, he will deserve an ungi-acious reception from the best prince in the world. But whilst Giraud de Calanson, in this sirvente, prepares the Troubadours for the lowest arts and the most degrading occupations, other poets felt and expressed a lively indig- nation at the decay of this sublime art, and at the corruption of taste and the confusion of ranks, which gave the name of Jongleurs to men who played legerdemain tricks and exhi- bited apes. Giraud Riquier and Pierre Vidal have both ex- pressed the same sentiments. Amongst the Troubadours, some were raised above their fellows, less by their talents than by the distinguished rank which they held in society. In the number of those whose manuscripts have been collected by M. de la Curne de Sainte- Palaye, and analyzed by Millot, we find several sovereigns, the fii'st of whom is William IX. Count of Poitou and Duke of Acquitaine. Nine of his compositions in verse have been preserved, remarkable for the harmony of their versi- fication and for the elegant mixture of their measures and rhymes. His life was divided between devotion to the ladies and to religion, for he was engaged in the first crusade. In the midst of the Holy AVar he still preserved his gay and somewhat licentious humour : and in his verses, we find traces of his love, his pleasures, and his devotion. We have already mentioned two sirventes of Richard I. of England. There is likewise a love-song of Alfonso II. of Aragon, one of the most illustrious warriors of the eleventh century, an age fertile in great men. We also possess many other poems, 130 ON THE LITERATURE both political and amatory, by the Dauphin D'Auvei:gne, the Bishop of Clermont, and the last Count and Countess of Provence, Raymond Bei'engerY. and Beatrix; by Peter III. of Aragon, the celebrated instigator of the Sicilian Vespers, and by his youngest son, Frederic II. the hero and the avenger of tlie Sicilians. The works of these sovereigns merit our observation as historical monuments, which throw a light on the interests by which they were governed, on their personal character, and on the manners of tlie times in which they lived. In a literary point of view, however, there Avere but few Troubadours, whose names were still renowned, at the j)eriod when Dante and Petrarch flourished ; and to these we shall now proceed. In the first rank, we shall place Arnaud de Marveil ; although Petrarch, in giving the preference to Arnaud Daniel, calls the former il vien famoso Arnaldo. He was born at Marveil, in Perigord, in a humble rank of life, from which his talents fortunately raised him; and he was attached to the court of Roger II. Viscount of Beziers, called Taillefer. The love which he conceived for the wife of his master, the Countess Adelaide, daughter of Raymond V. Count of Tou- louse, Avas the means of developing his talents, and directing the destiny of his life. His versification is easy, and i'uU of nature and tenderness. Among the Provencals, he well deserves to be called the Great Master of Love, a name which Petrarch has reserved for Arnaud Daniel. All I beliold recalls the memory Of her I love. The freshness of the hour Th' cnamell'd fields, the mauy coloured flower, Speakiug of her, move to me melody. Had not the poet?;, with their courtly phrase, Saluted mauy a fair of meaner worth, I could not now have render'd thee the praise So justly due, of " Fairest of the Earth." To name thee thus had been to speak thy name, Xni. waken, o'er thy cheek, the blush of modest shame.* Arnaud de Marveil, Avhen exiled from Beziers, by the jealousy, not of the husband of the lady he loved, but of a * [The Translator has been unable to discover the originals of this, and of the following extracts. A translation of tlie first is given by M. Eaynouard, vol. ii. p. xxiv. Tr.] OF THE TROUBADOURS. 131 more illustrious and liappy rival, Alfonzo IX. King of Cas- tile, thus delicately sang the torments of absence. "They tell me that the heart is only touched by the inter- vention of the eyes ; but I, though I see not the object of my passion, am but the more deeply sensible of the loss I have sustained. They may bear her from my presence, Ijut they can never untie the knot which attaches my heart to her. That heart, so tender and so constant, God alone divides with her ; and the portion which God possesses, he holds as a part of her domain, if' God could he a vassal, and hold a Jief. Happy scenes, in which she dwells ! when shall I be per- mitted to revisit you ? When shall I behold some one who comes thence ? A herdsman from thence would be a noble in ray eyes. Oh ! that I inhabited a desert, were she but with me ! That desert should tlien be my paradise. Arnaud de Marveil has left many poems, some of which are very long.* One of his pieces contains four hundred • [A number of his poems are given by Raynouard, ill. 199, and in the Parnasse Occitanien, i. 15. As the specimens of this poet, given by M. de Sismondi, are so very short, the insertion of the following lines, for which the translator is indebted to the kindness of a friend, will perhaps be excused. The original may be found in Raynouavd, iii. 208.— 7 v.] Oh ! how sweet the breeze of April, Breathing soft as May draws near ! ■While, through nights of tranquil beauty, Songs of gladness meet the ear : Every bird his well-known language Uttering in the morning's pride. Revelling in joy and gladness By his happy partner's side. When, around me, all is smiling, When to life the young birds spring, Thoughts of love, I cannot hinder, Come, my heart inspiriting^ Nature, habit, both incline me In such joy to bear my part : With such sounds of bliss around me Who could wear a sadden'd heart ] Pairer than the far-famed Helen, Lovelier than the flow'rets gay, Snow-white teeth, and lips truth-telling, Heart as open as the day ; Golden hair, and fresh bright roses, — Heaven, who formed a thing so fair, Knows that never yet another Lived, who can with her compare. 132 ON THE LITERATURE verses, and many of them, two hundred. His language is clear and easy, and his text appears to have suflfered but little alteration. He is, therefore, a Troubadour whose works might be separately printed, to try the taste of the public for Provencal poetry, and at tlie same time to gratify the wishes of the learned throughout all Europe, who regret the loss of these monuments of our earliest literature and civilization.* The Countess of Beziers died in 1201, and there is reason to believe that Arnaud de Marveil died before her. . Next to a Troubadour, who sang nothing but love, we shall place a valiant knight, who acquired as much glory by his sword as by his lyre. Rambaud de Vaqueiras | was the son of a poor knight, of the principality of Orange. He attached liimself, in his youtli, to the person of William de 13aux, first Prince of Orange, within whose allegiance he was born. Whilst he acted the part of a valiant soldier beneath that prince's banners, he at the same time celebi'ated his victories, and attacked his enemies in his verses, commemorating even the trophies which he bore away in the tourneys. From the service of the Prince of Orange, Vaqueiras passed into that of Boniface III. Marquis of Montferrat, who led, with Baldwin and Dandolo, the fourth crusade, and who, after * The following commencement of an epistle from Arnaud Marveil to his mistress, possesses beauty, grace, and sensibility : de Cel que vos es al cor pus prcis Don' am preguct qu' eus saludcs, Sel qu'eus amet pus anc nos vi Ab franc cor et humii e fi ; S que autra non pot amar Ni auza vos mcrce clamar, E vien ses joy ab grant dolor ; Sel que non pot son cor partir De vos sin s' abia a morir ; Sel que tos temps vos amara May c' autra, tan can vievra, Sel que ses vos non pot aver En est scgle joy ni plazer, Sel que no sap cossclh de so Si ab vos non troba merce, A' OS saluda ; c vostra lauzor, Vostra beutat, vostra valor. Vostre solatz, vostre parlar, Yostr' aculhir e vostr' onrar, Yostre pretz, vostr" esscnhamen, Vostre saber, e vostre sen, Yostre gen cors, vostre dos riz, Vostra terra, vostre pays. Mas rcrgaelh que avetz a lui Volgra ben ayzas ad altrui : Quel erguelli J)ona e I'espavens, (iucl fezes lestal niarrimcns C'anc pueys non ai joy ni deport, Ni sap en cal guizas conort ; Mas lo melhos conort que a Es car sap que por vos morra, E pkiits 11 mais morrir per vos Que per autra vivre joyoz. f [Five poems, by this author, are given in the Parnasse Occitanien, i. 75, and three in Raynouard, iii. 256. One of the poems' is to be found in both. Tr.] OF THE TllOUBADOURS. 133 having disputed the throne of Constantinople, was raised to that of Thessalonica. By Boniface, Vaqueiras was dubbed a knight. That excellent judge of bravery and military talent, bestowed many honours on the poetical warrior, who had rendered him such important services in his various wars. He beheld, with pleasure, his attachment to his sister Beatrix, and he himself took the trouble of reconciling them, after a serious quarrel. Vaqueiras composed many chanzos, in honour of Beatrix, whom he called his Del Cavalier, from having once seen her gracefully managing a sword. In these verses, we find the impression of the manly haughtiness and loyalty of his character. But all love-poems lose their identity, when translated into prose, and, perhaps, are all equally tiresome. Vaqueiras was more remai-kable for his warlike imagination. The preaching of the third crusade inflamed him with new enthusiasm. He sang the Holy War in a sirvente, addressed to his princely protector and friend, when, on the death of the Count of Champagne in 1204, the former was chosen leader of the Christian forces. " It is clear that God delights to recompense the brave. He has raised the reputation of the Marquis of Montferrat so high above the most valiant, that all the Crusaders of France and Champagne have demanded him from heaven, as the man best qualified to recover the holy sepulchre. This brave marquis, God has given him courageous vassals, a large ter- ritory, and great riches, to ensure him success. " He who made the air, the heavens, the earth, the sea, the heat, the cold, the rain and the thunder, wills, that we should pass the seas in his train, as the Magi, Gui, Gaspard, and Melchior, sought Jerusalem. May St. Nicholas guide our fleet ! May the Champagners raise their banner ! May the Marquis cry, Montferrat ! May the Count Baldwin cry, Flanders ! May every one strike so stoutly, that swords and lances may shiver, and we shall soon put the Turks to flight. May the brave King of Spain extend his conquests over the Moors, while the marquis carries on the campaign, and besieges the Saracen. Envoy. " Fair knight, for whom I compose these verses and songs, I know not whether, for you, I shall assume or quit the cross ; so much you please me, when I see you, and so much I suffer in your absence." 134 ON TUE LITEKATURE Vaqueiras followed the Marquis Boniface into Greece, and combated, like a brave cavalier, by his side, before the palace of Blachernaj. and afterwards at the assault of Constantinople. After the division of the Greek empire, he followed Boniface into his kingdom of Thessalonicn, and received from him feifs, seignories, and other magnificent rewards. Still, ambition could not make him forget his love ; and, in the midst of his conquests in Greece, he thus bewailed his absence. " What avail my conquests, my riches, and my glory ! How much richer was I, when I was loved, myself a iaithful lover ! I know no other pleasures than those of love. Useless are all my goods and my lands, and the more my power and riches increase, the more deeply docs my heart feel its dis- tress, parted from my Fair Knight."* But, by far the most curious poem by Vaqueiras, is that in which, retracing the history of his own life and of that of Boniface, the dangers they had confronted in common, the services they had rendered, and the conquests they had made, he demands, with noble confidence, the recompense due to his fidelity and his valour. I regret that this poem is too long for insertion, since no production of the kind beai's a deeper impress of the chivalric character of that faithful vassalage, which did not chill friendship, and of that subordi- nation, which did not hinder the souls of both lord and vassal from attaining the same elevation. Vaqueiras praises his master, as he recalls his victories and his dangers. He brings to mind their numerous adventures in Piedmont, in the States of Genoa, in Sicily, and in Greece, where he was ever by his side ; and he frankly claims a portion of the glory and the gratitude which were due to him. The following anecdote, which he relates amongst others, seems to give a good picture of the manners of the times : — "Do you remember," says he, "the Jongleur Aimonet, who brought you news of Jaeobina, when she was on the point of being carried into Sardinia, and married to a man she disliked ? Do you also remember how, on bidding you farewell, she threw herself into your arms, and besought you, in such moving terms, to protect her against the injustice of * [The Translator has been unable to discover the original of these two fragments. He has, therefore, given a prose translation only of the French prose version.] OF THE TROUBADOURS. 13 Oii her uncle ? You immediately ordered five of your bravest esquires to mount. We rode all night, after supper. With my own hand, I bore her from the domain, amidst an uni- versal outcry. They pursued us, horse and foot ; we fled, at full speed ; and we already thought ourselves out of danger, when we were attacked by the knights of Pisa. With so many cavaliers pressing close upon us, so many shields glit- tering around us, and so many banners waving in the wind, you need not ask us whether we were afraid. We concealed ourselves between Albenga and Final, and, from the place of our retreat, we heard on all sides the sound of horn and clarion, and the signal-cries of pursuit. Two days, we remained without meat or drink, and when, on the third day, we recommenced our journey, we encountered twelve ban- ditti, and we knew not how to conduct ourselves ; for to attack them on horseback was impossible. I dismounted, and advanced against them on foot. I was wounded by a lance ; but I disabled three or four of my opponents, and put the rest to flight. My companions, then, came to my assist- ance ; we drove the robbers from the defile, and you passed in safety. You, no doubt, recollect how merrily we dined together, although we had only a single loaf to eat and nothing to drink. In the evening, we arrived at Nice, and were received, by our friend Puiclair, with ti-ansports of joy. The next day, you gave Jacobina in marriage to Anselmo, and recovered for him his county of Vintimiglia, in spite of his uncle, who endeavoured to despoil him of it." The Marquis Boniface III., of Montferrat, was slain in 1207, at the siege of Satalia. We are not informed whether Vaqueii-as survived him. Pierre Vidal of Toulouse, a Troubadour who followed King Richard to the third crusade, was no less celebrated for his extravagant actions than for his poetical talents. Love and vanity, amongst the poets, seem by turns to assume such an empire over the feelings, as almost to shake the reason. None, however, have been known to display more perfect madness than Piei-re Vidal. Persuaded that he was beloved by every lady, and that he was the bravest of all knights, he was th.e Quixote of poetry. His ridiculous amours, and his extravagant rhodomontades, heightened by the treacherous pleasantries of pretended friends, led him 136 ON THE LITEUATURE into the strangest errors. During the crusade, he was per- suaded, at Cyprus, to marry a Greek lady, who asserted that she was allied to one of the families which had filled the throne of Constantinople ; and this circumstance furnished him with sufficient grounds for believing that he was himself entitled to the purple. He assumed the title of Empei'or, and bestowed that of P^mpress upon his wife. He had a throne carried before him, and he destined the produce of his savings and his songs, to assist him iu the conquest of his empire. Notwithstanding this affair, he still remained much attached to the wife of Barral des Baux, Viscount of Marseilles, whom he had selected as the lady of his thoughts, and to whom, from Cyprus, he addressed some verses remarkable for their harmony. On his return into Provence, a new amour led him into a still wilder piece of extravagance. He fell in love with a lady of Carcassone, called Louve de Penautier, and, in honour of her, he as^umed the surname of Loup. To give himself a better title to the appellation, he clothed himself in a wolf's skin, and persuaded the shepherds to chase him, with dogs, over the mountains. He had the perseverance to sutler this strange pursuit to the last extremity, and was carried half-dead to his mistress, who was not much moved by so singular a piece of devotion. Yet, with a head appa- rently so badly organized, Pierre Vidal possessed an exquisite sensibility, and great harmony of style ; and, whatwnll appear still more strange, a sound and healthy judgment on all matters not relating to his own vanity, or to his own attach- ments. The collection of his works contains more than sixty pieces, and amongst them, three long poems of the kind to which the Proven9uls gave the simple appellation of vet'ses. The most remarktible of the three is that, in which he gives advice to a Troubadour, as to the mode of exercising his noble profession.* Poetry, he considers to be the cultivation of high sentiment, the storehouse of universal philosophy, and the Troubadours to be the instructors of nations. He recalls the glorious days of his youth, when Heaven pei'uiitted all Euro])c to be governed by heroes : when Germany possessed the Emperor Frederic I.; England, Henry 11. and his three sons ; Toulouse, Count Kaymond ; and Catalonia, Count * The whole poem is translated by Millot, vol. 11. p. 283. OP THE TROUBADOURS. 137 Berenger and his son Alfonso. He shows how poetry was the common bond of union amongst these heroes, and he declares it to be his belief, that it is the duty of the Jongleurs to awaken, in the next generation, the high sentiments which had been the glory of their fathers. He inculcates, at the same time, maxims of modesty, decency, and morality, honour- able alike to his character and to his judgment : thus dis- playing a nobility of language, and a depth of thought, strangely at variance with the extravagance of his conduct. Another of his verses, or long poems, is a new allegory, in which the principal personages whom he introduces are Love, Mercy, Modesty, and Loyalty ; some of the allegorical beings, which the East had given to the Provencals, and such as afterwards figured in the Triumphs of Petrarch. The poet relates, that once, when he was in the country, he saw a young cavalier, fair as the morning, advancing towards him, with whose mien he was unacquainted. His eyes were soft and tender ; his nose was beautifully formed ; his teeth, shining like the purest silver ; his mouth, blooming and smiling, and his figure, slight and graceful. His robe was embroidered with flowers, and his head was adorned with a crown of roses. His palfrey, which was white as snow, was marked with spots of black and pui'ple. His saddle-bow was of jasper, his housings were of sapphire, and the stirrups, of chalcedony. Addressing himself to the poet, he said, " Know, Pierre Vidal, that I am Love ; this lady is called Mercy, that damsel is Modesty ; and my esquire, there, is Loyalty." This poem proves, tliat the Love of the Proven9als was not Cujjid, the son of Venus, and that these romantic allegories are not borrowed from the Pagan mythology. The Cavalier Love of Pierre Vidal, is clothed in tlie costume of the chivalric age, Avhich gave him birth. His palfrey is described with the same minuteness as his own person. His suite is composed of the chivalric virtues, and not of joys and smiles. The whole idea bears the character of another age. Love, indeed, amongst the poets of the East, was mounted in a manner, very different from that, in which our Trouljadour represents liim. Most frequently, he was seated, by them, on the wings of a parroquet ; whence the Proven9als, in imitation of the Arabians, have often introduced that richly-plumaged bird into their songs, as the messenger of Love. VOL. I. I 138 ox TUE LITERATURE It is said, that Pierre Vidal, in Lis old age, wrote a treatise On the art of holdiiKj one's tongue, lie made a second voyage to the Levant, where, we are assured, he again indulged the ridiculous idea of becoming Emperor of the East, then under the dominion of the Latins. He died in 1229, two years after his return. AVe have seen that Peti'arch gives the first rank, amongst tlic Troubadours, to Arnaud Daniel, whom he places above Arnaud de Marveil. Uante pays him no less a conijdiment, in his treatise De Vnlgari Eloquentid. He looks upon him as the Troubadour who possessed the greatest mastery over his language, and surpassed all the other Avriters in the Romance languages, both in the tenderness of his verses, and in his prose compositions. He introduces him in the twenty- sixth canto of the Purgatorio, and puts some lines, in the Provencal language, into his mouth, which have a singular eflfect in a poem entirely Italian. But the seventeen pieces, by this poet, which survive, do not bear out all these eulogies. Tlie invention of the stanza in six lines, which is attributed to him, does not confer so much honour upon him, in our eyes, as it appears formerly to have done.* There is reason to believe, that his better productions are lost, and we ought not, therefore, to judge him too severely, by those which remain. Amanieu des Escas, who flourislied at the end of the thirteenth century, under the dominion of the Ivines of * The stanzas of six lines, which ■were afterwards imitated by Petrarch, and by the principal Italian, Spanish, and Portuguese poets, are songs in six stanzas, of six lines each. The lines of the first stanza are tei-minatcd by six substantives, of two syllables each, which ought likewise to form the termination of the lines of all the other stanzas, with this variation, that in each stanza the words ought to change their place. The same word ought to be found successively at the end of the first, the sixth, the fifth, the fourth, the third, and the second lines of each stanza ; so that by the end of the piece it will have occupied all the places in the stanza. No harmony, perceptible to the car, results from this order of words, so difficult to observe ; and the sense is almost always sacrificed to the constrained versification. The constant return of six words, necessarily forming the groundwork of the ideas, and compelling tiie poet, as they recur, to avail himself of all their signifi- cations, ha.s, however, something pensive and melancholy about it ; and the poets have occasionally clothed, in this stanza, some verj- touching reflections. OF THE TBOUBADOURS. 139 Aragon, Las left us, amongst various amatory effusions, two veises, or long poems, on the education of young ladies and gentlemen ; which, without being remarkable for poetical invention, are interesting from the naivete of the descriptions, which they contain, of tlie manners of the times. The lady, who, in the course of the poem, is twice or thrice addressed by the title of Marchioness, applies herself to Des Escas, who was himself a powerful lord, for his counsel, as to the proper mode of conducting herself in the world. We are not a little surprised, when we find that the first advice he gives her, is more fitted for a domestic than for a lady of rank. He tells her that, in the first place, after attending to her toilet (and, here, the poet enters into the most minute details,) she must prepare to assist her lady in rising, and that she must bring her all she requires for dressing her head, adjusting her robe, isnd washing her hands.* It was, at this time, regarded as an essential part of female education, that a young lady should learn to obey, before she presumed to command ; and she, therefore, willingly attached herself to soaie noble dame, to learn from her, whilst she performed these menial oflftces, politeness and the art de heau jxirlei: Des Escas then instructs the damsel on her duties, when she is addressed by a suitor. He tells her, that it is quite proper that she should make choice of some obedient admirer ; provided that, instead of selecting him merely for his handsome person or liis riches, she accept the sei'vices of a courteous lover, of honourable birth. He permits her both to give and to receive presents ; but he admonishes her not to trespass beyond certain boun- daries : " For, if he loves you," continues he, " he ought to ask you for notliing, whilst you continue unmarried, v/hich can be prejudicial or dishonourable to you." We perceive, from this, that the Provencals were of opinion, as are the Italians and the Spanish at tlie present day, that gallantry after marriage was a venial offence, whilst, in an unmarried * E cosselh vos premier Lau qii"el bras vos lavelz Que siatz matiniera, E las mas, et la cara. Cascu jorn que prcmicira Apr&s amiga cara Vos levetz que vostra doua, Coidatz estrecliameii En asi que si eus soiia Vostrc bratz ben e gen, Vos truep gent adobada, I es las onglas dels detz E vestida e caussada ; Tan longuas non portetz Et cnantz que eus coructz Que i paresca del nier. i2 140 ON THE LITERATUIJE woman, it was accounted highly disreputable ; and the con- sequences of this false morality are easily foreseen.* The advice to the young gentlemen is much of the same nature, intermingled with domestic details and maxims of gallantry. Such young men as were not rich enough to support themselves at court, at their own expense, and yet wished to educate themselves to gallantry and arms, usually attached themselves to some lord, whom they served as pages at court, or as esquires in the field. The counsels of Des Escas to the youth, are those of an honourable man, of good sense, but exceedingly verbose, as if he thought that he had never said enougli. lie takes occasion, from a compliment which the young gentleman had adclressed to him, to caution him against the habit of flattering his superiors. He shews him what an injury it is to his own character, and how he only heaps ridicule upon the man to whom he wishes to render liimself agreeable. He enlarges very much on the subject of love, that most important affair, the great duty of all young cavaliers, and the science in which the Troubadours may be said to have taken their degrees. The advice which he gives him, with regard to the elegance of his dress, his demeanour during tourneys, his reserve, and his discretion, is comform- able to the manners of a chivalrous age, but does not possess sufficient novelty for insertion in this place. The following exhortation, as to his conduct towards his mistress, we are certainly unprepared for. " In case she should give you real grounds for jealousy, and should deny that, of which your own eyes have given you proof, say to her, ' Lady, I am pei'suaded that what you tell me is true, but I did really believe that I had seen it."'f This reminds us of the lady of fashion, who, when surprised, by her lover, with another, thus answered his furious reproaches : " I am persuaded you do not love me, for you believe your own eyes, in preference to my word." , * E si cus ama fort Lcla t E sc la us far ^clos De mcntre qu'es picnsela E us en dona razo, El no us (leu requcrcr E us ditz c' ancre no fo Qu' eus torn a dcsplascr De so que dels huclhs vis. Ad onta ni a danipnatjc Diguatz Don : Eu suy fiz De tot vostrc linhatjc. Que vos disctz vertat, Mas yeu vay simiat. OF THE TROUBADOURS. 141 Pierre Cardinal,* of an illustrious family at Puy in Velay, who (lied when almost a century old, occupied, at the com- mencement of the thirteenth century, a distinguished place amongst the Troubadours, less on account of the harmony of his style than of the vigour and asperity of his satirical powers. He is the Juvenal of the Provencals. The obsti- nacy of his character, his frankness, often degenerating into rudeness, and his bitter raillery, were not calculated to pro- mote his success amongst the ladies. He, therefore, quitted gallantry, at an early age, to become a writer of sirventes; for the Troubadours gave this name to their satires also, from the time that they were divWed into stanzas like their chanzos. These sirventcs are levelled, by turns, against all ranks of society ; the elevated clergy, the military orders, the monks, the barons, and the ladies. Pierre Cardinal sees nothing around him but corruption of manners, cupidit}'-, egotism, and baseness. His observations, although they exhibit but little acuteness, have yet an air of truth about them. Vice ex- cites his anger, which is occasionally eloquent ; and, in his rapid invectives, he seldom mingles either idle details or ill- judged reflections. His boldness astonishes us, at a period when the Inquisition might have called him to account, for his oiFences against the church. " Indulgences and pardons, God and the Devil," says he, speaking of the priesthood, " are all put in requisition. Upon these, they bestow Paradise, by their pardons ; others, they condemn to perdition, by their excomm.unications. They inflict blows which cannot be parried ; and no one is so skilful in imposition, that they cannot impose upon him Tiiere are no crimes, for which the monks cannot give absolution. For money, they grant to renegades and usurers that sepulture which they deny to the poor, because they are unable to pay for it. To live pleasantly, to buy good iish, the whitest bread, and the finest wine this is their object, the whole year round. God willing, I would be of this order, if I could purchase my sal- vation at this price." We, likewise, possess a s'trvente, by the same writer, against the priests ; another, against the barons ; and a third, on the general depravity of the times. " From the East to the * [See Baynouard, 'ni. -p. i^6. Parnassa Occilanien,i.}x'6KH]. 2'r.] 142 ON THE LITERATURE West, I will make a new covenant with all the world. To every loyal man I will give a bezant * if the disloyal will give me a nail. To all the courteous I will «;ive a maik of jrold, if the disconrtcous will give me a ])cnny. To all that speak the truth I Avill give a heap of gold, if every liar will give me an Q^g. As to all the laws that are obeyed, I could write them on a piece of parchment, no larger than half the thumb of my glove. A young turtle-dove should nourish all the brave, ibr I should be ashamed to offer them a scanty enter- tainment. But if I had to invite the wicked, I would cry, without regard to the place, ' Come and least, all honest people l'"!"^ These satires drew down, upon Pierre Cardinal, the hatred of all whom he attacked, and he thus describes his desolate condition. — " There was once a city, I do not remember where, in which such a shower fell, that it drove every one mad whom it touched. All the inhabitants were thus affected, except one ; and he escaped, in consequence of having been asleep in a house when the shower happened, and when he awakened, he pei-ceived that it had ceased. When he walked out, one man ran after him, another ran away from him. This man stood stupified, that threw stones at the stars, and another was tearing off his clothes. This man strikes him, that offers him money. Here, a man imagines himself a king, and walks magnificently with his arms a-kimbo; Avhile, * A coin, current in Constantinople, of about tlic value of ten shillings. + D' auR auricn tro al solelh colgan Fauc a la gen un covincn novel ; A lial lioui donarai un liezanh Si'l dcslial mi dona un clavel ; Et un marc d' aur donarai al cortes Si'l dcscauzit mi dona un tomes. Al vertadicr darai d'aur un gran mont Si ay un liuovs dels messongiers que son. Tota la ley qu'ils pus de la gen an Escrieur 'icu en un petit de pel, En la meitat del polgar de mon gan ; El pros homes paisserai d'un tortel. Car ja pels pros no fara car con res ; JIais si fos uns que los malvats pogucs, Cridar fcrai, c no gardasscn on, Venetz manjar, li pro home del raon. OF THE TROUBADOUKS. 143 there, another is sitting on the ground. One man uses menaces, another vents abuse ; one weeps, and another laughs; one speaks without understanding what he says, and another is entirely occupied with himself. The man, who had retained his senses, is prodigiously astonished ; he sees that they are wide awake, and he eyes them from head to foot. But, though he is thus astonished, their surprise is much greater, at seeing him in his sound mind. They believe that he has lost his senses, because he does not act as they do. They all think that it is they who are wise and prudent, and that it is he who is mad. One of them strikes him on the body, another on the neck : and he cannot stir, without being attacked. This man seizes him; the other pushes him, as he strives to escape from the crowd. One man menaces him ; another drags him along. Now, they raise him up, and again, they let him fall ; and each plays his pranks upon him. He takes refuge in his house, covered with mud, bruised, and half-dead, rejoicing in his escape from them. " This fable is very applicable to the world at large. This present age represents the city, which possesses so many mad- men. The highest wisdom of man is, to love God and his mother, and to keep his commandments ; hut that wisdom is now lost. The shower which fell is the covetousness, the pride, and the malice, with which the whole race of man is perplexed; and if God has preserved any from this misfor- tune, the others regard them as madmen, and despise them, because they differ from themselves, and because the wisdom of God appears to them folly. The friend of God knows that they are senseless, when they have lost the wisdom of God ; and they hold hiin to be mad, because they have for- saken the wisdom of God." * * It has been thought proper to give a literal translation of ihh specimen of Proven9al poetry ; as it mil enable those, who read the ori- ginal, to comprehend it with greater ease, and to those who, without making that attempt, content themselves with the version, it will give a better idea of the turn and spirit of the original. The text has been translated, word for word, as far as my very imperfect acquaintance with a language, which I have been able to study only in a few manuscript fragments, has enabled me so to do. Yssy comensa la f aula de lapluya. Una ciutat fo, no say quals Que tuy !i home de la ciutat Hon cazee una plueya tals Que toque, foro forcenat. Tuy 14 i ON THE LITERATURE Giraiid Riquier, of Narbonne,* was a follower of Alfonzo X., King of Castile, and flourislied at tlie end of tlie thirteenth century. He is one of the Troubadours, of whose works we have the most numerous remains. He lived at a period, when the poets sought, by novel attempts, to distinguish themselves from the crowd of their predecessors. He has left pastorals, auhades, serenades, retrouanges, epistles, and discourses in verse. f He has varied, as far as lay in his Tuy desse n' cro mals, sols us, Et aqucl cscapet, ses pus, Que era dins una mayzo Que dormia quant aysso fo. E vet, quant at dormit Del plueya diquit, E foras entrc la gens Fero d'essenamens Arroquet, 1' autre foueLs, litre estupit versus, E trays peras contre estelas, L' autre esquisset las gonelas, Fs feric, el autrem peys, E r autre cuyet esser Keys, Et teuc se riqucment pels fiancx, E r autre s' asset per los bancx. L'us menasec 1' autre maldisz, L' autre ploree et 1" autre riz, L' autre parlec e no saup que ; L' autre fe meteys do se. Aquel que avia so sen, Meravilha se molt formcn, Que vec que be destatz son, E garda ad aval ed amon, E grans mcravelha a de lor. Mas mot 1' hau illi do lui mayor ; Qu'el vezon cstar saviamen Cuio que aia perdut so sen, Car so qu'clh fan no Ih vczo faj're Que a cascu de lores veyaire Que ilh son savi e assenatz. JMas lui teno por dessenat Qui'l fcr en gan-sa, qui en col ; Nos pot mudar que nos degol ; L'us rempcnh, e F autre le bota, El cuya is.sliir de la rota, L'us I'esquinsa, 1' autre li tray, E pren colos, e leva, e chay ; Cascu '1 leva a gran gabantz, El fuy a sa mayzo detfantz, Fangos e battutz e mieg mort, E ac gaug can lor fo estort. Sest fable es en aquest mon Semblans als bomes que i son. Aquest seigles cs la ciutat Que es tot pies de forsennatz ; Que el mager sen qu'om pot aver So es amar Dieu et .sa mer, E gardar sos comendamens, Mas arra cs perdutz aquels sens. La pluya say es casuda, Una cobey tat qu" es venguda, Us erguelh et una maleza Que tota la gent a perpreza. E si Dieu n'a alcu gardatz, L'autru ils teno por dessen.at, E mcnon lo de tomp en villi. Car no es del seu que son ilh. Qu'el sen de Dieu lor par folia, E I'amiers de Dieu on que sia Conoys que dessenatz son tug Car le sen de Dieu an perdut ; E els an lui per dessenat Car Ic sen de Dieu an layssat. * [Six of his pieces are given in the Parnasse Occit. i. 329, and the same number, in Baynouard, iii. 461. Three of the latter are the same as those given in the Parnasse. — 7V.] f These different names do not indicate much real variety in the poems. The pastorals were eclogues, which more frequently contained conversations between the writer and the shepherds, tlian dialogues be- tween the shepherds themselves. The aubades and the serenades were love-song.s, for the morning and the evening. The retrov.anrjcs and the OF THE TROUBADOURS. 145 power, tlie farm of his verses, but lie has not succeeded in infusing into them any substantial novely. His discourses in verse, and his didactic poems, contain little, beyond common- place ideas and trite moral maxims. Yet we recognize, in them, the spirit of an honourable man, not deficient in a proper pride. The longest of his poems, by far, is a petition addressed to Alfonso of Castile, to raise the profession of the Jongleurs from the degradation into which it had fallen, on account or the Charlatans, who amused the people by their buffooneries, exhibiting dancing apes and goats, and singing the grossest songs in public, under the same name as the poets of the courts. He demands that, by his royal authority, Alfonso shall separate all the men who are thus confounded together, into four distinct classes — the professors of the art of poetry, the simple Troubadours, the Jongleurs, and the buffoons. This poem, which bears date in the year 1275, is one of the last sighs, breathed by the expiring poetry of Pro- vence.* The Troubadour had already witnessed the fall of his art : he had survived his glory, the literature which he loved, and the language in which he had distinguished himself. rcdondes were ballads of a more complicated construction, in which tl e burthen was introduced in such a manner as to render the composition more laborious. All these poems, even the pastorals, were of a lyrical cast. * This long poem is, properly, an epistle to the King of Castile. Giraud Riquier wrote many of the same kind, and seems to have been very successful in catching the epistolary style. Still, he is diflicult to be understood, and this difficulty appears to me, generally, to arise from the corruption of the text of the Troubadours. After having shewn how each state in society divides itself into several classes, distinguished by name, he adds : Per quem ai albirat Quo fora covinen De noms entre joglars, Que non e ben estars. Car entr' els li melhor Non an de noms honor Atresi com de fach Qu'ieu ne teng a maltrags Cus homs senes saber Ab sotil captener. Si de qualqu' estrumen Sab un pauc a prezen S'en ira el tocan Per carrieiras sercan E queren c'omz li do autre scz razo. Cantara per las plassas Vilmen ct en gens bassas ; Metra queren sa ponha E totas ses vergonha Privadas et estranhas, Pueys iras si en tavcrnas. Ab sol qu' en puesc aver E non auzan parer En deguna cort bona. 146 ox THE LITERATURE His situation reminds us of that of Ossian, in the last of his poems, where he renounces his harp, whose harmony the new race of men knew not how to appreciate. But, how different arc the two poems! Tiie Jongleur of Narbonne thinks only of his ow'n vanity ; while the bard of Morven is insensible to every thing but the loss of Oscar and Malvina, and of the country and the glory which he has survived. We shall not attempt to make the reader acquainted with any of the other poets, Avho form the multitude of Trouba- dours, and who all hold nearly the same rank, and possess equal pretensions to that celebrity, which none of them have been able to obtain. An extreme monotony reigns through- out all their works ; and, when the features are similar in all, it is difficult to paint a portrait so as to present any indi- viduality of character. We have seen hoAv the Provencal poetry, taking its rise in the eleventh century, and spreading througliout the south of France, and over a portion of St)ain and Italy, was the delight of every court, animated all the festivals, and w^as familiar to all classes of the people ; and we have seen how, at the middle of the thirteenth century, it had made no perceptible progress. All that we find in the earliest songs of "NVilliam IX.. Count of Poitiers, meets us again in the latest productions of Girand Riquier, or of Jean Esteve. The language was almost always the same, and seems only to vary, accoi-ding to the greater or less negligence of the copyists ; oi*, perhaps, in consequence of the preten- sions of the later poets, who, to gain the reputation of employing singular and difficult rliymes, corrupted their language, by augmenting its obscurities and irregularities. We find the same gallantry, expressed in the same hyper- bolical terms ; the same tenderness, proceeding from the ingenious conceits of the brain, rather than from the real feeling of the heart ; the same love-songs, presenting the portrait of a beauty like all other beauties, and destitute of expression ; with the same exaggerations of her merit, her birth, and her character ; the same tears, the same submis- sion, the same prayers, each undistinguishable from the other, and all of them equally tedious. We have satirical sirventes, in which gi'ossness and abuse supply the place of novelty and of wit ; an(\te)is07is.\i\ which all the common-places of gallantry are debated, without exciting our interest, and without ability. OF THE TROUBADOURS. 147 We find scxtines, retrouanges, and redondes, in which sense wives place to rhyme, without a single fine poetical concep- tion, or a single attempt at the epic or tragic style. No trace of true feeling is discoverable ; no gaiety proceeding from the frankness of the heart, or founded upon anything better than trespasses against decency. This result is really sur- prising, after examining the productions of nearly two hundred poets, whose works have been collected by M. de Sainte-Palaye, and extracted by Millot. The enthusiastic love 01 poetry, which seized the whole nation, leads us to expect far different things. The harmonious ear, which had presided at the invention of so many varied forms of verse ; the sensibility, the fancy, which displayed themselves in the earlier songs of the Troubadours ; the richness of the images, Avhicli they had borrowed from the East, or which were created by the effort of their own imaginations, all gave a hope that some true poet would soon rise up amongst them. The art of versification, amongst the Italians, the Spanish, and other nations, had not nearly so brilliant an origin. As we advance, however, we are gradually undeceived, and are disgusted with all that at first promised us pleasure. We feel inclined to concur in opinion with the public, who, even without a knowledge of the Troubadours, have rejected their claims to celebrity, leaving their works buried in manuscripts, rarely to be met with, and in danger of perishing for ever ; and who have condemned their language, the earliest of the European dialects, notwithstanding its sonorous harmony, its flexibility, equal to the Italian, and its majesty of sound which rivals the Spanish, because no writer of true genius has arisen, to redeem it from the charge of sterility. This poverty In the literature of Provence, and this sudden decay, succeeding so splendid an era, demand some explanation. After the thirteenth century, the Troubadours were heard no more, and all the efforts of the Counts of Provence, who liad then assumed the title of king of Naples, of the magis- trates of Toulouse, and of the kings of Aragon, to awaken their genius, by the Courts of Love and the Floral Games, were vain. The Troubadours themselves have attributed their decay to the degradation into which the Jongleurs, with whom they were generally confounded, had fallen. To make an occu- 148 ON THE LITERATURE pation of amusing the rich and the powerful, and to sell hiugliter and entertainment, must always deteriorate the character. "When gaiety and wit are repaid with a salarj', the receiver is necessarily placed on a level with the lowest buffoons ; and, in addressing the populace, such men, perhaps, have more success, in exciting admiration and in gaining rewards, tlian otliers of the most distinguished talents, whose productions are calculated to gratify real taste. The Jong- leurs (Jdculaiorcs) used to take their stations in the cross- roads, clothed in grotesque habits, and attract a crowd around tliem, by exhibiting dancing apes, legerdemain tricks, and the most ridiculous antics, and grimaces. In this manner they prepared their audience for the verses which they recited ; and they cared not what extravagancies they committed, provided they were well rewarded. The most distinguished Troubadours, when they presented themselves at the court of a prince, or the castle of a baron, were often introduced under this name of Jongleurs. Even when they experienced the reception due to their talents, and wlien the noblest ladies admitted them to familiar converse, or bestowed their affec- tions upon them, they were, yet, made to feel that they were considered as of a subordinate rank, and that their dissolute manners, their irritability, and their insatiable avarice, would not be borne with patience. The jealousy, too, of the offended husbands, frequently compelled them to submit to outrages which degraded them. In a situation so imfavour- able to that loftiness of spirit, which is the accompaniment of genius, it was not strange that the talents, even of the noblest characters, should not be developed. All the Troubadours did not, however, make a trade of their art. A sufficient number of sovereigns and of powerful barons and knights were devoted to poetry, to preserve the nobility of its origin, even during the whole period of Pro- vencal literature. Frederick, King of Sicily, who died in 1326, is the last of the Troubadours, whose works have been collected by M. de Sainte-Palaye, as the Count of PoiLou was the fii'st. But the art of the Troubadour contained within itself a more immediate principle of decay, in the profound ignorance of its professors, and in the impossibility of their giving to their poetry- a higher character than they themselves pos- OF THE TROUBADOURS. 149 sess(jd. A few of them, only, were acquainted with the Latin language; and we may judge of their erudition, by the pi-e- tensions which they disphiy in citing, not any poetical passages, but semi-barbarous phrases borrowed from the schoolmen. None of them were acquainted with the authors, whom we denominate classical. In the Treamrc of Pierre de Corbian,* in which he makes a parade of his acquirements, and seems to think that he is reckoning up the whole sum of human learning, he mentions only one of the Latin poets. This is Ovid, whom he calls a liar ; nor can we collect that he had ever read him. In the extracts from two hundred Trou- badours, I have scarcely found three or four passages, which contain any allusions to the mythology, or to the history of antiquity. They only, indeed, indicate such vague and un- certain information as an ignorant monk might display, in giving a summary of his acquirements. The Ti'oubadours had no other models than the songs of the Arabians, which their earliest masters had studied, and which had perverted their taste. They had no idea of the elegance of the ancients, and, still less, of their invention ; nor were they aware of the necessity of instilling into their poetry new ideas, and of con- necting them with action. There is not, in all the poems wliich have been preserved, the least attempt at the epic ; although the great revolutions, in the midst of which they lived, and the events of general interest which they witnessed, and in which they were frequently the actors, ought, naturally, to have given them the habit of relating facts in an animated manner, and. of recording historical events in the language and with the spirit of a poet, wlio designs that his compo- sitions shall be repeated from mouth to mouth. We are told, it is true, of a History of the Conquest of Jerusalem, by the Chevalier Bechada, a Limousin ; but, as it is lost, it is im- possible for us to determine whether it was not a mere chronicle in rhyme, of which many were written in the north of France. True merit and real talents, employed upon so national a subject, in which such vivid interest was felt by every cavalier, must surely have escaped the fate of Bechada's poem. Tlie Troubadours had no idea of the theatre or of dramatic representations ; although the two Nostradamus's, with their usual ignorance and inaccuracy, have given the * Millot, vol. iii. r- 227. 150 ON THE LITERATURE names of tragedies and comedies to compositions, which were no more dramatic than the Divina Commedia of Dante. Thus, deprived of all the riches of antiquity, the Trouhadours had few resources within themselves. The Germans, who liavc named all modern poetry roviardic, have supposed all the literature of the Romance nations to have originated from Christianity, or, at least, to have been closely connected with it. The poetry of the Pi'oven^als, however, bears no traces of this source. It contains very few religious pieces ; none, which display enthusiasm ; nor any, where Christianity forms jiart of the sentiment or of the action. When, by chance, religion is introduced, if it be not, merely, some hymn to the Virgin, a poor imitation from the Latin church-service, it is only in some profane way. Thus, Bernard de Ventadour, when he compares his lady's kiss to the sweet delights of Paradise, adds, that her favours are a proof of what the Psalmist has said, " That a day, in her courts, is better than a hundred elsewhere." So Arnaud de Marveil calls his lady "the perfect image of the Divinity, before whom all ranks are equal ; " and says that " if God should grant him the enjoyment of his love, he should think that paradise was deprived of all its joy and gladness." Many revoked, in the face of the Church, the oaths by which they had bound them- selves to their married mistrerses, and were absolved from their adultery by the priest ; Avhile otliers caused masses to be said, and tapers and lanii).s to be burnt before the altar, to propitiate their ladies. Such was the light, in which religion was considered, by the poets of Provence. We see them fettered by the icy chains of superstition, but never animated by the lire of enthusiasm. Religion was a stranger to their hearts ; but the dread which it inspired, remained like a weight upon their souls. Sometimes, in foolish security, they made sport of this fear ; yet, when it again assumed its empire over them, they trembled at its influence. Never did their faith furnish them with a single brilliant image or ani- mated sentiment. A few pieces on the crusades, to which tlie reader has already been referred, may, perhaps, be excepted ; but it is observable, that martial entiiusiasm, the only enthu- .siasm which they display, is quite as conspicuous even in the war-songs of the same period, which have no reference to spiritual subjects. OF THE TKOUBADOURS. 151 It is not easy to account for the fact, but it is certain, that a romantic imagination was rarely discovered amongst the Troubadours ; whilst the Trouveres, the poets and reciters of tales, in the countries on the north of the Loh-e, invented or perfected all the ancient romances of chivalry. The tales of the Troubadours have nothing romantic or warlike about them. They always relate to allegorical personages, Mercy, Loyalty, and Modesty, whose duty it is to speak, and not to act. In other poetical pieces of this kind, we are obliged to gues.? at the allegory, and to search for a key to the fiction ; but hei'e the moral stands perfectly naked, nor is it sufficiently interesting to prevent us from regretting that a thicker veil was not thrown over it. Thus, the poetry of Provence had no resources which were not within itself; no classical allusions, no mythology, either native or borrowed, nor even a romantic imagination. It was a beautiful flower, springing up on a sterile soil ; nor could any cidtivation avail it, in the absence of its natural nourishment. The Greeks, it is true, who had no masters in their art, gave birth to their o\vii inventions ; but, in addition to the fact, that we cannot compare any other nation with the Greeks, so richly endowed as they were by nature, the culture of the latter was progressive. No foreign influence had driven them from their course. Tiieir reason, their imagina- tion, and their sensibility, were all developed at the same moment, and always preserved a happy harmony. Amongst the Proven9als, on the other hand, the imagination had I'eceived a false direction, from their lirst mixture with the Arabians. Reason was entirely neglected, or perverted, by the study of school-theology, and of an unintelligible system of philosophy. Sentiment, abandoned to itself, was either weakened by monotony of expression, or perverted by the over-refined and affected language, which seemed to bear an affinity to that of the schools. Still, it is impossible to say, what might have been the influence of a single man of genius, upon the language and literature of Provence. Had Dante been born in the country of the Langue d'Oc ; had he boldly united, in one great poem, all the high mythology of Catho- licism, with the sentiments, the interests, and the passions of a knight, a statesman, and a crusader, he would have opened a mine of riches, unknown to his contemporaries. Number- 152 ON THE LITERATURE less imitators would have followed in his steps, and, by Ins sole influence, tlic Provencal language might still have been in existence, the most cultivated as well as the most ancient language of southern Europe. But, in these regions, fanati- cism kindled a flame, which repelled the advancing steps of the human intellect, and the crusade against the Albigenses, which will form the subject of the next chapter, decided the destiny of Provence. CHAPTER VI. THE WAR AGAINST THE ALBIGENSES — THE LAST PROVEN9AL POETS, IN LANGl'EDOO AND CATALONIA. The period now arrived, when the cruelties of civil war and a persecution of the most implacable description, spread desolation over the country, in which the Proven9al poetry had so lately flourished. The deadly hatred of the com- batants, inducing devastation and carnage, soon overwhelmed the people, amongst whom the Gay Science had been culti- vated, and banished'poetry from the land of its birth. The Troubadours, whose sole means of subsistence were found in the hospitality and liberality of the nobles, were now wel- comed to desolated castles, whose masters had been ruined by war, and often driven to despair, by the massacre of their families. Those, who associated with the conquerors, gradu- ally imbibed their ferocious prejudices and their fanaticism. Like them, they delighted in blood. Poetry had no longer any charms for them, and even the language of love appeared to them out of nature. During the thirteenth century, the songs of the Troubadours are full of allusions to this fatal war, the fury of which had stifled their genius, perhaps, at the very period when it was about to be developed. The language and poetry of Provence were extinguished in blood. The excessive corruption of the clergy had, as we have already seen, furnished a subject for the satirical powers of all tlie Troubadours. The cupidity, the dissimulation, and the baseness of that body, had rendered them odious both to the nobles and the people. The priests and monks incessantly employed themselves in despoihngthe sick, the widowed, the OF THE TROUBADOURS. 153 fatherless, and indeed, all, whom age, or weakness, or mis- fortune placed within their grasp ; while they squandered in debauchery and drunkenness, the money which they extorted by the most shameful artifices. Thus, Raymond de Castelnau exclaims, " The clergy, in their covetousness, are aiming, every day, by their impositions, to shoe and to clothe them- selves well. The great prelates are so eager to advance their fortunes, that they extend their dioceses, without any show of reason. If you hold an honourable fief of them, they immediately wish to seize it ; aad you cannot recover the proprietorship, unless you give them a sum of money, or enter into covenants more favourable to them. "If God has willed the Black monks to be unrivalled in their good eating, and in their amours, and the White monks in their lying bulls, and the Templars and Hospitallers in pride, and the Canons in usury ; I hold Saint Peter and Saint Andrew to have been egregious fools, for suifering so many torments for the sake of God ; since all these people, also, are to be saved."* The gentry had imbibed such a contempt for the corrupted clergy, that they were unwilling to educate their children to the priesthood ; and they granted the benefices, in their gift, to their servants and bailiifs. " I had rather have been a priest than have done so disgraceful a thing," became a pro- verbial expression.! * Clerzia vol cascun jorn per engal Ab cobeitat beu caussar e vestir. Els gran Prelats volon tant euantir Que ses razo alargan lor deital. E si tenet del lor un onrat fieu, Volran 1' aver, mas iiol cobraretz leu Si non lor datz uua soma d' argea no lor faitz pus estrey coviueu. Si monges ners vol Dieus que sian ses par. Per trop manjar ni per femnas tenir, Ni monges blancs per bolas a meutir, Ni per erguelb temple ni espital, ^Ni canorgues por prestar a renieu ; Ben tenc per tbl sant Peyre sant Andrieu, Que sofriron per Dieu tan de turmen Sais i venon ais'els a salvanien. t See the Histoire de. Languedoc, par les PP. Vic et Vaisette, t. iii. p. 129. The word of a monk may be believed, when he relates, iu a VOL. I. K. 154 ox THE LITERATURE Whilst the respect for the Church had received so severe a shock, the Paulicians had introduced, from the East, a simpler faith and a greater purity of manners. The reformed Christian sect of the Paulicians had spread, during the seventh century, from Armenia, over all the provinces of the Greek empire. The persecution of Theodora, in 845, and of Basil the Macedonian, in 867 and 886, after having effected the destruction of more than a hundred thousand victims, com- pelled the remainder to seek refuge, some amongst the Mus- sulmans, and others amongst the Bulgarians. Once without the pale of persecution, their faith made the most rapid pro- gress. The Bulgarians, who had established a considerable commerce between Gei'many and the Levant, by means of the Danube, spread their opinions over the north of Europe, and prepared the way for the Hussites of Bohemia ; while those Paulicians, who had become subjects of the Mussulmans, insinuated themselves, through Spain, into the south of France and Italy, In Languedoc and Lombardy, the name of Pa- terins was given to them, on account of the sufferings to which they were exposed, wherever the Pontifical authority extended itself ; and they afterwards received the name of Albigenses, from the numbers who inhabited the diocese of Alby. According to the conference, reported by the Abbe Foncaude,* these sectarians, who were accused of sharing in the doctrines of the Manichceans, with respect to the two principles, differed from the Church of Rome, merely in denying the sovereignty of the Pope, the powers of the priesthood, the efficacy of prayers for the dead, and the existence of purgatory. Driven, by persecution, from the other parts of Europe, they enjoyed a wise toleration in the very religious work, the corruption of the clergy- and tlie contempt into which they had fallen. 15ut the pious Benedictines, from whom we have borrowed tliese details, and many of those wliich follow, have other claims to our coniidence. Few men have examined original documents and collected authorities, with the same zeal and indefatigable patience, «,nd few have displayed so much impartiality, in their researches. Their attachment to Idaming seems to have corrected the prejudices of their order. It is true, we sometimes perceive that they possess knowledge which their habit does not permit them to communicate; but, with a small degree of critical acumen, we may collect, from their works alone, a very just idea of the history of the Albigenses. * Hist, de Languedoc. OF THE TROUBADOURS. 155 territories of the Count of Toulouse, the Viscount of Beziers, and amongst the Albigenses ; and their numbers continually received accessions, by the harangues of Father Sicard Cel- lerier, one of their most eloquent pastors. At this period, the Provencals, who had been enriched by their commercial intercourse with the Moors and the Jews, and who had, of necessity, been thrown into contact with those people, re- spected the rights of conscience ; whilst the inhabitants of the country to the north of the Loire, were completely sub- jected to the power of the priests and to the dominion of fanaticism. Tlae Spaniards, more enlightened, still, than the Provencals, and not far removed from the period, when they had themselves been compelled to claim the freedom of opinion, under the Moorish yoke, were still more tolerant. They had not yet engaged in their tedious wars against the Chui-ch. A century before the Sicilian vespers, the kings of Aragon were the declared protectors of all who were perse- cuted by the papal power ; and, in emulation of the kings of Castile, they were, at one time, the mediators for the Albi- genses, and at another, their defenders in the held. Missionaries were despatched into Higher Languedoc, in 1147 and 1181, to convert these heretics ; but with little success, as long as arms were not resorted to. Every day, the reformed opinions gained strength. Bertrand de Saissac, the tutor to the young Viscount of Beziers, himself adopted them. They had spread even beyond Languedoc, and had gained many powerful partizans in the Nivernois. At length Innocent III. resolving to destroy these sectarians, whom he had exterminated in Italy, despatched, in the year 1198, two Cistercian monks, with the authority of Legates a latere, to discover them, and to bring them to justice. The monks, ambitious of extending the unprecedented powers with which they had been intrusted, not contented with attacking merely the heretics, whom they punished with exile and with con- fiscation of their goods, quarrelled with all the regular clergy, who had attempted to protect their country from such violent proceedings. They suspended the Archbishop of Narbonne and the Bishop of Beziers. They degraded the Bishops of Toulouse and of Viviers, and raised to the See of Toulouse, Folquet de Marseille, a Troubadour, who had gained some f;i.me by his amatory verses, but who, disgusted k2 156 ON THE LITERATURE with the world, had retired to the cloister, where he had fostered the passions of fanaticism and persecution.* Pierre de Castelnau, the most eager of the Pontifical Legates, astonished at his slow success in the conversion of the here- tics, accused Raymond VI. Count of Toulouse, of favouring them ; because that prince, being of a mild and timid dispo- sition, refused to lend himself to those sanguinary proceed- ings against them, which had been suggested to him. The anger of the priest, at last, induced him to excommunicate the Count in 1207, and to place his states under an interdict. In a conference, which took place a year later, he again treated him with the most violent outrage ; and it was, doubtless, upon this occasion, that he quarrelled with one of the Count's gentlemen, who followed him to the banks of the Rhone, on his return, and killed him on the 15th of January, 1208. The murder of this monk, himself polluted with blood, was the completion of the misfortunes of Languedoc. Innocent III. addressed a letter to the King of France, and to all the princes and most powerful barons, as well as to the metropolitans and the bishops, exhorting them to avenge the blood which had been shed, and to extirpate the heresy. All the indulgences and pardons, which were usually granted to the crusaders, were promised to those who exterminated these unbelievers, a thousand times more detestable than the Turks and the Saracens. More than three hundred thousand men appeared in arms, to accomplish this butchery ; and the first nobles of France, the most virtuous, and, perhaps, the mildest of her aristocracy, believed that they were rendering an acceptable service to God, in thus arming themselves against their brethren. Raymond VI. terrified at this storm, submitted to every thing that was required of him. He delivered up his fortresses, and even marched to the crusade, against the most faithful of his own subjects ; and yet, not- withstanding this disgraceful weakness, he did not escape the hatred or the vengeance of the clergy. But Raymond Roger, Viscount of Beziers, his youthful and generous nephew, without sharing himself in the heretical opinions, would not consent to the atrocities, which were about to be committed in his states. He encouraged his subjects to defend them- * As to Folquet, see Millot, vol. i. p. 179, &c. OP THE TROUBADOURS. 157 selves ; and shutting himself up in Carcassone, and delivering Beziers to the care of liis lieutenants, he awaited, with firm- ness, the attack of the crusaders. I am unwilling to detail the progress of this frightful war, which yet possesses a strange interest. It is only connected with the subject of the present work, inasmuch as it caused the destruction of Provengal poetry. Beziers was taken by assault, on the 22d of July, 1209; and fifteen thousand inha- bitants, according to the narrative which the Abbot of the Cistercians transmitted to the Pope,* or sixty thousand, according to other contemporary writers, were put to the sword. The city itself, after a general massacre, not only of its inhabitants, but likewise of the neighbouring peasantry, who had thrown themselves into it, was reduced to ashes. An old Provengal historian has augmented, by the simplicity of his language, the horror of this picture, f " They entered the city of Beziers, where they murdered more people than was ever known in the world. For they spared neither young nor old, nor infants at the breast. They killed and murdered all of them ; which being seen by the said people of the city, they that were able did retreat into the great church of St. Nazarius, both men and women. The chaplains thereof, when they retreated, caused the bells to ring, until every body was dead. But neither the sound of * It was the same Arnold, abbot of the Cistercians, whose narrative is here cited, who, when he was asked, before the city was taken, how lie could separate the heretics from the cathoHcs, replied, " Kill them all; Ood loill know who belong to him." t Dins la villa de Beziers son intrats, ou fouc fait lo plus grand murtre de gens que jamas fossa fait en tout lo monde ; car aqui non era sparniat vieil ni jove ; non pas los enfan que popavan : los toavan et murti-isian, la quella causa vesen por los dits de la villa, se retireguen los que poudian dins la grant gleysa de san Nazary, tant homes que femes. La ont los capelas de aquella se retirereguen, fasen tirar las campanas, quand tout lo monde fossa mort. Mais non y aguet son ni campana, ni capela revestit, ni clerc, que tout non passis per lo trinchet de I'espaia, que ung taut solament non scapet, que non fossen morts et tuats ; que fouc la plus grant pietat que jamay dcspey se sie ausida et facha ; et la villa piliada, meteguen lo foe per tota la villa, talamen que touta es piliada et arsa, ainsin que encaras de presan, et que non y demoret causa viventa al mondo, que fouc una cruela vengan9a, vist que lo dit Visconte non era Eretge, ni de lor cepte. (Freuves de VHistoire de Languedoc, t. iii. p. 11.) This prose, which is properly the Languedoc dialect, is much more intelligible than the verses of the Troubadours. 158 ON THE LITERATURE the bells, nor the cliuphuns in their priestly habits, nor the clerks, could hinder all from being put to the sword ; one only escaped, for all the rest were slain, and died. Nothing so pitiable was ever heard of or done ; and when tlie city had been pillaged, it was set on fire, so that it was all pillaged and burned, even as it appears at this day. No living thing was lel't, which was a cruel vengeance, seeing that the said Viscount was neither a heretic, nor of their sect." Tliis fragment has been selected, for tlie purpose of shew- ing that the ProveuQal language, at that time, could boast not only of poets, but, also, of prose writers. It was a formed language, like the Italian, and, like that tongue, its merit was its simjilicity. The anonymous historian, from whom the above extract is borrowed, reminds us of the Florentine his- torian, Villani, by his candour and his powers of description. The language might, perhaps, have become more pure and fixed, and the prose writers might have produced a revolu- tion in their literature, had not these massacres and the subsequent servitude of Provence, destroyed the national character. The courage of the Viscount of Beziers did not fail, even under these horrible circumstances ; and the brave inhabi- tants of Carcassone renewed their oath of attachment to him, and of fidelity to one another. In several sallies, they had the advantage ; and at length Peter II. of Aragon offered himself as mediator, soliciting the forbearance of the crusa- ders to the viscount, who was his friend and relation. All the fiivour which could be procured from the priests, who presided over the army, was an offer to allow thirteen of the inhabitants, including the viscount, to leave the city. The remainder were reserved for a butchery similar to that of Beziers. The answer of the viscount was, that he would con- sent to be flayed alive, before he would abandon a single one of his fellow-citizens ; and he persisted in defending himself with unconquerable valour, lie was, at last, betrayed by a pretended negotiation, and made ])risoner, in contempt of the safe conduct by which he was allowed liberty to treat ; and being delivered to the Count de Montford, he was, ultimately, poisoned in prison. The inhabitants of Carcassonne, accord- ing to the anonymous, chronicler before cited, made their escape, in the night, over the fortilications. According to OP THE TROUBADOURS. 159 others, they were permitted to leave the city in their shirts, with the exception of four hundred who were burnt, and fifty who were hanged. The legate was desirous of immediately creiiting a new Viscount of Beziers, but the Duke of Bur- gundy, the Count of Nevers, and the Count de Saint Paul, ashamed of the treachery and crimes to which their success was owing, refused the odious gift. Simon de Montfort alone, the most ferocious, the most ambitious, and the most perfidi- ous of all the crusaders, consented to bear the title. He immediately did homage to the Pope, procured the rightful viscount to be delivered to him, that he might be put out of the way, and created a ground of quarrel with llaymond VI., Count of Toulouse, whom, in his turn, he wished to despoil of his territories. But we shall not follow this conqueror into the friglitful wars, with which he devastated the whole of the south of France. They, who escaped from the sacking of the towns, were sacrificed by the faggot. From 1209 to 1229 nothing was seen but massacres and tortures. Religion was overthrown, knowledge extinguished, and humanity trodden under foot. In the midst of these misfortunes, the ancient house of Toulouse became extinct, on the death of Raymond VII., in 1249; and that county, formerly a sovereignty, was united to the crown of France by Saint Louis. A few years before, in 1245, the iamily of Provence had failed, in the person of Raymond Berenger IV. ; and Charles of Anjou, the ferocious conqueror of the kingdom of Naples, had claimed that territory as his inheritance. Thus, the sovereign fami- lies disappeared in the south of France ; and the Proven9als, and all the peoj^le who spoke the Langue d'Oc, became sub- ject to a rival nation, to which they had always entertained the most violent aversion. In their servitude, a few plaintive songs of grief were heard ; but the muses fled from a soil polluted with carnage. A few Troubadours were found amongst the ranks of the persecutors, the most celebrated of whom, was the ferocious Folquet, Bishop of Toulouse, who rendered himself more odious by his infamous treacheries than even by the punish- ments which he inflicted. Betraying alike his prince and his flock, he entered without hesitation into all the intrigues of Simon de Montfort, for despoiling Raymond VI. of his estates. He organized, even in Toulouse, a band of assassins, who 160 ON THE LITERATURE were called the Wliite Company, at the head of whom he inarched, for the purpose of massacring all who were sus- pected of fixvouring heretical opinions. This band was united to the army of Simon de INIontfort, when, on two dif- ferent occasions, he besieged Toulouse. At the second siege, all the crusaders and the allies of De Montfort besought him to be merciful ; but Folquet alone advised him to despoil the pitizens of their goods, and to throw^ the most distinguislied of tiiem into prison. When he entered Toulouse, he announced to the inhabitants that he had obtained their pardon, and in- vited them to throw themselves at the feet of De Montfort. The citizens rushed out of the gates in crowds ; but, as they entered the camp, they were loaded with chains, and Folquet took advantage of their absence to deliver up the city to pillage. A sufficient number of the armed inhabitants yet remained to offer resistance. The combat again commenced, and its result was doubtful. Folquet presented himself before the enraged inhabitants, and solemnly engaged to set all the prisoners at liberty ; an engagement, which he guaranteed by his own oath and that of the Abbot of the Cistercians. But, at the same time, he demanded that the citizens should deliver up to him their arms and fortifications. The inhabitants Avere weak enough to rely once more on the oath of their bishop, but no sooner were their arms surrendered, than Fol- (luet, by his pontifical authority, absolved Simon de Montfort from the oath which he had taken. The prisoners were thrown into dungeons, where nearly the whole of thera pe- rished, and the city, under pain of being razed, was subjected to a contribution of thirty thousand marks of silver. Folquet died in 1231, and his crimes were thought to have secured him a reception in heaven. He is one of the most conspicu- ous saints of the Cistercians, and the tith; of Bienhenreux was conferred upon him. Petrarch mentions him with distinc- tion in his Triumph of Love, and Dante sees him in Paradise amongst the souls of the elect. As a Troubadour, we have no remains of this fanatic, except some love-verses addressed to Azalais de Roquemartine, the wife of the Viscount of Marseilles, whom he had attempted to seduce. Izarn, a Dominican missioiuvry and inquisitor, preserved his character, with greater consistency, in his poetry. We lind him, in about eight hundred Alexandrine verses, sus- OF THE TROUBADOURS. 161 talning a dispute Avith one of the Albigenses, whom he is desirous of converting.* His style of reasoning is, to treat his adversary in the most insulting manner ; to present to him, all at once, the most unintelligible dogmas ; to exact his submission to them ; and to menace him, at the end of every sentence, with death, torture, and hell.f As you declare you won't believe, 'tis fit that you should burn, ..A.nd as your fellows have been burnt, that you should blaze in turn ; And as you've disobey'd the will of God and of St. Paul, Which ne'er was found within your heart, nor pass'd your teeth at all. The fire is lit, the pitch is hot, and ready is the stake, That through these tortures, for your sins, your passage you may take. Could the horrors of the Inquisition be forgotten, this poem alone would be sufficient to recall them. But the greater part of the Troubadours beheld with equal detestation, both the crusade and the domination of the French. Tomiez and Palazis, two gentlemen of Tarascon, invoked, in their sirventes, the succour of the King of Aragon in favour of the Count of Toulouse. They denounced eternal infamy on the Prince of Orange, who had abandoned the Count of Toulouse, his immediate lord ; and they exhorted the Provencals, that it was better to defend them- selves in the field than to suffer death in the dungeon. A martial ballad, the burthen of which was " Lords ! be stout, and trust in succour 1" transports us, as it were, into the * The following is the commencement of this poem : Aisofou las novas del heretic. Dignas me tu heretic, parlap me un petit, Que tu non parlaras gaire, que ja t'sia grazit, Si per forza not ve, segon i aveuz auzit, Segon lo mien veiaire, ben at Dieu escarnit, Tau fe e ton baptisme renegat e guerpit, Car crezes que Diables t' a format et bastit, E tan mal a obrat, e tan mal a ordit Por dar salvatio ; falsamen as mentit, Et de malvais escola as apris e auzit E ton crestianisme as falsat e delit. t E s' aquest no vols creyre vec t' el foe arzirat Che art tos companhos Con es de Dieu e San Paul non c'est obediens Ni 't pot entrar en cor, ni passar per las dens, Per qu' el foe s'aparelha e la pels el turmens Per on deu espassar 162 ox THE LITERATURE field of battle, amongst the unfortunate Provengals, who were defending themselves against this infamous crusade.* Paulet de Marseilles does not bewail the crusade, wliich was then terminated, but the subjection of Provence to Charles of Anjou. The poet deplores the dishonour which that country had sustained, in taking part in the war of Naples, and thus staining itself with tlie judicial nuu'der of Conradin, and the imprisonment of Henry of Castile. In a very curious pastoral, ho expresses the universal hatred of the people for their new masters ; his attachment to the Spaniards, and his persuasion that the King of Aragon was ahme entitled to the sovereignty of Provence. I Boniface III., of Castellan, seems to feel, still more vividly, the affront put upon the Provencals by this foreign usurpation ; while, at the same time, he accuses them of having merited by their cowardice, the opprobrium of being subjected to a rival nation. He attempts, by every mode, to rouse them Irom this langour ; and he excites to vengeance James I. of Aragon, whose father, Peter II., had been slain in 1213, at the battle of Muret, whilst fighting in defence of the Count of Toulouse and the Albigenses. Castellan at length suc- ceeded in rousing Marseilles to revolt, and placed himself at the head of the insurgents ; but Charles of Anjou having menaced the city with a siege. Castellan was delivered up. He was beheaded, and his goods were confiscated. The great satirist of the Provencals, Pierre Cardinal, whose verses display the most impetuous passions, seems to have been struck with horror at the conduct of the Crusaders. Sometimes he paints the desolation of the country, which was tlie theatre of th(; war ; at other times, he attempts to inspire tlie Count of Toulouse with courage. " Neither the Arch- bishop of Narbonne, nor the King of France, have the power to change one so wicked, into a man of lionour (speaking of Simon de Montfort.) Tliey may bestow gold and silver, and garments, and wines, and viands upon him ; but, for gooc*- ness, God alone can give it. Would you know what share he will have in the spoils of this war ? — the cries, the terror, the frightful spectacles, which he has beheld, the misfortunes Millot,ui. 45, 49, kc. [A translation of the whole of this curious piece will lie found at the end of the chanter. — Tr.] t JUiUut, ill. 141, Lc. OF THE TROUBADOURS. 163 and the evils wliicli he has occasioned, these will form the equipage with which he will return from the battle."* De Montford perished in an action before Toulouse, on the 25th of June, 1218, though not without having lived to enjoy, for a considerable time, the bloody spoils of Raymond VI. During the period at which the country of the Langue d'Oc was in its most flourishing state, and the Counts of Provence and Toulouse, rivalling one another in riches and power, invited the most distinguished poets to their courts, all the neighbouring princes and people attempted to make themselves familiar Avith a language, which seemed to be appropriated to love and gallantry. The dialects of the other countries were, hitherto, by no means fixed, and were regarded as vulgar, when compared with the pure Proven9al. All the north of Italy received with eagerness the lessons of the Troubadours. Azzo VII. of Este, invited them to the court of Ferrara, and Gerard de Camino, to Treviso ; while the Marquis of Montferrat introduced them into his kingdom of Thessalonica, in Greece. The crusade against the Albi- genses, however, entirely put an end to the influence of the Proven9als. The country which had given birth to so many elegant poets, "was now only a scene of carnage and torture. For a long period after the first war, the massacres and perse- cutions, as well as the resistance of the unfortunate victims, continued even down to the reign of Louis XIV.. when the war of the Camisards may be said to be the last scene of the fatal tragedy of the Albigenses. A language which appeared only to serve the purpose of repeating funereal lamentations, was heard with a kind of horror ; while the Italians, perhaps, believed that it was exclusively applied to spreading the venomous doctrines of heresy. Charles of Anjou, moreover, in the middle of this century, possessed himself of the king- * L' arsivesque de Xarbona Tals a sus cl cap corona Nil Rey uon an tan de sen E porta blanc vestimen Que de malvaiza persona Quel' volontatz es felona, Puescan far home valen ; Com de lops e de serpen ; Dar li podon aur o arjen E qui tols ni trai ni men E draps, e vi e anona, Ni aussiz ni empoizona (t) Mais lo bel essenhamen Ad aquo es ben parven Ha sel a cui Dieus lo dona. Quals voler hi abotona. (t) Alluding to the death of the Viscount de Beziers. 164 ox THE LITERATURE «lom of Naples, carrying with liim in his train the principal iiobiHty of Provence ; and the latter, consequently, became familiar with the Italian language, which at that period, was assuming a more polished shape. This ferocious monarch would have contributed little to the advancement of poetry, whether he favoured the language of his wife, the Provencal, or that of his new subjects, the Italians ; for his talent was rather to destroy than to create, and he sacrificed the pros- perity of the beautiful country which his wife liad brought him as her dowi-y, to his passion for war and his unmeasured ambition. He loaded the people with excessive taxes, destroyed the liberty and privileges of his barons, dragged into Italy all his subjects who were capable of bearing arms, and desolated Provence,* for the purpose of carrying deso- lation into the heart of new territories. In his reign, the Courts of Love were abolished, which had so long excited the emulation of poets, by granting the most brilliant rewards to talent ; and which had largely contributed to tlie refine- ment of manners, by inflicting, with the assistance of public opinion, a punishment upon those who trespassed against the laws of delicacy. Not only temporary Courts of Love were erected in all the manors of the greater barons, after every fete and tourney, but some of them appear to have received a more solemn form, and a more durable existence. Thus, mention is made of tlie Court of Love of Pierrefeu, in which Stephanette des Baux, daughter of the Count of Provence, presided, and which was composed of ten of the most con- siderable ladies of the country ; of the Court of Love of * This terrific prince was, however, a poet, for at this period, to which we have given the title of baruarous, all the sovereigns and the powerful nobles were compelled to sacrifice to the muses. In the manuscripts in the lloyal Libiarj- there exists a love-song by him in the Langue d'Uil, which has nothing very remarkable about it. The following lines form the conclusion. Un seul confort me tient en bon cspoir, Et c'est, de ce qu'oncques ne la guerpi, Servie I'ai tojours a mon pooir N'oncques vers autr ai pensi' fors qu'a li ; Et a tout ce, me met en non ch.lloir; Et si, sai bien ne I'ai pas dessen-i. Si me convieut attendre son voloir Et atendrai come loyal ami.' Par li quern d'Anjou, p. 148. OF THE TROUBADOURS. 165 Romanin, presided over by the lady of that name ; and of the Courts of Aix and of Avignon, the latter of which was established under the immediate protection of the Pope. These four courts appear to have been permanent bodies, which assembled at fixed periods, and acquired a high repu- tation for delicacy and gallantry ; and to them were sub- mitted such love-causes as the inferior courts did not dare to decide. The Ari'ets d" Amour were religiously preserved ; and Martial d'Auvergne, in 1480, made a compilation of fifty-one of these arrts, which were afterwards translated into Spanisii by Diego Grazian.* But all this solemnity, this studious attention to gallantry and poetry, ceased in the absence of the sovereign, who adopted a foreign language, and drew to the court of Naples the knights and ladies, who used to combat at the tourneys and sit in the Courts of Love. The successors of Charles I., though more literary in their habits, were more entirely Italian. Charles II., and especially Robert, patronized the litei-ature of Italy. The latter was the friend and protector of Petrarch, who elected him as judge before he received the poetical crown. Some Proven9al poems, addressed to him, still remain. Crescimbeni makes mention, amongst others, of a sonnet, in his honour, by Guillaume des Amalrics;t but this little poem, which is composed in the Italian style, gives no idea of the ancient poetry of Provence. Joanna I. of Naples, the grandaughter of Robert, appears, during her * [If we are to take the arrets of Martial D'Auvergne as real specimens of the proceedings in the Courts of Love, they certainly coukl not have been of that grave and solemn cast which M. De Sismondi and other writers would lead us to believe. Nor do they give us, by any means, a favourable idea of the delicacy of the fair judges. The most ridiculous questions are propounded and argued in the gravest manner, and some- times fictitious personages, as Love and Death, are introduced. If, indeed, these arrets be the original judgments of the Courts of Love, it proves that all their proceedings were mere jests and badinage ; but probably the work was intended by the author as a satire upon the real courts. It is true, as Sismondi obsen'cs in his note on this passage, that the same unfavourable impression is produced in perusing all that has been left us by the Troubadours, after having been so much ap- j)lauded, and supplied such a variety of subjects for brilliant fictions, we approach them with enthusiasm, it is seldom that we leave them without disgust. — Tr.'] t Vite de' Poeti Provenzali, p. 131. 166 ON THE UTERATURE residence in Provence, to have made an attempt to reanimate the former ardour of the Troubadours, and to infuse new life into the Provencal i)oetry. The beautifid Joanna, whose heart was proved to he so tender and ])assionate, was, cer- tainly, the fittest of all the princesses of Europe to fireside in the Courts of Love, and to discuss questions of sentiment. Iler stay in Provence, however, was not of long duration, and, during all that period, she sufFei'ed misfortunes and oppression; while her return to Naples, in 1348, separated her again from the poets whom she had patronized. Joanna, on being dethroned, thirty years afterwards, adopted a French prince, Louis L of Anjou, to whom, however, slie could only assure the possession of Provence ; the kingdom of Naples passing to the house of Duraz. But tliough Provence, after a separation of a century and a half, again possessed her sove- reign in her bosom, literature experienced no protection from him. Louis spoke the Langue D'Oui, or the dialect of the north of France, and had no taste for the poetry of the Langue D'Oc ; and, moreover, he was engaged, as wei"e afterwards his son Louis II. and his grandson Louis III., in a series of unfortunate wars in Italy. His other grandson, Rene, who in his turn assumed, in the fifteenth century, the title of King of Naples and Count of Provence, endeavoured, it is true, M'ith great earnestness, to revive the poetry of Provence. The effort, liowever, was too late ; the race of the Trouba- dours was extinct ; and the invasions of the English, who desolated France, did not dispose the minds of the people to renew the cultivation of the Gay Science. It is, however, to the zeal of this king that we owe the Lives of tlu; Trouba- dours, which were collected for him by the Monk of the Isles of Gold. If the establishment of the sovereign of Provence in Italy was so deadly a blow to the Proven9al language, the establish- ment of an Italian sovereign in Provence was no less fatal to it. At the commencement of tlie fourteenth century, the court of Rome was transferred to Avignon. The Popes, it is true, who, for seventy years filled tiie pontifical chair while it was fixed at that place, were all of them Frenchmen by birth, and inhabitants of the country where the Langue D'Oc was spoken. But, like the sovereigns of Rome, and of a great part of Italy, their courts were composed of Italians ; and the OF THE TROUBADOURS. 167 Tuscan language became so familiar in the city which they inhabited, that Petrarch, the first poet of the age, who lived at Avignon, and loved a Provencal lady, never employed any ttther language than tlie Italian to express his attachment.. Whilst the native poetry, and even the language of Pro- vence, properly so called, were every day declining, reiterated efforts were made, in the county of Toulouse, to re-illume the ancient flame. The house of Saint-Giles, the ancient counts, was extinct, and most of the great feudatories had either perished, or been ruined by the crusades. The castles were no longer the asylum of pleasures and chivalric festivals, although some of the towns were recovering from the cala- mities of war. Toulouse could again boast of her numerous population, her riches, her elegance, and her taste for letters and poetry. In southern France, from the eleventh to the thirteenth century, the nobility gave to the age its character and spirit. In the two centuries which succeeded, the inhabitants of the towns assumed a more important rank. Their privileges had been augmented by the sovereign. They were allowed to raise fortifications, to choose their own magistrates, and to possess a militia. The crown was thus enabled either to op- pose the powerful barons, whom it wished to humble ; or to defend itself in the wars between France and England ; or, lastly, to raise, from this source, increased taxes, since the principal part of the revenues of the state were derived from the towns. The inhabitants speedily imbibed republican sentiments ; the principles of equality became general ; and a respect for property, and an enlightened protection of industry and activity, were the consequences. Zeal for the public good, and a great degree of the esprit de corps, united the citizens in their patriotic bonds. The state was much better governed; but the poetical spirit had declined. It is not under the operation of the wisest laws, and in times of good order and pro- sperity, that the imagination of a people is most powerfully developed. Idleness is much better suited to the poet than activity; and that vigilant and paternal administration which forms good fathers, good merchants, good artisans, and honest citizens, was much less calculated to elicit the genius of the Troubadours, than a life spent in wandering from castle to castle ; in alternate intercourse with the nobles and the 168 ON THE LITERATURE people, the ladies and the shepherds; and amid the enjoy- ments of luxury, rendered more exquisite by poverty. The good citizens of Toulouse, or of IMarseillcs, had their business to superintend and their livelihood to earn ; and if a man devoted himself, from his youth, to singing at festivals, or meditating in groves, lie was looked upon by his fellow- citizens either as a fool, or as one who wished to live on the contributions of others. No esteem was felt for a man, who, when he was capable of becoming independent by his own labour, chose to owe his subsistence to the bounty of the great. Reason and good sense are both the accompaniments of prose; and the most brilliant faculties of the human mind, are not always those which are most requisite to our happiness. Still the Capitouh do Toulouse, the name by which the chief-magistrates of that city were distinguished, were desirous, for the honour of their country, of preserving the brilliant reputation which it had formerly enjoyed for poetical studies, and which was now about to expire. They were not, perhaps, themselves, very sensible ol' the charms of verse and harmony ; but they were unwilling that it should be said, that, under their administration, the flame, which had shed such lustre on the reigns of the Counts of Toulouse, was extinguished. A few versifiers of little note had assumed, at Toulouse, the name of Troubadours, and were accustomed, half-yearly, to assemble together in the gardens of the Au- gustine monks, where they read their compositions to one another. In 1323, these persons resolved to Ibrm themselves into a species of academy del Gai Saber, and they gave it the title of La Sobrer/ai/a, Companhia dels sept Trobado-s de 2'olosa. This " most gay society " was eagerly joined by the Capltouls, or venerable magistrates, of Toulouse, who wished, by some public festival, to reanimate the spirit of poetry.* * If the celebrated CU'mence Isaure, whose eulogy was pronounced every year in the assembly of the Floral Games, and whose statue, crowned with flowers, ornamented their festivals, be not merely an imaginary being, she appears to have been the soul of these little meet- ings, before either the magistrates had noticed them or the public were invited to attend them. But neither the circulars of the Sohre(jaya Com2Mnhia, nor the registers of the magistrates, make any mention of her; and, notwithstanding all the zeal with wliich, at a subsequent period, the glory of founding the Floral Gajnes has been attributed to her, her existence is still problematical. OF THE TROUBADOURS. 169 A circxilav letter was addressed to all the cities of the Langue d'Oc, to give notice that, on the 1 st of May, 1 324, a golden violet would be decreed, as a prize, to the author of the best poem in the Proven9al language. The circular is written both in prose and verse ; in the name as well of " the very gay company of Ti-oubadours," as of " the very grave assembly of Capitouls." The gravity of the latter is manifested by their wonderful display of learning, and by the number of their quotations ; for when the Gay Science was transported from the castles into the cities, it was united to a knowledge of antiquity, and of those studies which were again beginning to be cultivated. Harmony and sentiment alone were not now all-sufficient. On the other hand, the Troubadours cited the scriptures, in defence of their recreations. " Is it not," said they, " pleasing to God, our Creator, and our Sovereign Lord and Master, that man should reader homage to him in joy and gladness of heart, as the Psalmist has borne testimony when he says, ' Sing and be glad in the Lord.' The crowds which collected on the first of May, were prodigious. The magistrates, the neighbouring nobility, and the common people, all assembled in the garden of the Augustines, to hear the songs publicly read, which were intended to dispute the prize. The violet was adjudged to Arnaud Vidal of Castelnaudary, for his song in honour of the Holy Virgin, and the successful candidate was immediately declared a Doctor in the Gay Science. Such, was the origin of the Floral Games. In 1355, the Capitouls announced that, instead of one prize, they would give three. The violet of gold was reserved for the best song. An eglantine of silver, not the flower of the rose, but of the Spanish jasmine, was promised to the author of the best sirvente, or of the most beautiful pastoral ; and lastly, ihejlor de gaug, or joy-flower, the yellow and odoriferous flower of the thorny acacia, was to be bestowed upon the writer of the best ballad. These flowers were more than a foot high, and were carried on a pedestal of silver gilt, upon which were engraved the arms of the city. It seems that in copying these flowers always from the same model, the artists forgot what they originally represented : the eglantine became a colum- bine, and the joy-flower a marigold. The Academy of the Floi-al Games has survived to the present day, although it seldom crowns any but French poets. Its secretary is always VOL. I. L 170 ON THE LITERATURE a doctor of laws, and its rules are denominated the Laws of Love. The name of Troubadour is still heard there, and the ancient forms of Proven9al poetry, the song, the drvente, and the ballad, are preserved with reverence. No man of real talent, however, has signalized himself amongst the fraternity ; and as for the Troubadours, properly so called, the chanters of love and of chivalry, who bore from castle to castle, and from tourney to tourney, their own verses and the fame of their ladies, the race was extinct before the commencement of the Floral Games. In another quarter, however, a flourishing kingdom was daily making rapid steps towards power, prosperity, and military glory. The kingdom of Aragon had preserved the Provencal language, and placed her fame in the cultivation of that literature. The employment of that tongue, in all the acts of government, was conisdered, nearly to our own times, as one of the most precious privileges which that country pos- sessed. Marriage, succession, and conquest, had united many rich provinces under the dominion of the kings of Aragon ;■ originally, merely the chiefs of a few Christian refugees, who had escaped into the mountains to avoid the Moors. Petro- niUe, in 1137, carried the crown of ili'agon to Raymond Berenger V., then sovereign of Provence, of Catalonia, of Cerdagne, and of Roussilion. In 1220, their descendants conquered the islands of INIajorca, Minorca, and Ivica ; and, in 1238, the kingdom of Valencia. Sicily fell under their dominion in 1282, and, in 1323, they conquered Sardinia. At the period when all these kingdoms were united under one crown, the Catalans were the hardiest navigators of the Mediterranean. Their commercial relations were very ex- tended. They had frequent intercourse with the Greek em- pire, and were the constant rivals of the Genoese, and the no less faithful friends of the Venetians. Their i-eputatiou in arms was as brilliant as in the arts of peace. Not content with fighting the battles of their own country, they sought opportunities of practising their military skill in foreign service, and exercised their valour in combats, in which they had no sort of interest. The redoubtable soldiery of the Almogavares, issuing out of Aragon, carried terror into Italy and Greece. They vanquished the Turks, and humbled Con- stantinople ; conquering Athens and Thebes, and destroying, OP THE TROUBADOURS. 171 in 1312, in the battle of the Cephisus, the remnant of the French cavaliers who had formerly overthrown the Greek empire. The Aragonese succeeded in rendering their liberties secure and respected by their chiefs. Even the kings them- selves were under the dominion of a supreme judge, called the Justicla, who girt on the sword in their support, if they were faithful, and against them, if tliey abandoned their duty. The four members of the Cortes, by virtue of the privilege of union, similar to that of the confederation of Poland, had the power of legally opposing force and resistance to any usurped authority. Their religious freedom Avas equal to their civil immunities ; and, to preserve it, the Aragonese did not scruple to brave, for the space of two centuries, the Papal excommunications. This bold and troubled life, this constant success in every enterprise, this national glory, which was continually encreasing, were much better fitted to inflame the imagination, and to sustain a poetical spirit, than the prudent, but confined and citizen-like life of the good people of Toulouse. Many celebrated Troubadours issued from the kingdoms of Aragon and Catalonia, during the twelfth and thirteenth centuries ; and on the extinction of the Trouba- dours, the Aragonese displayed a new kind of talent. The Provencal, or rather the Catalan, literature did not die with the poets of Provence. One of the most celebrated of those who cultivated the art of poetry, after the disappearance of the Troubadours, was Don Henri d'Aragon, Marquis of Villena, M'ho died in 1434, at an advanced age. His marquisate, the most ancient in Spain, was situated on the confines of the kingdoms of Cas- tile and Valencia ; and, in fact, Villena belonged to both the monarchies. In both, he filled the most important offices, and governed them alternately during the minorities of their princes ; and in both, after having been the favourite of the kings, he was persecuted and despoiled of his property. During his administration, he made some attempts to awaken a taste for letters, and to unite the study of ancient literature to the cultivation of Romance poetry. He persuaded John I., of Aragon, to establish, in his states, an academy, similar to the Floral Games of Toulouse, in order to reanimate the ardour of the Troubadours, who were now rapidly declining. The Academy of Toulouse dispatched, in the year 1390, two L 2 172 ox THE LITERATDRE Doctors of Love to Barcelona, to found in that city a Branch Academy. All the rules, the laws, and the judgments of Love were adopted, and the Floral Games commenced at Barcelona; but the civil war soon afterwards interrupted them. Henri de Villena, on the establishment of peace, attempted to re- open his favourite academy at Tortosa. In the midst of all the occupations in which his turbulent political career engaged him, he found time to write a treatise on poetry for this academy, which he entitled De la Ga>ia Ciencla, and in which he explained, with more erudition than taste, the laws which the Troubadours had observed in the composition of their verses, and which the Italians, in their application of them, were now beginning to refine. Notwithstanding all his exertions, his academy was of short duration, and expired, pro- bably, with himself Villena likewise composed, about the year 1412, a still more curious work. It was a comedy ; probably the only one ever written in the Proven9al language, and one of the first which we find in modern literature. It was com- posed on occasion of the marriage of the King of Aragon, Ferdinand I. The characters were all allegorical, such as Truth, Justice, Peace, and Mercy ; and the work, no doubt, possessed very little interest. It is, however, not the less an object of curiosity, as having prepared the way, together with the French mysteries and moralities, for that career which more modern poets have run with so much glory. Ausias March, of Valencia, who died about 1450, is entitled to the second place amongst the Catalan Poets. He has been called the Petrarch of Catalonia, and is said to have equalled the lover of Laura in elegance, in brilliancy of ex- pression, and in harmony ; and while, like him, he contributed to the formation of his language, which he carried to a high degree of polish and perfection, he possessed more real feeling, and did not suffer himself to be seduced by a passion for concetti and iVdse brilliancy. By a strange coincidence of circumstances, we are also told, that his poetry, like Petrarch's, forms two classes ; the pieces composed during the life of his mistress, and those which were written on her death. The lady, whose name was Theresa de Momboy, was of a noble family in Valencia. Like Petrarch, also, Ausias March beheld his mistress, for the first time, during the celebration of service, in a church, on Good-Friday ; unless we must OF THE TROUBADOURS. 173 suppose that this was a fictitious circumstance, adopted by the poet in imitation of his great master. His Theresa, however, did not I'esemble Laura in one point, for she was unfiiithful to her lover ; from which we must conclude that slie was at one period attached to him. Although Ausias March is one of the few Catalan poets whose works I have been able to procure, yet a rapid and imperfect perusal of poems, written in a foreign language, has scarcely qualified me to pass any judgment upon his com- positions. . Yet the similarity between Petrarch and this poet appears to me very surprising. Ausias March evidently possesses more of the spirit of French literature than of the Romance taste. He seems to be infinitely less studious, than the Italians generally are, of employing those real or fic- titious ornaments of poetry, comparisons and concetti. From thought and philosophy, on the contrary, he derives his principal beauties. Instead of colouring all his ideas, so as to make them harmonize with the senses, he generalises them, he reasons upon them, and often loses himself in abstraction. Althouo;h his languaiie differs from the French more than that of the Troubadours, its construction is much more clear. In his verse, he has preserved, with great correctness, the forms and the metres of tlie ancient poets. The collection of his Avorks, which is divided into three parts. Poems on Love, Poems on Death, and Moral Poems, contains merely songs, which are usually in seven stanzas, followed by an envoy, which he calls a tornada. It is due to the high reputation of Ausias March, which has been too long forgotten, to his ad- mitted superiority over all the writers of the Proven9al language, and to the extreme rarity of his works, to present a few fragments of them to the reader. In the second of his Love songs, he tells us that his heart vacillatecJ a long time between two fair ladies. As he Avho seeks for viands to appease His hunger, and beholds, on some fair tree, Two ruddy apples bloom deliciously. On both of which he eagerly would seize, Is forced, ere he the luscious dainty prove, To choose or this or that ; even so am I Smit with the love of two fair dames, and sigh That I must choose, ere I can taste of love.* Axi com cell qui desija vianda Per apagai- sa perillosa fam, E veu 174 ON THE LITERATURE As when the sea groans heavily and cries, When two contending winds sweep o'er its breast. One from tlie East, tlie other from the West, Till the one yieUling to the other, dies. Even so two mighty passions, angrily. Have long contended in my breast, until 01)eying the high dictates of my will. I followed one — that one was, love to thee ! There is, generally, muck nature in the expression of Ausias March ; and this, instead of injuring the vigour of the sentiment, adds to its vivacity, even more than the most brilliant metaphors could have done. Tlie following stanza appears to be an illustration of this remark. Abandoning the Troubadours' false verse. Who trespass o'er the modest bounds of truth, I must repi'ess the wishes of my youth, Since words are vain thy virtues to rehearse.* All I could say to those, who know thee not, Were little worth ; they could not credit me ; And those that knowing thee, live not for thee, Did they beUeve, how sad would be their lot. E veu dos poms de fruyt en un bell ram E son desig egualment loss demanda, Nol complira fins part liaja legida Si que I'desig vers I'un fruyt se decant ; Axi m'a pres dues denes amant, Mas elegesch per haver d'amor vida. Si com la mar se plang greument e crida Com dos forts vents la baton egualment, IIu de Levant e Taltre de Poncnt, E dura tant fins Turn vent la jcijuida Sa for^a gran per lo mas ])oderos : Dos grans dezigs han combatut ma pen&a, Mas lo voler vers un scguir dispensa ; Yo IVos publich, amar dretament vos. « Leixant a part le stil dels trobados Qui ))cr escalf trespascn veritat, E sostrahent mon voler attectat Perque nom trob dire 1' que trobe en vos, Tot mon parlar als que no us havran vista Res noy valvra, car fe noy donanin ; E los veheuts que dins vos no vevran En crcvrc mi lur alma sera triste. OF THE TROUBADOURS. 175 In the elegies ( Ohres de Mort) of this poet, there is a tranquillity and reflection, a sort of philosophical grief, which, though it, perhaps, is not quite just, gives an idea of deep feeling. The hands, which never spare, have snatch'd thee hence, Cutting the frail thread of thy tender life, And bearing thee from out this scene of strife, I Obedient still to fate's dark ordinance. All that I see and feel now turns to pain, When I remember thee I loved so well ; Yet, from the griefs that in my bosom swell, ^ I seem to snatch some taste of bliss again ; Thus, fed by tender joy, my grief shall last : Unfed, the deepest sorrow soon is past.* Within a gentle heart love never dies ; He fades in breasts which guilty thoughts di.strcss, And fails the sooner for his o\\"n excess ; But lives, when rich in virtuous qualities. When the eye sees not and the- touch is gone, And all the pleasures Beauty yields are o'er, Howe'er the conscious sufterer may deplore. We know that soon such sensual griefs are flown. Virtuous and holy love links mind to mind ; And such is ours, which death cannot unbind. We are astonished at finding the poet, whose boast it was that he had never loved his mistress, Theresa, with a dis- * Aquelles mans que james perdonaren Han ja romput lo fill tenint la vida De vos, qui son de aquest mon exida Segons los fats en secret ordenaren. Tot quant yo veig e sent dolor me torna Dant me recort de vos que tant amava. En ma dolor, si prim e bes cercava Si trobara que 'n del it se contorna. Donchs durara, puix te qui la sosting, Car sens delit dolor creseh nos retinga. En cor gentil amor per mort no passa, Mas en aquell qui sol lo vici tira ; La quantitat d' amor durar no mira, La qualitat d' amor bona no 's lassa. Quant r uU no veu e lo toch no pratica Mor lo voler que tot por el se guanya Qui 'n tal punt es dolor sent molt e stranya Mas dura poch qui 'n passau testifiea. Amor honest los sancts amant fa colre D' aquest vos am, et mort mol me pot tolre. 176 ON THE LITERATURE honourable passion, expressing doubts as to her salvation, certainly incompatible with that admiration for a beloved object which sanctifies all her acts in our eyes. In one of his elegies, he says : The hca\-y grief, which words can never tell, Of him wiio dies, and knows not if the liand Of God will place him on the heavenly strand, Or hury him beneath tlie vaults of hell — Such grief ray spirit feels, unknowing what Of good or iir, God has ordained to thee ; Thy bliss is mine, and mine thy misery : Whate'er betide thee, still I share thy lot.* When once the mind is struck with the terrific idea, that salvation or condemnation must depend on the last moments of life, the frightful belief destroys all our trust in virtue ; and Ausias March, in the wanderings of his brain, abandoned the mistress, whom he had worshipped as an angel upon earth, to the ministers of celestial vengeance. Sometimes, he seems determined to share her lot, though she should be devoted to eternal torments : On thee my joy and soitow both depend. And with thy lot God wills that mine should blend.t It is not merely in these melancholy presentiments that the passion of Ausias March assumes a religious cast. On all occasions, it displays a spirit of exalted piety, and acquires, from that circumstance, a more touching character. The death of his beloved friend, far from weakening his attach- ment, seems only to have superadded to it a nobler feeling of religion. As when rich gold, fresh gather'd from the mine. Is mix'd with metals valueless and base, Till, purged within the fire some little space, The alloy Hies oflj and leaves it pure and fine ; * La gran dolor que lengua no pot dir Del qui s' veu mort e no sab hon ira, ]So sab son Deu si ]ier a si 1' volra si n' infern lo volra sebellir. Semblant dolor lo meu espcrit sent, No sabeut que de vos Deus ha ordenat ; Car vostre nial o be a mi es dat. Del que ha\Teu, yo u' sare sollireut. + Goig tristor per tu he yo complir, En tu esta quant Deu me volra dar. OF THE TROUBADOURS. 177 So death has banish'd every grosser stain Which mark'd my passion ; and my earthly love Has changed into such hope of bliss above, That nothing but the holiest thoughts remain.* While the poet is reasoning, with apparent coldness and philosophic subtlety, on the circumstance npon which his life depends, his grief sometimes bursts from liim with violence, and prompts him to the most passionate expressions: God ! why will not then this bitter draught Destroy the wretch who saw his mistress die 1 How sweet would be my mortal agonj', Remembering her for whom the cup was quaff'd ! Pity ! why sleep'st thou, when I waste in grief? Why break'st thou not the heart which torments sear 1 Thou must be powerless, if thou dost not hear, Or cruel, if thou wilt not grant I'clief.f Although the works of many other poets of Valencia are said to have been printed, I have never met witli them in a separate form. I am only acquainted with them, as they exist in the ancient Spanish cancioneri. We there find specimens of Vicent Ferradis, Miquel Perez, Fenollar, Castelvy, and Vinyoles ; and these enable us to perceive that true taste was little cultivated at that period. Ausias Marcli, indeed, appears to have been inspired with real feeling ; but the rest courted ingenuity and wit, and often false wit. Of * Axi com r or quant de la mena 1' trahen Esta mesclat de altres metalls sutzens, E mes al foch en fum s' en va la liga Leyxant 1' or pur, no podent se corrompre, Axi la mort mon voler gros termena ; Aquell fermat, en la part contra sembla D' aquella, que la mort al mon la tolta, L' honest voler en mi reman sen mezcla. + Deu perque no romp la 'marga fel Aquell qui veu a son amich perir ! Quant mes puix vols tan dol9a mort soffrir. Gran saber ha, puix se pren per tal zel. Tu pietat com dorms en aquell cas 1 Quel cor de cam fer esclatar no sals '] No tens poder quen tal temps lo acabs Qual tani cruel qu' en tal cas not Uoas. 178 ON THE LITERATURE this description, is a little poem, which is reprinted in all the cancioneri, by Vicent Ferradis, on the name of Jesus, in which, we are told, the deepest piety may be found mingled with the most beautiful poetry. AVe may judge of this pro- duction by the following stanza, which contains an anagram on the letters I. H. S. Jesus Hominum Salvator. Triumpliant name ! prcsentini? visibly The glorious i)icturc of the crucifixion ! Lo ; in the midst, the H, whicli legibly Points out the God who died 'ncath this infliction ! ^ The aspirate marks his nature all divine ; The I and H, the thieves on either hand. Who with their Saviour do their breath resign ; The stops denote the two, who sadly stand, John and the Virgin Mary, at the feet Of the Redeemer, making his death sweet.* In very few of the productions of the poets of Valencia, do we find any remains of the old simplicity and sensibility. There is, however, something approaching to them, in the following stanza of Mossen Vinyoles. Where is the day, the moment, and the hour. Whereon I lost my much-loved liberty I Where are the snares which so inveigled me 1 Where are the ills for which tJiese salt tears shower If * Nom trihumfal queus presenta visible Del crucifix la bella circunstancia, En mig la /( que nos letra legible L' inmens ja mort, tractat vilment y orrible. La title d' alt de divinal sustancia. La/ y la s los ladres prescnten A les dos parts per for li companyia, Y pels costatz dos punts pue s' aposenten, Denoten clar los dos que 1' turnient lenteu Del redemptor, Johan y la Maria. f On es lo jorn, on es lo punt y I'ora On yo perdy los bens de libertat? On es lo lac qu' axim me cativat? On es lo mal per qui uia lengua plora? On es lo be que m' fa tant dcsigar ] On es r engan de tanta conexen9a On es lo grat amor y benvolenya Que del pus cert mi fa desesperar] OF THE TROUBADODRS, 179 Where is tlic good I sought with so much pride ? ' Where is the bond of habit's firm conuexion] Where is the boundless love, the fond affection, AVhich made me doubt of every thing beside ] It is almost from a sense of duty that I have selected and translated a few specimens of these amatory poems ; pas- sionate feelings, breathing in a forgotten language ; tender attachments and fond regrets, confided to the custody of poetry, which posterity regards not. These old Catalonian poems have always seemed to me like inscriptions upon tombs. Whilst Ausias March is considered, by the Catalans, as the Petrarch of the Proven9al language, John Martorell is said to be its Boccacio. It is to him that their light style of prose composition is attributed. To him, it owes its pliancy and nature, and its adaptation to the purpose of graceful narration. His work enjoys, even beyond his own country, a considerable reputation. It is a romance entitled, Tirante the White, and it is mentioned by Cervantes, with great praise, in his catalogue of Don Quixote's library, and called by him " a treasure of contentment, a mine of delight, and, with regard to style, the best book in the world." John Martorell appears to have given it to the public about the year 1435, and it was one of the first books which was printed, on the introduction of that art into Spain. The first Catalan edition is that of Valencia, 1480, in folio. It was translated into various languages, and the French version is to be found in almost every library. It is difficult to separate a work of chivalry, like this, from its class, and to judge of it independently of other composi- tions of the same kind. . Martorell is posterior to many other Romance writers ; to the authors of the romances of the Round Table, and of those of Charlemagne. In T'trante the White, we find less of fairy-land, and fewer supernatural wonders, than in its predecessors. The action is more grave, the tenor of the story more consistent ; and, although the hero, from the rank of a simple knight, becomes Emperor of Con- stantinople, we can follow and comprehend his elevation, as well as his achievements. On the other hand, there is, perhaps, less poetry ; and fewer instances occur of a brilliant imagination than in the Amadis, the Tristan, and the 180 ON THE LITERATURE Lancelot. Martorell occupies, in fact, the middle place between the ancient and the modern Romance writers. Other poets and romance writers succeeded hira ; and the Catalans mention with praise, Mossen Jaume Roig of Valencia, who wrote a long poem on coquetry,* in a very bitter and * The title of the Poem is " Libre de les Dones," the first edition of which is printed at Valencia in 1531, and is very rare. The author was physician to IMaria, the Queen of Alonzo the Fifth, and wrote his book, as appears by his own statement, in 14(30. Notwithstanding tlie credit which is given him by the Catholic Ximeno, for the solid doctrine, sacred learning, and piety of this volume, it appears to be written rather in ridicule than admiration of high orthodox faith. It is dedicated to '•■ the miraculous conception," of which he professes himself a most de- cided votary. The versification is singularly artificial and laconic, and is known by the title of Cudolada. His motto is " As the lily among tJiorns, so is my love among daughters." Two translations have been made into Spanish. As a specimen of the original we will give part of the concluding chapter, in which he turns the schools into ridicule. " Peyta recens mit quatrecens vint set complits auys son finits sens treuta tres anys les primes desque naixque mentres vixque." p. 187, Edit. 1735. Works prepard On subjects hard, Beyond the reach Of thought or speech, The subtilties. The misteries Of Trinity ; If it could be Sinless conceived And so believed. Predestination Is faith's temptation. Then hear Pertuse, And LuUy's muse ; Ocham, Scotus, AVhat they brought us, Opinions prime. And subtle rime. To please not few, And profit too. Is its reward. And I regard Preaching like this, As great a bliss To hear and see As e'er could be. The bright amount. ( )f wealth to count Another claims, &c. &.c.^ * " Grans questions en los sermons imperceptibles no aprensibles subtilitats alietats de Trinitat si en pecat fonch conccbuda si fonch semuda predestinar la fe probar Bits OF THE TROUBADOURS. 181 humorous style ; the two Jordi ; * Febrer, the historian of Valencia ; and, lastly, Vincent Garzias, the rector of Balfo- gona, who died at the commencement of the seventeenth century, and who was the last poet of Catalonia, or Valencia, who wrote in the Provencal language. The increasing pros- perity of the Kings of Aragon was fatal both to the language and to the liberties of their subjects. Ferdinand the Catholic married Isabella of Castile, and that princess, on mount- ing the thi'one of Castile, in 1474, virtually divided her crown with her husband. The monarchy of Castile was more powerful than that of Aragon ; its capital was more brilliant, and its revenues were more considerable. The courtiers were drawn to Madrid by their interest, and all the nobility of Spain conceived it necessary to learn the language of Castile. Even the Catalans, and the Aragonese, who, for so long a period, had placed the highest value on their language, and who, by a fundamental law, had required, in the reign of James I. (1266, 1276,) that it should be substi- tuted for the Latin in all public proceedings, now abandoned Dits Den Pertusa* h dels oins Den LulP la Musa les armonies De Ocham,^ Scott* ^ melodies Llur vari vot hanne dellifc Coses molt primes quant lian oit ab subtils rimes lo so es passat plau a les gens quin sera stat Profit no gens ni recitar ne sol restar. ni recontar De tal preycar nou sper^n k mon parer sols oiren ' es tal plaer b& ban sonat lo scotar b^ ban precat com lo contar a mon plaer, &c. daltri florins ^ Pertusa — A Valencian nobleman. He wrote a book on tbe Trinity, Incarnation, and other misteries of faith. ^ Kaymond LuUy. ^ William Occham or Occam. * Duns Scotus. * [It should be observed, that Mossen Jordi de Sant Jordi, is con- tended, by the Catalonians, to have flourished as early as tbe thirteenth century ; two centuries before Ausias March, and in the most splendid iera of the Provencal Troubadours. The question turns chiefly on the circumstance of some of his verses coinciding almost literally with part of one of Petrarch's sonnets, and it is yet to be decided who is the ori- ginal.— See the whole piece, and some further particulars, in the Retro- spective Review, vol. iv. p. 46. — Tr.'\ 182 ox THE LITERATURE it, and suffered it to perish, from motives of personal aggran- disement. It was from those provinces that, in the reigns of Charles V. and Philip, Boscan and Argcnsola issued, who caused a revolution in Spanisli poetry. But when the Catalans, unable to offer further resistance to the despotic dominion of the House of Austria, and resolving to cast off that odious yoke, delivered themselves up to France, by the treaty of Peronne, they petitioned for the restoration of their ancient and noble language, begging that it alone might be employed in all tlie acts of government and public trans- actions. They regretted their language as well as their laws, tlieir liberties, their prosperity, and their ancient virtue, all of which had passed away. The most powerful bond which attaches a people to their manners, their customs, and their sweetest associations, is the language of their fathers. The deepest humiliation to which they can be subjected, is to be compelled to forget it, and to learn a new tongue. There certainly is, even to a foreigner, something peculiarly melancholy in the decay and destruction of a beautiful language. That of the Troubadours, so long esteemed for its sonorous and harmonious character, which had awakened the enthusiasm, the imagination, and the genius, of so large a portion of Europe, and which had extended itself not only over France, Italy, and Spain, but even to the courts of England, and of Germany, no longer meets the ears of men who are worthy of listening to the sound. It is still spoken in the South of France ; but so broken up into dialects, that the people of Gascony, of Provence, and of Languedoc, no longer suspect that they are speaking the same tongue. It is the basis of the Piedmontese ; it is spoken in Spain from Figuieras to the kingdom of Murcia ; and it is the language of Sardinia, and the Balearic Isles. But, in all these various countries, every man of education abandons it for the Castilian, the Italian, or the French ; and to speak in the language which boasts of poets, who have been the glory of their country, and to whom we are indebted for modern poetry, is avoided as ridiculous and vulgar. In finishing our inquiries into the language and the litera- ture of the Troubadours, let us not jmlge them too severely, on account of the slight impression, and the few brilliant recollections which they leave on our memory. We ought OF THE TROUBADOURS. 183 not to forget, that the age in which they lived was degraded by ignorance, and by almost universal barbarism. It is im- possible, in analyzing their works, not to compare them continually with the French poets in the reign of Louis XIV., with the Italians during the age of Leo X., with the English of Queen Anne's time, and with the German poets of the present day. Yet this comparison is certainly unjust. Whilst the Troubadours must decidedly yield to the great masters of our modern literature, they are, nevertheless, much superior to the versifiers of their time in France, Italy, England, and Germany. A fatality seems to have attended their language; destroying the sovereign houses which spoke it, dispersing the nobility Avho gloried in its use, and ruining the people by ferocious persecutions. The Provencal, abandoned in its native country by those who were best able to cultivate it, at the precise point of time when it was about to add to its poets, historians, critics, and distinguished prose-writers ; discountenanced in the territories which had been newly gained from the Arabians, and confined between the proud Castilian and the sea, perished, at last, in the kingdom of Valencia, at the very period when the inhabitants of those provinces, once so free and haughty, were deprived of their liberties. This school of poetry, the only light amid the darkness of universal barbarism, and the bond which, com- bining noble minds in the cultivation of high sentiments, formed so long the common link of union amongst different nations,' has lost, in our eyes, all its charms and its power. We can no longer be deceived by the hopes which it held forth. The songs which seem to contain the germ of so many noble works, and to which that expectation gave so much interest, appear cold and lifeless, when we reflect how unproductive they have been. 184 ox THE LITERATURE NOTE. lap. 228, is mentioned a warlike song to rouse the persecuted Pro- ven9als to resist tlie plundering invasion which St. Louis was directing against them, under the pretence of a zeal for religion'and social order. A friend furnishes us with a translation of this piece, which is now very curious, as shewing the light in which some of his contemporaries viewed the In-pocrisy and cruelty of this St. Louis, whose God is, in the year 1823, invoked in support of similar projects. I'll make a song, shall body forth My full and free complaint. To see the hea^'y hours pass on. And witness to the feint Of coward souls, whose vows were made In falsehood, and are yet unpaid ; Yet, noble Sirs, we will not fear, Strong in the hope of succours near. . Yes ! full and ample help for us Shall come, so trusts my heart : God fights for us, and these our foes. The French, must soon depart. For, on the souls that fear not God, Soon, soon shall fall the vengeful rod : Then, noble Sirs, we will not fear, Strong in the hope of succours near. And hither they believe to come, (The treacherous, base Crusaders !) But, cv'n as quickly a.s they come, We'll chase those fierce invaders ; Without a shelter, they shall fly Before our valiant chivalry: Then, noble Sirs, we will not fear. Strong in the hope of succours near. And ev'n if Frederic, on the throne Of powerful Germany, Submits the cruel ravages Of Louis' hosts to see ; Yet, in the breast of England's King, Wrath, deep and vengeful, shall upspring ; Then, noble Sirs, we will not fear. Strong in ihe hope of succours near. OK THE TROUBADOURS. 185 Not much those meek and holy men, The traitorous Biahops, mourn, Though from our hands the sepulchre Of our dear Lord be torn ; More tender far, their anxious care For the rich plunder of Belcaire : But, noble Sirs, we will not fear, Strong iu the hope of succours near. And look at our proud Cardinal, Whose hours in peace are past ; Look at his splendid dwelling place, (Pray Heaven it may not last !) He heeds not, while he lives in state. What ills on Damietta wait : But, noble Sirs, we will not fear. Strong in the hope of succours near. I cannot think that Avignon Will lose its holy zeal In this our cause, so ardently Its citizens can feel. Then, shame to him who will not bear. In this our glorious cause, his share And, noble Sirs, we will not fear. Strong in the hope of succours near. VOL. I. M 186 ON THE LlTEltATUKE CHAPTER VII. ON THE IIOMANCE-WALLON, OR LANGUE DOIL, AND ON THE ROMANCES OP CUIVALRY. It is not the desi2;n of this work to treat of the lan!rua":e and literature of France. On that subject, many agreeable and profound works have been written, which are in the hands of every one ; and it would be an useless task to repeat, in a curtailed and imperfect manner, all that has been said on this subject, with so much justice and liveliness, by Mar- montel. La Harpe, and others. The elder period of French literature has, however, something of a foreign character. Our poets, the heirs of the Trouveres, did not accept the inheritance which devolved upon them ; and the language of the twelfth and thirteenth centuries sufficiently varies I'rom our own, to render many of the literary remains of that period inaccesible to most of my readers. It is, moreover, almost impossible to speak of the Troubadours, without giving some account of the Trouveres ; or to enquire into the origin and progress of the Romance-Pro ven(;al, without, at the same time, discoursing of the Romance- Wallon. It is not necessary to refer so far back as the Celtic, for the lirst origin of French literature. That language, which had been long forgotten, could have had little influence upon the characters of those, whose ancestors had spoken it. When the Franks conquered Gaul, it is probable that the Celtic was only to be ibund in some of the districts of Brittany ; wiiere, indeed, it has remained to the present day. That mother- tongue, which appears to have been common to France, to Spain, and to the British Isles, has so completely disappeared, that we are no longer able to ascertain its peculiar (;liaracter. Although it is regarded as the mother of the lios-JJreto/), of the Gaelic of Scotland, of the Welsh, and of the dialect ot Cornwall, yet the analogy which exists between those lan- guages can with difficulty be defined ; nor is their common OF THE TROUVERES. 187 Jerivation discoverable. In all the provinces of Gaul, the Latin had taken place of the Celtic, and had become, amongst the people at large, a sort of native tongue. The massacres wliich accompanied the wars of Julius Cassar, the subjection of the vanquished, and the ambition of those Gauls who pro- cured the privileges of Roman citizens, all concurred to pro- iluce a change in the manners, the spirit, and the language, of the provinces situated between the Alps, the Pyrenees, and the Rhine. From that country, accomplished Latin scholars and celebrated teachers of rhetoric and grammar, proceeded ; wliile the people at large acquired a taste for Roman spectacles, and ornamented their principal cities with magnificent thea- tres. Four hundred and lifty years of submission to the Roman yoke, caused an intimate union between the Gauls and the inhal>itant3 of Italy. The Franks, who spoke a Northern or German dialect, in- ti-oduced a new idiom amongst the Gauls. This intermixture soon corrupted the Latin, which suffered still more from igno- rance and barbarism ; and the Gauls who called themselves Romans, because they imagined they spoke the language of Rome, abandoned all the refinements of syntax for the sim- plicity and rudeness of a barbarian tongue. In writing, an attempt was still made to keep alive the Latin ; but, in con- versation, every one gradually yielded to the prevailing habit, and dropped the use of letters and terminations, which were regarded as superfluous. Even at the present day, we exclude, in the pronunciation of the French language, a fourth part of the letters which we use in writing. After the lapse of some time, a distinction was drawn between the language of the Roman subjects and that of the Latin writers ; and the Ro- mance language, founded on the first, and the Latin language, perpetuated by the latter, were recognized as distinct. But the former, which occupied several centuries in its formation, had no name as long as the conquerors preserved the use of the German. At the commencement of the second race of monarchs, German was still the language of Charlemagne and his court. That hero spoke, say the historians of the time, the language of his ancestors, ^?a^r?'M??i sermonem; and many French writers have fallen into a strange error, in supposing that the Francisque signified the old French. But, whilst the German was employed in conversation, and in martial and M 2 188 ON THE LITERATURE historical pooms, Latin was the written language, and the Komance, still in its state of barbarism, was the dialect of the people. In the reign of Charlemagne, too, the great difference between the language of the common people and the Latin, compelled tlie church to preach in the vulgar tongue. A coun- cil, held at Tours, in 813, directed the bishops to translate their homilies into the two languages of the people, the rustic Romance, and tlie Theotisqiie, or German. This decree was confirmed by the Council of Aries, in 851. The subjects of Charlemagne were composed of two very different races ; the Germans wlio inhabited along and beyond the Khine, and the Walloons, who called themselves Romans, and who alone, of all the people of the Soutli, were under the dominion of the Franks. The name of Waelchs, or AValloons, which was given them by the Germans, was the same as that of Galli or Galata'i, which they received from the Latins and Greeks, and of KeUai, or Celts, the name which, according to Cajsar, they themselves acknowledged.* The language which they spoke, was called after them the Romance-Wallon, or rustic Romance ; and it was pretty much the same throughout all France, except that, as it extended southward, a nearer approach to the Latin was perceptible ; whilst, on the Nortli, the German ])revailed. In the partition, made in 842, amongst the children of Louis the Debonnaire, the common language was made use of, for the first time, in a public pro- ceeding, as the people were a party to the transaction in taking the oath of allegiance to the King. The oath of Charles the Bald, and tliat of his subjects, are two of the most ancient remaining monuments of the Romance language. The language employed in them resembles the Proven(;al as much as that wliich was afterwards called the Romance- Wallon. The coronation of Bozon, King of Aries, in 879, divided France into two portions, which continued rival and indepen- dent states, during four centuries. These provinces seemed destined to be constantly inhabited by different races of men. * All these names diflFered only in the pronunciation ; but the Ba.s- Brelon.s, a remnant of the Celts, preserved in their lanc^iiage another celebrated name, of a different origin, and which was, perhaps, with them, an honourable title. They called themselves Cimbri. OP TUE TKOtiVKRES. 189 Cnssar 1ms remarked, that in liis time the Aquitani differed from the Celtai in language, manners, and laws. In the country of the former, the Visigoths and the Burgundians established themselves, and the Franks, in the territories of the latter ; while the division of the two monarchies, Avhich took place at the end of the Carlovingian race, only, perhaps, confirmed the ancient distinction between the people. Their language, though formed from the same elements, grew every day more dissimilar. The people of the South called them- selves Romans-'provencaux; while the northern tribes added to the name of Romans, which they had assumed, that of Waelclts, or Wallons, which tliey had received from the neighbouring people. The Provencal was called the Langue d'Oc, and the Wallon the Langue d'Oil, or d'Oui, i'rom the affirmative word of each lanjiruaiie, as the Italian was then called the Langue desi, and the German the Langue de ya. Normandy, a province of France, was invaded, in the tenth century, by a new northern tribe, who, under the command of RoUo, or Raoul, the Dane, incorporated themselves with the ancient inhabitants. This mixture introduced into the Romance new German words and idioms. Yet the active spirit which led the conquerors to this province, their good laws, their wise administration, and their adoption of the language of the conquered, were the means of giving the Romance -Wallon, a more fixed form, and a greater polish, in Normandy, than in any other province of France. Rollo acquired the Dukedom in 912 ; and a century and a half later, one of his descendants, William the Conqueror, was himself so much attached to the Romance-Wallon, and en- couraged it so greatly amongst his subjects, that he introduced it into England, and forced it ujion the people by i-igorous enactments, instead of their ancient language, which nearly resembled that of his own ancestors. It was from Normandy that the first writers and the first poets in the French language sprung. Tlie laws which William the Conqueror, who died in 1087, imposed upon his English subjects, are the most ancient work in the Romance-Wallon which has come down to us. After this legal memorial, the two first literary works, which prove that the Langue d'Oui was beginning to be cultivated, are the Book of the Britons, or Brutus, a fabulous history of the Kings of England, written 190 ON TIIF, LITERATURE in verse, in 1X55, and the Ivomance of the Knirjhf of ike Lion, written at tlie same period, both of them in Kormand}% or at least by Normans.* Le Ron des Normands, or Le lAvre de JRaoul, composed by Gasse in 1 160, and which gives a history of tlie establishment of that people in Normand)-, must be placed in the third rank. Tlie period >vas not now far distant, when the romances of chivalry were to maketlieir appearance in the same language. The first of these was Tristan de Leonois, wv'Mcn in prose, about tlie year 1190. A few years afterwards appeared the romances of Saint Greaal and Lancelot; and these, likewise, proceeded either from Normandy, or from the court of England. Before the year 1200, an anonymous translation of the Life of Charle- magne was made ; and previously to 1213, Geoffrey de A^illehardouin had written, in the French language, a History of the Conquest of Constantinople. Amongst the different works which appeared at this period, the poem o{ Alexander is that which has enjoyed the greatest share of reputation. It was, probably, given to the world about the year 1210, in the reign of Philip Augustus ; as there are many flattering allusions to incidents which occur- red at the court of that prince. It is not the work of one individual only, but contains a series of romances and mar- * There are naany copies of the Romance of Brutus. That which I have examined is in the Royal Library. It commences with the follow- ing lines : Qui velt oir, qui velt savoir De roi en roi ct d'hoir en lioir Qui cil fiircnt, ct dont ils vinrent Qui Engleterrc primes tinrent, Queus rois y a en ordre cu Qui ain9ois et qui puis y fu, ilaistre Gasse I'a translate Qui en conte la verite, Si que li livrcs la deviscnt. The romancer takes up his history sufficientiy early. He thus begins • Por la vcniancc de Paris Qui de Gresse ravit Holiine. In these and the subsequent extracts I have not confined myself scrupulously to the ancient orthograpliy. AUliough it may be essential to tlie study of the language, it is not so to an acquaintance with the si)irit of the ancient poetry. By changing a few letters, I have probably saved the reader much useless difliculty. OF THE TROUVERES. 191 vellous Iiistories, which are said to be the result of the labours of nine celebrated poets of tlie time. Those best known at the present day are, Lambert li Cors, or the Little ; Alexander de Bernay, who continued Lambert ; and Thomas of Kent. Alexander, perhaps the only hero of Greece, who was known in the middle ages, is introduced, not surrounded by the pomp of antiquity, but by the splendours of chivalry. Of the different parts of this poem, one is called Ll Roumans de tote Chevalerie, because Alexander is represented in it, as tlie greatest and noblest of cavaliers. Another bears the title of Zie Vo3U du Paon, or The Vow of the Peacock, from its containing a description of the taking of the oath of chivalry, as it was practised at the court of the Macedonian liero. The high renown of this poem, which was universally read, and translated into several languages, has given the name of Alexandrine verse to the measure in which it is written ; a measure, which the French have denominated the heroic* Thus, in the twelfth century, tlie Ilomance-Wallon became a literary language, subsequent, by at least a hundred years, to the Romance-proven9al. The wars against the Albi- genses, which at this period caused an intercourse between the two nations into which France was divided, contributed probably to inspire a taste for poetry in that province, which was the most tardy in emerging from a state of barbarism, and which could boast, only towards the year 1220, a poetical literature consisting of lyrical pieces, of songs, virelays, * The poems mentioned above are -written in verses of eight syllables, rhymed two and two, and preserving the distinction of masculine and feminine verses, but without regarding the rule, which the French poets of the present day observe, of using them alternately. Nearly all the Fabliaux are written in the same measure. The Alexandrine of twelve syllables, with the ceesura in the middle, divides itself generally, to the ear, into two lines of equal length. Formerly it was even more monoto- nous and laboured than at present, for the poets used frequently to leave a mute sjdlable in the middle of the verse, at the end of the ccesura. The Italians, in their Leonine verses, and the Spanish, in their verses de arte mayor, have the same monotonous defect. It may be observed in the commencement of the poem of A lexander. Qui vers de riche estoire veut entendre et oir. Pour prendre bon exemple de prouesse cueillir, La vie d'Alexandre, si com je I'ai trovce En plusieurs leus ccrite et de boche contee . . . . kc. 192 ox THE LITERATURE ballads, and sirventea. The reciters of tales, and the poets, giving the name of Troubadour a French termination, called themselves Trouveres.* With the exception of the difference of language, it may be thought that the Troubadour and the Trouvere, whose merit was pretty nearly equal ; who were equally ignorant or well-informed ; who both of them spent their lives at courts, at which they composed their poems, and where they mingled wnth knights and ladies ; and who were both accompanied by their Jongleurs and minstrels, should have preserved the same resemblance in their productions. Nothing, however, can be more dissimilar than their poems. All that remains of the poetry of the Troubadours is of a lyrical character, while that of the Trouveres is decidedly epic. The Provencals, it is true, have appealed against the judgment which has been passed upon their poets, to whom the partizans of the Trouveres have denied all the merit of invention. The former maintain,! that it is evident that this charge is false, from the long catalogue of the tales, romances, and fables, with which it was the duty of the Jongleurs to be acquainted, in order to entertain the great, and which have since either been lost or are preserved in the Langue d'Oil. They further insist, that amongst the poems of the Trouveres, many are to be found of Provencal origin, which appears from the scene being laid in Provence ; and they maintain that the Trouveres contented themselves with translating the romances and Jahliaux, of which they were not the inventors. It seems, however, exceedingly unac- countable, that the sont/s only of the Provencals, and the talcs of the French, should have been preserved, if tlie genius of the two nations, in this respect, were not essentially distinct.;}: * We have elsewhere remarked, that in rroven9al, Trobaire is the nominative of Troubadors. + Anion.i;^ others, in the " Con-feils au Jongleur" those of Giraud de Calanson, of which we have given an extract, and which are referred to the year 1210. — Vide Pappon, Lettres sur les Troubadours, p. 225 3, 227. X [This must be taken with much qualification. A mere reference to the pages of Laborde's Essay on Music, will show that there are yet remaining, in manuscript, an immense number of lyric pieces of the northern school. It is hardly safe to found any very positive opinions on the absence of tales and romances from the manuscript collections of OF THE TROU VERES. 193 The biography of the Troubadours has been frequently civen to the public. The lives which Avere published by Nostradamus, and the accounts collected by M. de Sainte- Palaye, and afterwards made known to the public by Millot, are, for the most part, highly romantic. They contain the history of their intrigues with noble ladies, of their sufferings, and of their chivalric achievements. Tiie lives of the Trou- veres are much more obscure. Scarcely have the names of any survived, nor is the history of the most celebrated indi- viduals known. If a few anecdotes have been preserved, they possess little either of interest or of adventure. The Trouveres have left us many romances of chivalry, nnd fahliuujc; and upon the former, the twelfth and tliirteenth centuries must rest their claims to glory. The spirit of chivalry, which bui'st forth in these romances ; the heroism of honour and love ; the devotion of the powerful to the weak ; the noble purity of cliaracter, triumphing over all opposition, which is held forth as a model in these works ; and the supernatural fictions, so novel and so dissimilar to everything which either antiquity or later times had produced, display a force and a brilliancy of imagination, wliicli, as nothing had prepared the way for them, seem quite inex- plicable. After searching, on all sides, for the inventors of that chivalric spirit which burns in the romances of the middle ages, we are astonished to observe how sudden was that burst of genius. We in vain attempt to discover, in the manners or in the traditions of the Germans, the birth of chivalry. Tliat people, although they respected women and admitted them to their counsels and their worship, had still more deference than tenderness for the sex. Gallantry was unknown to them ; and their brave, loyal, but rude manners, could never have contributed to the development of the the Troubadours yet preserved to us. It had often been a. subject of wonder, that, notwithstanding the prevalence of Troubadour poetry in Catalonia, no remains of it were known to be preserved there. Yet a recent visit to the archives of its churches, has shown that an immense quantity is yet in existence, though unpublished. Had it not been for the literary zeal of one individual (Mr. Edgar Taylor, in his work, called, Lai/s of the Minnesingers, or Gervtan Troubadours), the his- torian might now have asserted, without fear of contradiction that the Minnesingers wrote no lyrical poetry. — Tr.] 194 ox THE LITERATURE sentiinonl and licroisni of cliiv:ihy. Tlieir imagination was gloomy, and thoii* suptirnatural Avorld was peopled witli malicious beings. The most ancient poem of Germany, that of the Niebelungen, in tlie form in which we at present find it, is posterior to the lirst French romances, and may have been modilied by them. But the manners it describes are not those of chivalry. Love acts no part in it ; for the war- riors are actuated by far different interests and far different ])assions from that of gallantry. Women are seldom intro- duced, and then not as objects of devotion ; while the men are not softened down and civilized by their union with them. Tlie inventors of the romances of cliivahy, on tlie contrary, have united in painting their heroes, as endowed witli the most brilliant qualities of all the nations with which they had come in contact ; with the fidelity of the Germans, the gallantry of the French, and the rich imagination of the Arabians. It is to the last source, according to others, that we are to look for the primary origin of the romance of chivalry. At the first view, this opinion appears to be natural, and to be supported by many facts. Some very ancient romances represent the system of chivalry as having been established amongst tlie Moors, as well as amongst the Christians, and introduce Moorish knights ; whilst all the reciters of tales, the historians, and the poets of Spain, I'epresent the manners of the Moors as those of chivahy. Thus Ferragus, Ferraii, or Fier-a-bras, the bravest and the most loyal of the Moorish knights, figures in the Chronicle of Turpin, which preceded all the romances of chivalry. The same chronicle affirms, that Charlemagne was dubbed a knight by Galafron, Emir (Admirantus,) or Saracen prince of Coleto, in Provence. So, Bernard Carpio, the most ancient hero of Christian Spain, signalized himself, chiefly in the Moorish army, by his chivalrous deeds. The History of the civil wars of Grenada is a chivalric romance ; and, in the Diana of IMontemayor, the only chivalric adventure which is contained in that pas- toral composition, is laid amongst the Moors. It is the history of Abindarraes, one of the Abencerrages of Grenada, and the beautiful Xarifa. The ancient Spanish romances, and their oldest poem, the Cid, attribute the same manners to the Arabians, as early as the twelfth century. All that por- OF THE TROTTVERES. 195 tlon of Spain, wliich was occupied by the Moors, was covered with strong castles, built on all the heights ; and every petty prince, every lord, and even every chleh, exercised an inde- pendent power. Tiiere certainly existed in Spain, at least, u sort of Arabian feudalism, and a spirit of liberty, very different from that of Islamism. The notions on the point of honour, Avhich not only possessed a great influence over the system of chivalry, but even over our modern manners, rather belonged to the Arabians than to the German tribes. To tliem, we owe that spirit of vengeance which has been so religiously observed, and that fastidious sensibility to insults and aff"ronts, Avhich has induced men to sacrifice not only their own lives but those of their fiimilies, to wash out a stain upon their honour ; and which produced the revolt of the Alpnxarraof Grenada in the year 1568, and the destruc- tion of fifty thousand Moors, to avenge a blow given by D. Juan de Mendoza to D. Juan de Malec, the descendant of the Aben-IIumeyas. Devotion to the female sex appears to be still peculiar to those nations, whose blood has felt the ardent influence of a burning sun. They love with a passion and an excess, of which neither our ordinary life nor even our romances present any idea. They regard the habitations of their wives as a sanctuary, and a reflection upon them as a blasphemy. The honour of a man is deposited in the hands of her whom he loves. The period, when chivalry took its rise, is precisely that, when the moral feelings of the Ara- bians attained their highest pitch of delicacy and refinement. Virtue was then the object of their enthusiasm ; and the purity of the language, and of the ideas of their authors, ought to make us ashamed of the corruption of our own. As a further proof, of all the nations of Europe, the Spanish are the most chivalric ; and they alone were the immediate scholars of the Arabians. But, if chivalry be of Arabic origin, whence comes it, that we have so few traces of it in their writings ? Whence comes it, that we are not indebted to the Spanish and the Provencals, for our first romances ? and how does it happen, that the scene, in the earliest works of that kind, is laid in France or England ; countries, over which the Arabians had, certainly, never any influence ? 19G ON THE LITERATURE The romances of chivalry are divided into three distinct classes, Tiiey relate to three dift'erent epochs, in tlie curly part of the middle ages ; and they represent three communi- ties, three bans fier qui oncques fut en vie. A Saint Dcnys a la niailrc abbayie Dedans un livre dc grant ancienncrie Trovons ccrit, etc. OF THE TROUvi:RES. 209 tlilrteenth century ; and all its characteristics are to be found in the romances of Adenez. The knights no longer wan- dered, like the cavaliers of the Round Table, through the dark forests of a semi-barbarous country, covered with mists and white with frosts. The whole universe w-as exposed to their eyes. The Holy Land, indeed, was the grand object of their pilgrimages ; but, by that means, they established an intercourse with the extensive and wealthy kingdoms of the East. Their geography, like all their information, was much confused. Their voyages from Spain to Carthage, and from Denmark to Tunis, were accomplished with a facility and i-apidity, even more surprising than the enchantments of Maugis or Morgana. These fantastic voyages furnished the ■Romance writers with opportunities of adorning their nar- rative with the most splendid descriptions. All the luxury and perfumes of the most highly-favoured countries were at their command. The pomp and magniticence of Damascus, of Bagdad, and of Constantinople, swelled the triumph of their heroes. But the most precious of all their acquisitions, was the imagination of the people of the South and the East ; that brilliant and playful faculty, so well calculated to give animation to the sombre mythology of the North. The fays were no longer hideous wretches, the object of popular hatred and dread, but the rivals or allies of those enchanters, who, in the East, disposed of the seal of Solomon, and of the Genii who waited upon it. To the art of prolonging life, they added that of multiplying pleasures. They were, in a manner, the priestesses of nature, and all her pomps. At their voice, magnificent palaces started up in the deserts ; enchanted gardens and perfumed groves of oranges and myr- tles burst forth amid the sands, or on the rocks of the ocean. Gold, and diamonds, and pearls, sparkled upon their gar- ments, or along the walls of their palaces ; and their love, far from being considered sacrilegious, was the sweetest recom- pense of a warrior's toils. Ogier the Dane, the valiant Paladin of Charlemagne, was thus welcomed by the fay Morgana to her castle of Avalon. Morgana, taking a crown of gold ornamented with jewels, representing the leaves of the laurel, the myrtle, and the rose, tells the knight that she had, with five of her sisters, endowed him from his birth, and that she had then chosen him for her favourite. — " Here 210 ox THE LITERATURE reign," says she, " and receive this crown, a symbol of the authority which you shall ever exercise here." Ogier per- mits her to place upon his head the I'atul crown, to which belonged the gift of immortal youth ; but, at the same time, every sentiment was effaced from his mind, except love for Morgana. The hero forgets the court of Charlemagne, and the glory he had gained in France ; the crowns of Denmark, of England, of Acre, of Babylon, and of Jerusalem, which he had successively worn ; the battles he had fought, and the many giants he had conquered. He passes two hundred years with Morgana, intoxicated with love, without noting the lapse of time ; but, upon his crown accidentally falling into a fountain, his memory is restored. He believes that Charlemagne is still alive, and he eagerly asks for intelli- gence of the brave Paladins, his companions in arms.* AVlien * Morgana, who meets Ogier on a loadstone rock, which attracts his vessel, in the first place restores his youth to him. " Then she ap- proaclied Ogier, and gave him a ring, which was of such virtue, that, though he had numbered a hundred years, he was immediately restored to the age of thirty." She thus prepared him for an introduction into an assembly of the " finest nobles that were ever seen." In fact, King Arthur and all the peers of ancient chivalr}-, for three hundred years past, were assembled in the delicious spot into which the knight of Charlemagne was admitted. " Or quaud 2ilurgue approcha du chdteau, ses fees vindrcnt au-devant d'Ogier, chantant le plus melodieusement qu'on sauroit jamais ouir ; puis entra dedans la salle pour soi deduyre totalement. Adonc vit plusieurs dames fees aornees, et toutes couronnees de couronnes tres- somptueusement faites, moult riches; et long du jour chantoient, dan- soient, ct menoient joyeuse vie, sans penser a quelque chose, fors prendre leurs mondains plaisir.<. Et ainsi que Ogier, il devisoit avec les dames, tantOt arriva le roi Arthus, auquel ilorgue la fee dit : Approchez-vous, monsiegneur mon frfere, et venez saluer la flcur de toute chevalerie, I'houneur de toute la noblesse de France, celui oil bonte, loyauto, et toute vertu est enclose. C'est Ogier de Danemarck, mon loyal ami et mon seul plaisir, aucjuel r6git toute I'esperancc de ma liesse. Adonc le roi vint embrasser Ogier tr^s-amiablement. Ogier, triis-noble chevalier, vous soyez le trfes-bicn venu, et regratie trtisgraudement notre Seigneur de ce qu'il m'a envoye un si trfcs-uotable chevalier. Si le fit servir incontinent au siege de ^hxchar, par grant honneur, dont il remercia le roi Arthus tr&s-grandement ; puis Jlorgue la fee lui mit une couronne dessus son chef, moult riche et protieusc, si que nul vivant ne la sauroit priser nullement. Et avec ce quelle etoit riche, elle avoit en die une vertu merveilleuse ; car tout hommc qui la portoit sur son chef, il oublioit tout dcuil, melancolie et tristesse, ne jamais ne lui sonvenoit de pays ni de parens qu'il eut ; car taut quelle fut sur son chef, n'cut penscment OF THE TROUVERES. 211 we peruse this pleasing fiction, we easily perceive that it was written after the crusade had mingled the nations of the East and the "West, and enriclied the French with all the treasures of Arabian imagination. CHAPTER VIII. OS THE VARIOUS POETEY OF TIIE TKOUVeRES; THEIR ALLEGORIES; FABLIAUX; LYRICAL POEMS ; MYSTERIES AXD ilORALITIES. Although the literature of France is entirely distinct from the Romantic literature, having adopted a different set of rules, and a different spirit and character, yet tlie literature of the Langue d'Oil and of the Trouveres, which was that of ancient France, had the same origin as that of the South. It owed its birth, in the same manner, to the mixture of the Xorthern nations with the Romans. Chivalry and the feudal system, the manners and opinions of the middle ages, gave it its peculiar character ; and not only did it belong to the same class as the literature of Provence, of Italy, and of Spain, but it even exercised a very perceptible influence over those countries. It is amongst the Trouveres that Ave must look for the origin of the chivalric poems, the tales, the allegories, and the dramatic compositions, of southern Europe. Thus, although none of their works have obtained a high reputation, or deserve to be ranked amongst the masterpieces of the human intellect, they are still worthy of cur attention, as monuments of the progress of the mind, and as gleams of that rising taste which has since been fully developed. Nothing is more difficult than to define the constituent qualities of poetry. As the peculiar object of this divine art is to captivate the whole soul, to allure it from its seat, and to ti'ansport it to a higher sphere, where it may enjoy delights which seem reserved for more perfect beings, every one is only sensible, in poetry, to that which is in unison with his own character, and values it in proportion to its power of ex- citing the feelings which most strongly atfect him, and whicli quelconque ne de la dame Clarice, ne de Guyon son frfere, ne de son neveu Gautier, no de creature qui ffit en vie, car tout fiit mis lors en oubli." Fol. G. Lit. Goth. Ogier-Ie Danois. Printed by Alain Lotrian and Denys Janot, without name of place or year, in 12mo. 212 ox THE LITERATURE most largely contribute to his own enjoyments. Hence some regard imagination as the essence of poetry. Others have supposed it to consist in feeling, in reflection, in enthusiasm, or in liveliness. It appears, then, that if we are desirous of being correctly understood, we must apply the name of poetry to every composition in which men, gifted with genius, express their various emotions ; that we must give that name to every production which unites harmony and rich expressi;^! ; ai^d that we must admit that all the powers of the mind may, in their turn, be clothed in that brilliant form, that melodious and figurative language, which captivates all the senses at once, striking upon the ear with a regular cadence, and pre- senting to the mind's eye all the pictures of its marvellous creation. When we thus adopt the name of poetry, as descriptive of the form of expression only, we shall be better able to com- prehend how the poetry of one nation differs, in its essential characteristics, from that of another ; and how strictly it is in accordance with those qualities, wliich are most powerfully developed amongst the nation by whom it is cultivated. The character of a people is always communicated to their poetry. Amongst the Provengals, it is full of love and gallantry ; amongst the Italians, it abounds with playful imagination. The poetry of the English is remarkable for its sensibility ; that of the Germans, for its enthusiasm. In the Spanislx poetry, we remark a wildness of passion, which has suggested gigantic ideas and images ; while, in the Portuguese, there is a spirit of soft melancholy and pastoral reflection. All these nations considered those subjects alone to be adapted to poetry, which were accordant with tlieir own dispositions ; and they all agreed in considering the character of the French nation as anti-poetical. The latter, again, even from the earliest period, have testified their aversion to the more contemplative qualitieo of the mind, and have given the preference to wit and argu- ment, cultivating the imagination only inasmuch as it assists the faculty of invention. The witty and argumentative taste of this nation has gradually increased. The French have attached themselves almost exclusively, in their poetry, to the narrative style, to wit, and to argument ; and they have, therefore, become such complete strangers to romantic poetry, that they have detached themselves from all the other modern OP^ THE TROU VERES. 213 nations, and have placed themselves under the protection of the ancients. Not because the ancients, like them, confined tlieraselves to the elegant arrangement of the action, to con- ventional proprieties, and to argumentative conclusions, but because they developed all the human faculties at one and the same time; and because the French discovered in the classical authors, which are the admiration of all Europe, those qualities upon which they themselves set the highest value. Hence, modern writers have been divided into two parties so diame- trically opposite to each other, that they are each incapable of comprehending the principles upon which the other proceeds. But, before the French had raised the standard of Aristotle, Avhich occurred about a century and a half ago, poetry ,was not an art which was practised by rule, but rather an inspira- tion. The works of the Trouveres ali'eady differed from those of the Troubadours, without any opposition having arisen between them. The poets of the South, on the con- trary, perceiving nothing revolting to their taste in the dif- ference of style, profited by the circumstance, and enriched their poems with the inventions of the people who were situated to the north of the Loire. The French certainly possessed, above every other nation of modern times, an inventive spirit. Complaints, and sighs, and passionate expressions, were more fatiguing to them than to any other people. They required something more real, and more substantial, to captivate their attention. We have seen that amongst them the rich and brilliant inventions of the romances of chivalry originated. We shall soon see that they were the inventors of the Fahlimix, or tales of amusement, and that it was they, also, who inspired more life into their narrations, by placing the circumstances before the eyes of the spectators in their mysteries ; a dramatic invention, which owes its rise to them. On the other hand, we find them, at the same period, producing some tedious works of a different kind ; those allegorical poems, which were subsequently imitated by all the romantic nations, but which seem to be more immediately the offspring of French taste, and which, even to the present day, find some imitators amongst our poets. This allegorical form of composition gratified, at once, the national taste for narrative pieces, and the still more na- 214 ox THE LITEUATUIIE tional attachment to compositions whicli unite wit and argu- ment to a moral aim. The French are the only people who, in poetry, look to the object of the composition ; and they, perhaps, understand better than any other nation how to ac;- complisli their purpose. They, therefore, always write with a definite aim in view; whilst other nations conceive it to be. the essence of poetry not to seek any certain object, but to abandon themselves to unpn^meditated and spontaneous tran- sports, courting poetry from inspiration alone. Tlie most celebrated, and perhaps the most ancient, of these allegorical poems, is the Romance of the Rose ; a name known to every one, althoiigli few persons are acquainted with the nature and object of the Avork itself. It is necessary to premise, that the Romance of the Rose, is not a romance in the sense which we attach, at the present day, to that word. At the period at which it was composed, the French was still called the Romance language, and all the more voluminous productions in that tongue were consequently called lloman.% or Romances. The Romance of the Rose contains twenty thousand verses ; and it is the work of two different authors. Four thousand one hundred and fifty verses were written by Guillaume de Lorris ; while his continuator, Jean de Meun, produced the remainder of the poem, fifty years later. Guillaume de Lorris proposed to treat on the same suly'ect, which Ovid had adopted in his Art of Love. But the dis- similarity between the two works very plainly marks the dis- tinction whicli existed between the spirit of the two ages. Guillaume do Lorris makes no appeal to lovers ; he speaks not either from his own feelings, or his own experience ; he relates a dream ; and this eternal vision of his, which would certainly have occupied not a few nights, in no point resembles a real dream. A crowd of allegorical personages appear before him, and all the incidents of a tedious passion are converted into real beings, and endowed with names. There is first Dame Oisense, or Lady Idleness, who inspires the lover with the desire of finding the Itoi^e, or the reward of Love. Then there are 3Iale-hoiichc and Danrjier, who mis- lead him ; and Felonie, JJai^xesse, II nine, and Avarice, who impede his pursuit. All human virtues and vices are thus personified and introduced upon the scene. One allegory is OF THE TROUVEKES. 215 linked to another, and the imagination wanders amongst these fictitious beings, upon whom it is impossible to bestow any corporeal attributes. This fatiguing invention is necessarily destructive of all interest. We are flir more willing to bestow our attention upon a poem which relates to human feelings and actions, however insignificant they may be, than upon one which is full of abstract sentiments and ideas, represented under the names of men and women. At the period, however, when the Romance of the Rose first appeared, the less it interested the reader as a narrative, the more it was admired as a work of intellect, as a fine moral conception, and as philosophy clothed in the garb of poetry. Brilliant passages struck the eye at every line ; the object of the author was never out of sight ; and since poetry was re- garded by the French as the vehicle of agreeable instruction, they must necessarily have been of opinion, that the Romance of the Rose was admirably calculated for attaining this end, as it contained a rich mine of pleasing information.' Ujwn this question of instruction and moral discipline, we should decide very diftercntly at the present day. It is no longer thought, that, in recommending virtue, it is necessary to paint vice with grossness, as is frequently done by Guillaurae de Lorris. We should no longer tolerate the cynical lan- guage, and the insulting manner, in which he, and especially his successor, Jean de Meun, speak of the female sex ; and we should be shocked at their indecency, so opposed to every idea of love and chivalric gallantry which we now entertain. Our ancestors were, doubtless, much less delicate than we. No book was ever more popular than the Romance of the Rose. Not only was it admired as a masterpiece of wit, in- vention, and practical philosophy, but the I'eader attempted to discover in it matters wiiich had never entered into the contemplation of the author. One allegory was not sufficient, and a second was sought for. It was pretended that Lorris had veiled, in this poetical form, the highest mysteries of theology. Learned commentaries were written upon it, which are appended to the Paris edition, (folio, 1531,) and in which a key is given to this divine allegory, which is said to pourtray the grace of God and the joys of Paradise, in those licentious passages which describe terrestrial love. It must be confessed, that this admiration of a work which contained 216 ON THE LITERATLKE many immoral passages, excited, at length, tlie animad- versions of some of the fathers of the Cliurch. Jean Gerson, Chancellor of the University of Paris, and one of the most respected of the Fathers of the Council of Constance, pub- lished a Latin treatise against the Romance of the Rose. From tliis period, many preachers fulminated their censures against the corrupting volume ; whilst others did not scruple to cite passages from it in the pulpit, and to mingle the verses of Guillaume de Lorris witli texts of holy writ. "Whilst the national character of the French was thus manifested in the allegorical form which Guillaume de Lorris gave to this didactic poem, it was lilcewise recognized in the style which he selected. To narrate with neatness, clearness, and a degree of simplicity, to which, at the same time, elegance, precision of expression, and a mixture of ab- stract sentiment are united, appeared to the French, at that time, to be the essence of the poetical art. Even yet, they regard as poetical, those compositions in which other nations can distinguish nothing but rhymed prose. The Romance of the Rose, and its numberless imitations, are of this class. The language is never figurative ; it presents notliing to the eye ; it neither proceeds fi-om, nor affects, the heart ; and if the measure of tlie verse were taken away, it would be im- possible to recognize it as poetry. In the note, some of the best passages of the poem are extracted.* • The origin of royalty is represented in the following lines : — Les horns la terre se partirent, Et au partir, homes y niirent : ^lais quaiul les bornus y uiuttoicnt, Maintcs fois s'entrecombattoient, Et se toUurcnt ce qu'ils purent ; Les pins forts les plus grands parts eurcnt. . . . Lors, convint que Ton ordonnat Aucun qui los borncs gardat, Et qui les malfaiteurs tous prit, Et si bon droit aux plaiiitifs lit Que nul ue I'osnt contredire ; Lors s'assemblcrent pour I'elire. . . . Un grand vilain entr'eux olureut, Le plus ossu de qnant (ju'ils furent, Le i)lus corsu, et le fjreicjneur {plus grand) Et le fircut prince et seigneur . . , . Cil jura que droit leur tiendroit, Se OF THE TROUVERES. 217 Guillaume de Lorris commenced the Romance of the Rose, in the earlier part of the thirteentli century, and died in 1260. His successor, Jean de Meun, surnamed Clopinel, was not born until 1280. The continuation of the Romance of the Rose is posterior to the great poem of Dante, which is, like it, Se chacuu en droit soit lui livre Des bieus dont il se puisse vivre .... De la viut le commencement Aux rois et princes terriens Selon les livres anciens. The following is a celebrated representation of Time, which has been often quoted : Le Temps qui s'en va unit et jour Sans repos prendre et sans sejour ; Et qui de nous se part et emble Si secrtitement qu'il nous semble Que maintenant soit en un point, Et il ne s'y arrete point ; Ains nefine d'outre passer (cesse), Sitot que ne sauriez penser Quel temps il est presentement : Car avant que le pensement Fut fini, si bien y peusez Trois temps seroient deja passes. The next lines contain the portrait of Love, which, in a poem written in his honour, ought certainly to be the most admirable passage in the book : Le dieu d'amour, cil qui depart Amourettes a sa devise, C'est cil qui les amans attise, A portrait of Dame Beauty : Celle dame avoit nom Beaute, Qui point netoit noire ne brune, Mais aussi clfere que la lune Est envers les autres estoiles Qui semblent petites chandelles. Tendre cliair eut comme rosee ; Simple fut comme uue epousee, Et blanche comme tieur de lys. Le vis {visage) eut bel, doux et , alys ipoli); Et estoit grSle et alignge, Fardee n'estoit ne pignee. Car elle n'avait pas mestier De soi farder et nettoyer ; Even the title of the work was in rhyme : Cy est le rommant de la Rose (^ui a etc nouvellement Oil tout art d'amour est enclose. Corrige suffisantement, Histoires et autorites, Et cote bien a I'avantaige Et maints beaux propos usites. VOL. I. Cil qui abbat I'orgueil des braves, Cil fait les grands seigneurs esclaves, Et fait servir royne et princesse, Et repentir none et abbesse. Cheveux avoit blonds et si longs Qu'ils lui battoient jusqu'aux talons ; Beaux avoit le nez et la bouche. Moult grand douleur au cuer me touche Quandde sa beaute me remembrc Pour la fa9on de chacun mem- bre. . . . Jeune fut et de grand faconde, Saige plaisante, gaie et cointe (agreable), Gresie, gente, frisque et accointe {adroite). Com on voit en chacune paige. 218 ON THE LITERATURE a vision. Guillaume deLorris is, however, the true inventor of that style of writing, and the innumerable poetical visions, which occupy so large a space in modern literature, are all imitations of the Romance of the Rose. The first imitations of this poem appeared in French, and, like their model, they bear the title of romances. One of these romances, which was very famous in its day, and copies of which are frequently met with in libraries, is that of the Tro'h Pelerinages, composed by Guillaume de Guilleville, a Cistercian monk, between 1330 and 1358. This is, also, a dream, of a most appalling length ; for each pilgrimage occupies a poem of tenor twelve thousand verses, forming a quarto volume. The first is the pilgrimage of man, or human life ; the second, the pilgrimage of the soul after it has left the body, or the life to come ; the third, the pilgrim- age of Jesus Christ, or the life of our Lord. Guilleville tells us in his poem, that the Romance of the Rose was his model ; but it is easy to perceive that he has likewise imitated Dante, whose immortal poem had appeared in the interval. Thus, in his orthodox visions, Guilleville takes Ovid for his guide, as Dante was conducted by Virgil through the regions of the dead. But Virgil was in reality the master of the Florentine, and had inspired him with the perception and the enthusiasm of poetry ; whilst Guilleville owes nothing to Ovid, and has no connexion with the guide whom he pretends to follow. About the same time, appeared the Bible G^iyot,* the work of riugues de Bercy, surnamed Guyot, a bitter satire against all classes of society. It contains the Book of Man- devie, or the amendment of the life ; the Book of Clergie, or of the sciences ; and many others of the same kind, in which * The following is a fragment of this poem. The title of Bible is merely synonymous with Book, Contre les Femmes. NuUi ne pot oncqu' aceomplir Moult mue souvent son courage, Voloir de fcmmc ; c'est folic Et tost a d6(;u le plus sage De chcrchier lor ctre ct lor vie, Quand me membre (■souvient) dc Quand li sagcsn'y voicntgoute. . . Salomon, Femme no I'ut onequcs vaincuc Dc Costantin et de Samson Ne apertement bieii cognuc : Que femmes inganifcrcnt si, Quand li oeil plcurc li cuer rit, Moult mc tuit {convient) d'Ctre Peu peuse a ce (ju'elle nous dil, esbahi. OF THE TROUVERES. 219 tiresome allegories partially conceal morals no less fatiguing. We should feel astonished at the patience of our forefathers, who could thus devour these long and stupid works, did we not remember that the people of that day were almost entirely without books, and that there was nothing around them which could extend or awaken their ideas. A single work, a single volume, was the treasure of a whole mansion. In unfavour- able weather, it was read to a circle around the fire ; and when it was finished, the perusal was again commenced. The wit of the company was exercised in discovering its applications, and in speculating upon its contents. No com- parison with other works enabled them to form a judgment upon its merits. It was reverenced like holy writ, and they accounted themselves happy in being able to comprehend it ; as tliough it were a great condescension in the author, to accommodate himself, sometimes, to their capacities. Our ancestors likewise possessed another species of poetry, which, though it might not display greater inventive talents, nor a more considerable portion of that inspiration and fire, upon which other nations have bestowed the epithet of poetical, was, at least, exceedingly amusing. Such are the fabliaux, the brilliant reputation of which has been revived in the present age. They have been represented as treasures of invention, originality, simplicity, and gaiety, of which other nations can furnish no instances, but by borrowing from the French. A vast number of these ancient tales, written in verse, in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, are pre- served in the Royal Library at Paris. M. de Caylus has given an account of them in his entertaining papers, published in the Transactions of the Academy of Inscriptions. M. Grand d'Aussy has, likewise, made a selection, which he has presented to the public in a more modern dress ; and, lastly, M. M. Barbazan and M6on have published four large volumes of these Tales, in the original language, and often with their original grossness. This important portion of the literature of the middle ages merits our attention, as affording an insight into the manners and spirit of the times, and as pointing out the origin of many of those inventions, to which men of other ages and other nations have subsequently laid claim. But researches of this kind are not suited to every one. The dictates of delicacy, decency, and modesty, were o 2 220 ON TUE LITERATURE little respected in the good old times ; and the Trouveres, fo excite the gaiety of the knights and ladies who received them at their courts, would often amuse them with very licentious wit. The grossness of their language was esteemed pleasantry, and the most dissolute manners were the most inviting sub- jects of their verse. The French, who always accounted elegance and easiness of style to be the essence of poetry, availed themselves, with eagerness, of eveiy tale of gallantry, and every adventure and anecdote, which could awaken curiosity or excite mirth. These, they put into verse, and then called themselves poets, whilst every otiier nation reserved such subjects for prose. A collection of Indian tales, entitled Dolopathos, or the King and the Seven AVise Men, having been translated into Latin, about the tenth or eleventh century, was the first storehouse of the Trouveres. The Arabian tales, which were transmitted by the Moors to the Castilians, and by the latter to the French, were in their turn versified. Even the romantic adventures of the Provencal Knights and Trou- badours, furnished the Trouveres with subjects for their tales. But, above all, the anecdotes which they collected in the towns and castles of France ; the adventures of lovers ; the tricks which were played upon the jealousy and credulity of husbands ; the gallantries of priests, and the disorders of convents, supplied the reciters of tales with inexhaustible materials for their ludicrous narratives. These were treasures common to tliem all. We seldom know the name of the Trouvere by whom these anecdotes have been versified. Others related them anew, adapting tliem to their own taste, and adding to, or retrenching from tliem, according to the impression which they wished to make upon their auditors. Thus it is, that we find in the fabliaux, every variation of the language. At the period we are discussing, there were neither theatrical entertainments, nor games at cards, to fill up the leisure hours of society. It was found necessary to devise some means of passing the long evenings in courts and castles, and even in private houses ; and the Trouveres, or relaters of tales, were therefore welcomed, with an eagerness proportioned to the store of anecdotes which they brought with them to enliven conversation. Whatever was the sub- ject of their verse, they were equally acceptable. Legends, OF THE TROUVERES. 221 miracles, and licentious anecdotes, were related by the same men to the same companies ; and, in the collections of the ancient fabliaux, we find stones of the most opposite kind immediately succeeding each other. The most numerous are those tales, properly so called, which were the models of those of Boccaccio, of the Queen of Navarre, and of La Fontaine. Some of these old fabliaux have had great fame. They have been successively reproduced by all avIio have any preten- sions to the narrative art, and they have passed from age to age, and from tongue to tongue, down to our own days. Several of them have been introduced upon the theatre, and have furnished fresh food for French gaiety. The fabliau of the Faucon gave rise to the opera of Le 3IaQnifique. That of the Myre produced Le Medecin malgre lui, and to La Housse partie we are indebted for the comedies of Conaxa and Les Deux Gendres. In the fabliaux, we find the originals of Parnell's poem of the Hermit, of the Zadig of Voltaire, and of the tale of Renard, which Goethe has converted into a long poem, under the title of Reinecke Fuchs. Le Castfli/ement d'lin Pere a son Fils, is a collec- tion of twenty-seven fabliaux, connected with one another, and forming a manual of instruction, presented by a father to his son, on his entrance into the world. The Ordene de Chevalerie is a simple and interesting recital of the mode, in which the Sultan Saladin caused himself to be dubbed a knight, by the Crusaders whom he had vanquished. In that poem, we find many authentic and contemporary details respecting the order of knighthood, the various ceremonies which accompanied tlie presentation of the different pieces of armour to the new-made knight, and the signification of these various chivalric customs, which are not to be met with else- where. Some of the fabliaux very nearly approach the romances of chivalry ; describing, like them, the heroic manners of the nobles, and not the vices of the common people. These alone are really poetical, and display a creative imagination, graceful pictures, elevated sentiments, lively representations of character, and that mixture of the supernatural, which so completely seduces the imagination. It is in a fabliau of this class, Le Lay de VOiselet*, that we * Fabliaux, vol. iii. p. 11&. 222 ON THE LITERATURE meet with the i'ullowing comparison between the worship of God and of Love. And, in truth, you well may see, God and Love do both agree :* God loves truth and reverence, Nor with those will Love dispense; God hates pride and treachery, And Love likes fidelity ; God Loves honour and courtesy, So does love as well as he ; God to prayers will give an ear, Nor does Love refuse to hear. To the same chiss belongs, also, the Lay of Aristotle, by Henry d'Audeley,f from which we have derived the enter- taining opera of Aristote Amoureux. In the middle ages, antiquity was represented in the garb of chivalry. The people of that day could scarcely comprehend, how there could have existed manners and a mode of life ditferent from their own. Ancient Greece, moreover, was only known to the people of the West, through the medium of the Arabians, The Lay of Aristotle was, in all probability, itself of eastern origin ; for that philosopher, and his disciple, Alexander, were in the number of those Greeks, whose praises the Arabians had tlie greatest pleasure in celebrating. Alexander, according to the poet, is arrested by Love, in the midst of his conquests. He dreams of nothing, but how he may amuse his mistress with festivals, and testify his passion. All his barons, his kniglits, and his soldiers, lament over his inactivity. But of this he took no care ; For he found his Love so fair. Past his hopes, that his desire Never after mounted higher Than with her to live in bliss. Love a powerful master is. * Et pour vorite vous record Dieu aime honneur etcourtoisic, J)ieu et Amour sont d'un accord, Et bonne Amour no hait-il mie ; Dicu aime sens et houorauce, Dieu ecoute belle pri(>re. Amour ne la pas en viltance ; Amour ne la met pas arriCre, etc. Dieu halt orgueil et faussct6, Et Amour aime loyaute ; t Fahliaiix, vol. i. p. 96. OF THE TROUVERES. 223 Since of man so great and brave He can make a humble slave, Who no other care shall take Than for his sweet lady's sake.* No one dares to inform Alexander of the discontent of his army. His master, Aristotle, alone, whose authority over his pupil was the result of his vast knowledge and profound wisdom, reproaches the conqueror of the world with forgetting himself for love, with suiFering his army to lie inactive in the midst of his conquests, and with disgusting the whole order of knighthood. Alexander, touched with these reproaches, promises to forsake Avithout seeins; her : his mistress, and remains some days But her pleasant memory Did not, with her presence, flee ; Love recalls each lovely grace, Her sweet manner, her fair face In whose features you could trace, Nought of malice or of ill ; Her bright forehead, like some chill And ciystal fountain ; her fine form, Pair hair, and mouth, with beauty warm : How, in mischief's name, he cries. Can I live, without this prize ! f At last, he can no longer resist the desire of again be- holding her ; and he returns to her, excusing his absence by relating how sharply he had been reprimanded by his master. The lady swears to revenge herself, and to make Aristotle himself bow to the power of her charms. She seeks him in the garden where he is studying, and employs all the arts of coquetry to seduce him. Thephilosopher in vain calls to * Dont il ne se repentoit mie. Car il avoit trouve sa mie Si belle qu'on put souhaiter. N'avoit cure d'ailleurs plaider, Fors qu'avec lui manoir et 6tre. Bien est Amour puissant et maitre, Quand du monde le plus puis- sant Fait si humble et obeissant Qu'il ne prend plus nul soin de lui, Ains s'oublie tout pour autrui. f Mais il n'a pas le souvenir Laisse ensemble avec la voie ; Qu' Amour lui ramembre et ra- voie Son clair visage, sa fa9on, 01 il n'a nuUe retra^on De vilenie ni de mal ; Front poli, plus clair que cristal, Beau corps, belle bouclie, blond chef. Ah, fait-il, comme a grand mes- chef Veulent toutes gens que je vive ? 224 ON TUE LITERATURE mind his age, his grey head, and his discoloured and meagre features. He perceives that he has devoted himself uselessly to study, and that all his learning will not preserve him from love. He humbly throws himself upon the compassion of the lady, and declares himself her slave. She does not up- braid him, but imposes a penance, to punish him for the re- bellious counsels which he had given to his pupil. Said the lady, you must bring Yourself to do another thing ; If, indeed, you feel love's fire, You must do what 1 desire : Know, then, that it is my pride This day, on your hack to ride, Through the grass and garden gay ; If you answer not with uaj', I will straightway saddle you. That will be the best to do.* The philosopher can refuse nothing to the lad}-, whom he so passionately loves. He falls on all fours, and suffers her to place a saddle on his back. The lady mounts, and guides him, with a string of roses, to the foot of the tower, where Alexander is waiting for her, and where he witnesses the triumph of love over "the most skilful clerk in all the world. "■!■ But the most interesting, and, perhaps, the most celebrated of all the fabliaux, is that of Aucassin and Nicolette,| which Legrand has given under the title of Les Amours du ban vieux iem2)S, and which has furnished the subject for a very agreeable opera, full of the splendours of chivalry. The original is written alternately in prose and verse, with a few lines of music occasionally interspersed. The language, which resembles that of Ville-Hardouin, seems to belong to the earlier part of the thirteenth century, and is the dialect of Champagne. The Provencals have, however, laid claim * Dit la Dame; vous convient f^iire Dc vous un petit chevauclier Pour moi un moult divers atl'aire, Dessus cettc iicrbe, en ce verger : Si tant ^tes d'amour surpris ; Et si veux, dit la Demoiselle, Car un moult grand talent m' a Qu'il ait sur vos dos une sello, prig Si serai plus honnetement. t [The Lay of Aristotle is to be found in "Way's Fabliaux, vol. ii. p. 159 ; but the passage given by M. de Sismondi is not sutiieicntly literal, in the translation, to authorize its insertion. Tr.] X Fabliaux, vol. i. p. 380. OF THE TROUVERES. 225 to this tale, the scene of which is laid in their territories. Aucassin, the son of the Count deBeaucaire, falls passionately in love with Nicolette, a young girl whose parents are un- known, and whom his father is unwilling he should marry. In the mean time, the Count of Valencia, the enemy of Beau - caire, besieges the city, which is on the point of being taken ; and the Count de Beaucaire in vain solicits his son to place himself at the head of the troops. Aucassin refuses to fight, unless his father will promise him Nicolette, as the reward of his valour. Having extorted tliis promise from the Count, he makes a sally, and returns victorious. The Lord of Beaucaire, relieved from his terror, forgets his promise, and being indignant at the idea of his son's unworthy alliance, he causes Nicolette to be carried oiF. * Soon as lier doom this hapless orphan spied, To a small casement with quick step she hied, And o'er the garden cast her wishful sight, All gay with flowers it seem'd, a garden of delight ; On every spray the merry birds did sing, And hail'd the season's prime with fluttering wing : " Ah, woe is me ! " she cried, in doleful cheer, " Lo ! here I bide, for ever prison'd here ! " Sweet love ! sweet Aucassin ! for thee confined ! " For that dear love which fills our mutual mind ! " Yet shall their deeds ne'er shake my constant will, " For I am true of heart, and bent to love thee still ! "f * [This translation is extracted from Mr. Way's Fabliaux, where the reader will find the story of Aucassin and Nicolette very beautifully paraphrased. See vol. i. p. 5. — Tr.] t Nicolette est en prison mise, Dans une chambre a vodte grise, Batie par grand artifice, Et empeinte i\ la mosaice. Centre la fenetre marl^rinc S'en vint s'appuyer la mesquine; Chevelure blonde et poupine Avoit, et la rose au matin N'etoit si fraiche que son teint. Jamais plus belle on ne vit. Elle regarde par la grille, Et voit la rose epanouie, Et les oiseaux qui se degoisent. Lors se plaint ainsi I'orpheline : Las, malheureuse que je suis ! Et pourquoi suis-je en prison misel Aucassin, damoiseau, mon sire, Je suis votre fidele amie, Et de vous ne suis point haie : Pour vous je suis en prison mise, En cette chambre a voilte grise. J'y trainerai ma triste vie Sans que jamais mon coeur varie, Car to uj ours serai-je sa mie. The preceding version has been selected, as approaching nearest to 226 ON THE LITERATURE It is unnecessary to make any further extracts from this fabliau, which the opera of Aucassin and Nicolette has rendered sufficiently known. Nicolette, escaping from her prison, takes refuge with the King of Torreloro, (Logodoro, or Le Torri, in Sardinia,) and afterwards in Carthage. Her birth is, in the meanwhile, ascertained to be illustrious, and she returns to Provence in disguise, where she is discovered by her lover, and all ends happily. The latter part of the tale is confused, and badly put together ; but the lirst twenty pages of the poem are written with a simplicity, a purity, and a grace, which have, perhaps, never been equalled by any poet of the good old times. The Trouveres likewise possessed a few lyrical i)oets. Although their language was less harmonious than that of the people of the South, and although their imagination was less lively, and their passions less ardent, yet they did not absolutely neglect a species of composition which formed the glory of their rivals. They attempted to introduce into the Langue d'Oil all the various forms of versification, which the Troubadours had invented for the Langue d'Oc. Lyrical poetry was more especially cultivated by the powerful nobility, and we have scarcely any other songs remaining, than such as are the composition of sovereign princes. Thibaud IIL, Count of Champagne, who flourished from 1201 to 12o3, and who ascended the throne of Navarre in 1234, is the most celebrated of the French poets of the middle ages, not only on account of his regal dignity, but of his attachment, real or supposed, to Blanche of Castile, the mother of Saint Louis, and of the influence which his romantic amours had upon the affairs of his kingdom. The poems of the King of Navarre are ex- ceedingly difficult to comprehend. Antique words were long considered in France as more poetical than modern ones ; and thus, while the language of prose was polished and ])erfected, that of poetry retained all its early obscurity. The lyric poets, moreover, seem to have attached greater import- thc modem language. In the manuscripLs printed by M. Meon, the poem is in verses of seven syllables, and commences thus : Nicole est en prison mise A la fenotre marbrine En une canbre vautie La s'apoya la mescine ; Ki faito est par grant devises, Elle avoit blonde la crigne Panturee a miramie. Et bien faitc hi sorcillc, etc. OF THE TROUYERES. 227 aiice to the sound, to the ahernation of the rhymes, and to tlie rigorous observation of the laws established by the Trou- badours for regulating the construction of the stanza in their songs, their tensons, and their sirventes, than to the sense and the sentiments which they were expressing. The two volumes, therefore, of the King of Navarre's poems, which have been published by La Ravalliere, are a curious monu- ment of the language and manners of the times, but present few attractions to the reader. Amongst the princes who led their troops to the later crusades, and whose verses have been preserved, may be mentioned Thierry de Soissons, of the ancient house of Nesle, who was made prisoner in Egypt, at the battle of Massoura ; the Vidame de Chartres, of the ancient house of Vendome ; the Count of Brittany, Jean the son of Pien-e de Dreux, called Mauclerc ; the Lord Bernard de la Ferte ; Gaces Brules, a knight and gentleman of Champagne, and a friend of the King of Navarre; and Raoul II. de Coucy, kiUed in 1249, at the side of Saint Louis, at the battle of Massoura. His grandfather, Raoul I. de Coucy, the hero of the tragedy of Gabrielle de Vergy, was slain in Palestine, in 1191. The companions of St. Louis, the valorous knights who accompanied him to the crusade, were delighted with listening to the tales of the Trouveres, who, during the festivals, related to them amusing, and often licentious anecdotes, and diverted them with marvellous adventures. When, however, they assumed the lyre themselves, their own sentiments and their own passions were their theme. They sang of love or war, and they left to inferior bards the task of mere narration. In order to give some idea of this kind of composition, I shall extract, not in its oi'iginal form, but in the shape which M. de Montcrif has given it, one of the tender and almost languishing songs of Raoul de Coucy, his Zia>/ de departie, when he followed Saint Louis to the crusade. How cruel is it to depart. Lady ! who causest all my grief ! My body to its lord's relief Must go, but thou retain'st my heart. To Syria now I -vvend my way, Where Pa^aiim swords no terror move ; Yet sad shall be each lingering day, Far from the side of her I love. 228 ON THE LITERATURE We learn from many a grave divine That (Jod iiatli written in liis law?. That, to avenge his holy cause, All eartlily thiiif^s we must rcsi,i,'n. Ijord ! I surrender all to thee ! No goods have I, nor castle fair; But, were my lady kind to me, I should not know regret nor care. At least, in this strange foreign land, My thoughts may dwell l)y night and day, (Fearless of what detractors say) On her whose smile is ever bland.* And now I make my will — and here I give, and fully do devise, My heart to her I hold so dear, My soul to God in Paradise. Amongst tlie songs of the Chatelain de Coucy, preserved in the Royal Library, I know not whether I am correct in imagining that I liave discovered the original of the piece given by M. de Montcrif. The song, which is subjoined in the note,! is on the same subject, and has even many of the Que cruelle est ma departie, Dame qui causez ma langueur ! Mon corps va servir son sei- gneur, Mon coeur reste en votre balie ; Je vais soupirant en Syrie, Et des Payens n'ai nulle peur. Mais dure me sera la vie Loin de I'objet de mon ardeur. L'on nous dit et Ton nous ser- monne ^ Que Dieu, notrc l)on Cn'ateur, Veut que pour venger son hon- neur Tout dans ce monde on aban- donne. A sa volontc je m'adonne ; .Te n'ai plus ni chateau ni bicn, Mais que ma belle me soit bonne. Et je n'aurai regret a rien. Du moins dans cette otrange ten-e Pourrai-je penser jonr et nuit A ma dame au charmant souris, Sans craindre la gent maupar- Mhrc ; Et pour ma volonte demifere, Je l&gue, et clairemcnt Ic dis, Mon coeur a ccUe qui m'est chbre, Mon dmo au Dieu de paradis. f Oimi amors si dure departie Me convcndra fairc de lamoillor Qui oncques fust amee ne servic. Dex me ramoint a lui por sa dou^or Si voirementquej'en part adolor. Dex ! qu'ai-je dit, je ne m'en part je mie ; Se li cors va servir notre seignor. Tout li miens cuers remaint ea sa baillie. Por li m'en vois sopirant ensurie, Que nulnc doit faillirson Creator; (jui li faudra a cest besoing d'ahie, Sachie de voir, faudra li a grei- gnor, Et saichiez bien li grant el li minor Que la doit-on faire chctive vie. Ij-i se conquiert jiaradis et honor, Et pers et los et I'amor de sa mie. Lone OF THE TROUVERES. 229 same rhymes ; and yet it is not exactly the same thing. Another poem, likewise, on his departure, displays much sensibility at the commencement, but has no resemblance to the first piece.* The manuscript songs of these early French poets are not to be found in regular order, in the volumes in which we look for them. They are dispersed amongst a thousand other poems, and after having turned over many volumes, we cannot be confident that we have seen them all. This race of heroes f was succeeded by other poets, who Lone terns avons este prou paix oiseuze. Or partira qui acertes iert preu ; Vescu avons a honte doloreuze, Dont tous li monz est iriez et honteus ; Qnant a nos tens est perdu li sains leus Oil Dex por nos soiFrit mort angoisseuse, Or ne nos doit retenir nule lio- neus D"aller vengier cette perte hon- teuse. Qui vuet avoir honre et vie enviouse Se voist morir liez et bauz et joiauz. Car cele mort est douce et sa- Yoreuse Oil conquis est paradis et honors ; ]?^e ja de mort n'en i morra i tous, Ainsvivronttuiteuvie gloriouse, Et saiehiez bien, qui ne fust amorouz, ilofit fu.;t la vole et bele et deli- touze. Tuit li clergie, et li home d'aaige, Que de bienfaiz et d'a.imosnes vivront, Partiront tuit 3, cest pelerinaige ; Et les Dames qui ehastes se ten- dront, Et leaute portent ;\ ces qui iront. Et se les font per mal conseil folage, Ha I les quel:: gens mauvaises les feront ] Car tuit li bons iront en cet viage. Dex est assis en son baut heri- tage : Or parra bien co oil le secorront, Cui il geta de la prison ombrage, truant il fut mis en la croix que tuit ont. Certes tuit oil sont honuis que n'i vont S'ils n'ont pov'tt', ou vieillesse ou malage. Et oil qui jove et sain, et riche sont Ne porront pas demorer sans hontage. * Another song of the Ch^telain de Couey thus begins : S'oncques nuls homs por dure departic Ot cuer dolant, je I'aurai por raison, Oncques tortre qui pert son compaignon Ne remest jor de moi plus esbahie. Chacuns plore sa terre et son pays, Quand il se part de ses coraux amis : Mais nuls partir, saicbiez, que que nuls die. Nest dolorous, que d'ami et d'amic. + The interest attached to the names of distinguished men, and to 230 ON THE LITERATURE polished the language of the Troiiveres, and who, like their predecessors, confirmed the national taste for tales, allegories, and verses, in which wit and information were mingled. No extracts from these authors are given, because it is the object of this work to treat of French literature only in connexion with the Romantic poetry, and as it exerted an influence over the nations of the South. Instead of employing ourselves upon the poems of the historian Froissart, of Charles Duke of Orleans, of Alain Chartier, of Villon, and of Coquillart, who, however largely they contributed to the improvement of the French, had no share in forming the other languages of the South, we shall investigate the origin of the Mysteries, or the Romantic Drama, which first arose in France, and served as a model for the dramatic representations both of Spain and England. The French justly claim the merit of being the first dis- coverers of a form of composition, which has given such a lively character to the works of the imagination. They define poetry and the fine arts, by calling them imitatice arts, whilst other nations consider them as the effusion of the sentiments of the heart. The object of the French authors, in their tales, their romances, and their fabliaux, is to present a faithful picture our historical recollections, gives a value to all the little poems, \rhich have been written by the heroes of the crusades. We endeavour to discover in them the spirit and intimate thoughts of those preux cheva- liers. This must be my excuse for inserting, in their modern form, a few stanzas of the third song of the Vidame de Chartres, in which he gives us the portrait of his mistress : Ecoutez, nobles chevaliers, Sea yeux bleus, attrayans, rians Je vous tracerai volontiers Sont quelquefois fiers et poignans, L'image dc ma belle. Clignotans par mesure ; Son nom jamais ne le saurez, Par I'amour m6me ils sont fendus, Mais si parfois la rcncontrez, De doux filets y sont tendus, Aist'ment la reconnoltrez Et tombent coeurs gros et menus A cc portrait fidiile. Par si belle ouverture. „ , ,, , ,., ,, The following is the last stanza: Ses chevcux blonds comme til d or „, . , , ,. . Ne sont ni trop longs ni trop cort, f, ^" ^=i^'°'« Pl"^' ^^ ^^ dirois. Tons replies en onde ; ^^^''..^^O" trop parler greveroit Sous son front blanc comme Iclys, „. ^^ amor la confianee ; on I'on ne voit taches ni plis, f^ ne pent chevalier d honnour S'elbvent deux sourcils jolis. ^^anqucr a Dame et a Se.gnour Sans de Dicn meritcr ri«rour Arcs triomphans du monde. Et rude pOuitence. OF THE TROUVERES. 231 of the characters of others, and not to develope their own. They were the first, at a period when the ancient drama was entirely forgotten, to represent, in a dramatic form, the great events which accompanied the establishment of the Christian religion ; the mysteries, the belief in which was inculcated, as a part of that system ; or the incidents of domestic life, to excite the spectators to laughter, after the more serious repre- sentations. The same talent which enabled them to versify a long history in the heroic style, or to relate a humorous anec- dote with the spirit of a jester, prompted them to adopt, in their dramas, similar subjects and a similar kind of versifica- tion. They left to those who had to recite these dialogues, the care of delivering them with an air of truth, and of accom- panying them with the deception of scenic decoration. The first who awakened the attention of the people to compositions, in which many characters were introduced, were the pilgrims who had returned from the Holy Land, They thus displayed to the eyes of their countrymen all which they had themselves beheld, and with which every one was desirous of being acquainted. It is believed, that it was in the twelfth, or at all events in the thirteenth century, that these dramatic representations were first exhibited in the open streets. It was not, however, until the conclusion of the fourteenth century, that a company of pilgrims, who, by the represent- ation of a brilliant spectacle, had assisted at the solemnization of the nuptials between Charles VI. and Isabella of Bavaria, formed an establishment in Paris, and undertook to amuse the public by regular dramatic entertainments. They were de- nominated the Fraternity of the Passion ; from the Passion of our Saviour being one of their most celebrated represent- ations. This mystery, the most ancient dramatic work of modern Europe, comprehends the whole history of our Lord, from his baptism to his death. The piece was too long to be repre- sented without interruption. It was, therefore, continued from day to day ; and the whole mystery was divided into a certain number of journees, each of which included the labours or the representation of one day. This name of jownee, which was abandoned in France, when the mysteries became obsolete, has retained its place in the Spanish language, al- though its origin is forgotten. Eighty-seven characters, sue- 232 ON THE LITEKATURE cessively, appear in the jMysterj' of the Passion, amongst whom we find the three persons of the Trinity, six angels or arch- angels, the twelve apostles, six devils, Herod and his whole court, and a host of personages, the invention of the poet's brain. Extravagant machinery seems to have been employed, to give to the representation all tlie pomp which we find in the operas of the prc^sent day. Many of the scenes appear to have been recited to music, and we likewise meet with, choruses. The intermingled verses indicate a very perfect acquaintance with tiie harmony of the language. Some of the characters are well drawn, and the scenes occasionally display a considerable degree of grandeur, energy, and tragic power. Although the language sometimes becomes very prosaic and heavy, and some most absurd scenes are introduced, we yet cannot fail to recognize the very high talents which must have been employed in the conception of this terrible drama, which not only surpassed its models, but, by placing before the eyes of a Christian assembly all those incidents for which they felt the highest veneration, must have affected them much more powerfully than even the finest tragedies can do, at the present day. A few lines and quotations cannot give a clear idea of a work so long and various as this ; a work which, when printed in double columns, fills a large folio volume, and exceeds, in length, the united labours of our tragic authors. Still, as it is our object to enable the reader to judg'ifor himself, and as Ave shall have occasion to present him with extracts from compositions no less barbarous in the earlier stage of the Spanish drama, and wliich are merely imitations of the great French Mystery, it will be as well to introduce, at least, some verses from this astonishing production, and to give an idea of the various styles, both tragic and comic, of the author. Tlie clearness of the lan2;uage, which is much more intelli. I. s 282 ON THE LITERATURE church of Avignon. Slie was tlie rlaughtcr of Audibert cle Noves, and wife of Ilugucs de 8ade, botli of Avignon. When she died of the plague, on the sixth of April, 1348, she had been the mother of ehiven cliildren. Petrarch has celebrated, in upwards of three hundred sonnets, all the little circumstances of this attachment ; those precious favours ■which, after an acquaintance of fifteen or twenty years, con- sisted at most of a kind word, a glance not altogether severe, a momentary expression of regret or tenderness at his departure, or a deeper paleness at the idea of losing her beloved and constant friend. Yet even these marks of an attachment so pure and unobtrusive, and which he had so often struggled to subdue, were repressed by the coldness of Laura, who, to preserve her lover, cautiously abstained from giving the least encouragement to his love. She avoided his presence, except at church, in the brilliant levees of the papal court, or in the country, where, surrounded by her friends, she is described by Peti'arch as exhibiting the sem- blance of a queen, pre-eminent amongst them all in the grace of her figure, and the brilliancy of her beauty. It does not appear that, in the whole course of these twenty years, the poet ever addressed her, unless in the presence of witnesses. An interview with her alone would surely have been cele- brated in a thousand verses ; and, as he has left us four sonnets on the good fortune he enjoyed, in having an oppor- tunity of picking up her glove,* we may fairly presume, that he would not have passed over in silence so happy a circum- stance as a private interview. There is no poet, in any language, so perfectly pure as Petrarch, so completely above all reproach of levity and immorality ; and this merit, which is due equally to the poet and to his Laura, is still more remarkable, when we consider that the models which he followed were by no means entitled to the same praise. The verses of the Troubadours and of the Trouveres were very licentious. The court of Avignon, at which Laura lived, the Babylon of the West, as tlie poet himself often terms it, was filled with the most shameful corruption ; and even the Popes, more especially Clement V. and Clement VL had aflt)rded examples of great depravity. Indeed, Petrarch • Sonnets 166 to 169. OF THE ITALIANS. 283 himself, in his intercourse with other hdies, was hy no means so reserved. For Laura, he had conceived a sor-t of reh'gious and enthusiastic passion ; such as mystics imagine they feel towards the Deity, and sucli as Plato supposes to be the bond of union between elevated minds. The poets, who have succeeded Petrarch, have amused themselves with giving representations of a similar passion, of which, in fact, they had little or no experience. In order to appreciate the full beauty of Petrarch's sonnets, it would be necessary to write the history of his attachment, as M. Ginguene has so ably done : and thus to assign to every sonnet, the place to which its particular sen- timent destines it. But it would be even more necessary, that I should myself be sensible of the excellence of these poems, and that I should feel that charm which has enchanted every nation and every age. To this, I must acknowledge, that I am a stranger. I could have wished, in order to com- prehend and to become interested in the passion of Petrarch, that there should have been a somewhat better understanding between the lovers ; that they should have had a more inti- mate knowledge of each other ; and that, by this means, we might ourselves have been better acquainted with both. I could have wished to have seen some impression made upon the sensibiHty of this loving and long-loved lady ; to have seen her heart, as well as her mind, enlarging itself and yielding to the constancy and the purity of true friendship, since virtue denied a more tender return. It is tiresome to find the same veil, always shading not only the figure, but the intellect and the heart of the woman who is celebrated in these monotonous verses. If the poet had allowed us a fairer view of her, lie would have been less likely to fall into exaggerations, into which my imagination, at least, is unable to follow him. How desirable would it be, that he should have recalled her to our minds by thought, by feeling, and by passion, rather than by a perpetual play upon the words Laura (the laurel), and Vaura (the air). The first of these conceits, more especially, is incessantly repeated, nor merely in the poems alone. Throughout Petrarch's whole life, we are in doubt whether it is of Laura, or of the laurel, that he is enamoured ; so great is the emotion which he expresses, whenever he beholds the latter ; so passionately does he s 2 284 ON THE LITEUATURE mention it ; and so frequently has he celebrated it in liis verses. Nor is that personified heart, to which Petrarch perpetually addresses himself, less fatip::uing. It speaks, it answers, it argues, it is ever upon his lips, in his eyes, and yet ever at a distance. He is always absent, and we cannot avoid wishing that during his banishment, he would for once cease to speak of it. Judging from these concetti^ and from the continual personification of beings which have no personal attributes, it has always appeared to me that Petrarch is by no means so great a poet as Dante, because he is less of a painter. There is scarcely one of his sonnets, in which the leading idea is not completely at variance with the principles of painting, and which does not, therefore, escape from the imagination. Poetry may be called a happy union of two of the fine arts. It has borrowed its harmonies from music, and its images from painting. But, to confound the two objects which poetry has thus in view, is to be equally in error; whether we attempt, by an image, to represent a coincidence in sound, as when the laurel is put for Laura ; or whether we wish to call up an image by sounds, as when, neglecting the rules of harmony, we produce a dis- cordance suited to the object we design to paint, and make the serpents of which we are speaking, hiss in our verses. Waiving, however, as far as depends upon myself, my pre- judice against Petrarch, of which I feel somewhat distrustful, because it is in oppposition to the general taste, I shall translate a few of his sonnets ; not for the purpose of criti- cising them, but in order to lead those, who are but imper- fectly acquainted with the Italian language, to a more complete knowledge of them, so that they may read them without fatigue, and may comprehend the sense, while they enjoy the harmony of the sound ; and, in short, that they may form their own judgment upon the masterpieces of one of the most celebrated men of modern times. SONNET XIV. "With linary head and lucks of reverend grey, The old man leaves his youth's sweet dwelling-place, And grief is niark'd on each familiar face, Which watches him, as forth he takes hi-i way : And he departs, though from his latest day Not distant, far, and with an old man's pace, With right good will, he enters on the race, Though travel-tired and broken with decay : OF THE ITALIANS. 285 And now, accomplishing his last desires, In Eome, he sees the image of tliat One, Whom to behold in Heaven his soul aspires : Even so have I, sweet lady ! ever gone Searching, in others' features, for some trace Approaching thy long-lost peculiar grace.* SONNET XVII. Creatures there be, of sight so keen and high. That even on the sun they bend their gaze ; Others, who, dazzled by too tierce a l)l.ize Issue not forth till evening veils the sky ; Others, who, with insane desire, would try _ The bliss which dwells within the fire s bri- But, in their sport, find that its fervour sla Alas ! of this last heedless band am I : Since strength I boast not, to support the hgl Of that fair form, nor, in obscure sojourn. Am skiird to fence me, nor enshrouding night ; Wherefore, with eyes which ever weep and mourn, Jly fate compels me still to court her sight Conscious I follow flames which shme to burn, t * Moves; '1 vecchiarel canuto e bianco Dal dolce loco ov' ha sua eta fornita, E dalla faraigliuola sbigottita Che vede il caro padre venir manco ; Indi traendo poi 1' antico fianco Per r estreme giornate di sua vita, ^ Quanto piii puo, col buon voler s' aita, Ilotto dagli anni, e dal cammmo stanco : E viene a Roma seguendo '1 desio. Per mirar la sembianza di colui Ch' ancor lassu ncl cicl vedere spera : Cos! lasso talor vo cercand' io Donna, quant' & possibile, in altrui La desiata vostra forma vera. + Son animali al mondo di si altera Vista, che ncontr' al sol pur si difende ; Altri, pero che '1 gran lume gli offende, Non escon fuor se non verso la sera ; Ed altri col desio folic, che spera Gioir forse nel foco, perche splende, Provan 1' altra virtu, quella che 'ncende ; Lasso, il mio loco e 'n questa ultima schiera ; Ch' i non son forte ad aspettar la luce Di questa donna, e non so fare schermi Di luoghi tenebrosi, o d'ore tarde. Pero con gli occhi lagrimosi e ufermi :Mio destine a vederla mi conduce : E so ben ch' io vo dietro a quel che m' arde. 286 ox THE LITERATURE The succeeding sonnet was ^^ritten at a time, when the beauties of Laura began to fade. We are astonished at the constancy which Petrarch displays, towards one who could no longer charm the eye of the beholder. SONNET LXIX. AYavccl to the winds wore tliose lon^ locks of gold. Which in a tiiousaud burnish'd ringlets flow'd, And the sweet light, beyond all measure, glow'd, Of those fair eyes, which 1 no more behold ; Nor (so it seem'd) that face, aught harsh or cold To me (if true or false, I know not) shew'd : ile, in whoso breast the amorous lure abode. If flames consumed, what marvel to unfold ] That step of hers was of no mortal guise. But of angelic nature, and her tongue Had other utterance than of human sounds : A living sun, a spirit of the skies, I saw her — Now, perhaps, not so — But wounds Heal not, for that the bow is since unstrung.* In the second part of Petrarch's poems, we find those which were written after the death of Laura, who, as we have already mentioned, died in 1548, at the age of forty-one, having been, for twenty-one years, the object of Petrarch's attachment. The poet was, at the time of that event, at Verona ; and some of the poems, which were occasioned by this loss, are distinguished by more natural feelings, and excite in the reader a more lively sympathy. Still, there is, perhaps, too much ingenuity and invention displayed, to be compatible with great grief. * Erano i capci d'oro a I'aura sparsi, Che 'n mille dolci nodi gli avolgea : E '1 vago lume oltra misura ardea Di quei liegli occhi, eh' or ne sou si scarsi • E '1 viso di pietosi color farsi, Non so sc vero o false, mi parea : r che 1' esca amorosa al petto area, Qual maraviglia, se di subit', arsi 1 Non era 1' andar sue cosa mortale, ISla d'angelica forma, e Ic parole Sonavan altro che pur voce humana. Uno sjjirto celeste, un vivo sole FCi quel ch' i vidi : e se non fosse or tale, Piaga per allentar d'arco non sana. OF THE ITALIAJs^S. 287 SONNET CCLI. Those eyes, my bright and glowing theme ere while That arm, those hands, that lovely foot, that face, Whose view wa.s wont my fancy to lieguile, And raise me high o'er all of human race ; Those golden locks that flow'd in liquid grace. And the sweet lightning of that angel smile, Which made a Paradise of every place. What are they ] dust, insensible and vile ! And yet I live ! oh grief ! oh rage ! oh shame ! Reft of the guiding star I loved so long, A shipwreck'd bark, which storms of woes assail. Be this the limit of my amorous song : Quench'd in my bosom is the saci-ed flame. And my harp murmurs its expiring wail.* On his return to Vaucluse, where he was never again to behold his Laura, Petrarch wrote the following sonnet. SONNET CCLXXIX. I feel the "well-kno'ivn breeze, and the sweet hill Again appears, where rose that beauteous light Which (while Heaven will'd it) met my eyes, then bright With gladness, but now dimm'd with many an ill. Vain hopes ! weak thoughts ! Now, turbid is the rill ; The flowers have droop'd ; and she hath ta'en her flight From the cold nest, which once, in proud delight, Living and dying, I had hoped to fill : I hoped, in these retreats, and in the blaze Of her fair eyes, which have consumed my heart, To taste the sweet reward of troubled days. Thou, whom I serve, how hard and proud thou art ! Erewhile, thy flame consumed me ; now, I mourn Over the ashes which have ceased to burn.* * Gli occhi, di ch'io parlai si caldamente, E le braccia et le mani, e i piedi, e '1 viso, Che m' havean si da me stesso diviso, E fatto singular da I'altra gente ; Le crespe cliiome d'or puro lucente, B "1 lampeggiar de Vangelico riso, Che solean far in terra un paradise^ Poca polvere son che nulla sente. Ed io pur vivo : onde mi doglio e sdegno, Rimaso senza '1 lume, ch' amai tanto, In gran fortune, e'n disarmato legno. Or sia qui fine al mio amoroso canto : Secca e la vena de I'usato ingegno, E la cetera mia rivolta in pianto. * Sento I'aura mia antica, e i dolci colli Veggio apparir, onde '1 bel lume nacque Che tenne gli occhi miei, mentr' al ciel piacque, Bramosi e lieti ; or li tien tristi e moUi. 288 ON TUE LITERATUKE Were I to give more numerous extracts, they would not render the style and the spirit of Petrarcli's sonnets better known to those who do not read Itahan ; and, as examples merely, what are given are sufficient. The other form of his lyrical compositions, the canzone, is not unknown to us, although we have no express word for it, in the French ; that of chanson, derived from it, signifying a poem of a totally different kind. We have seen that, amongst tlie Troubadours and the Trouveres, the chansons were odes divided into regular stanzas, longer tlian those of the odes of antiquity. The verses, which had the variety both of measure and rhyme, were disposed according to the rule of harmony which the poet established in the first stanza, and which was scru- pulously observed in all the subsequent ones. The Italian canzoiie differed from the Provencal, in not being limited to five stanzas and an envoy, and in the more rare use of those very short lines, which sometimes give such vivacity to the Provencal poetry. There are some of Petrarch's canzoni, in which we find stanzas of twenty lines. This extraordinary length, which perhaps renders the harmony less perceptible to the ear, has given a peculiar character to the canzoni, and distinguishes the romantic from tiie classical ode. Modern poets, instead of pursuing the rapid and passionate inspiration of their feelings, dwell upon the same thouglit ; not j)recisely for the purpose of filling up the stanza, for, to this mechanical process, the true poet will never submit, but of preserving the regular and corresponding advance of the stanza and the sentiment. They bestowed more attention upon that reflec- tive spirit, which is occupied with its own contemplations ; npon that analytical power, which subjects every thing to its scrutiny; and upon that forcible imagination, which places its object before us; but their enthusiasm vanished. The translation of a canzone of Petrarch could never be confounded caducbe speranzc, o pensier folli ! Vcdovc I'herhc e torhide son racqiic : E voto, e freddo '1 nido in eh' ella giacquo, Nel qual io vivo e morto giacer volli; Spcrantlo al fin da le soavi piante E da' begli occhi suoi, clie'l cor m'han arso, Riposo aleun da le fatichc tante. ITo servito a signor (.Tudelc e scarso : " Ch' arsi (iiianto '1 niiu foeo licbbo davante; Or vO piangcudo il suo cencrc sparse. OF THE ITALIANS. 289 with tlie ti'ansliition of an ode of Horace. "We are oblio-ed to class them both under the head of lyrical poems ; but we immediately perceive that such a division includes very different kinds of compositions. I feel myself called upon to give, at least, a small specimen of those poems which have contributed so greatly to the renown of Petrarch ; and I shall select a few stanzas from the fifth canzone, in which he exhorts the Bishop of Lombez to take up the cross, for the delivery of the Holy Land. This is, in my opinion, one of his most brihiant and enthu- siastic poems, and one which approaches nearest to the ancient ode. And all who dwell between the salt main-seas And Rhone, and Rhino, and all betv^een thy wave, Garonne ! and the hii^h hills, that Christian train Shall join. And if there be who love the brave. Within that circle which the Pyrenees Hold in horizon, Aragon and SiJain Shall be left desert. England, with the isles Sea-girt, between the constellated Bear And the great-pillar'd streight; Yea, every land, where yet The sainted lore of Helicon has charms, Diverse in language, in attire, in arms. This deed, for charity's sweet sake, shall dare. What love so faithful, or what tender age Of child, or charms of maiden, may compare With the stern duties of this holy rage ! A region of the world there is afar, Whelm'd under drifted snows, and bound with frost, • Where, wide remote from the sun's bright career. In clouds and mist, the day is briefly lost ; There dwell a race, by nature prone to war, And, even in death itself, disdaining fear. Let these, more pious than they yet appear. Join, with their hardy bands, the German host ! Thenceforth, I deem, not long The Turk and Arab throng. With the Chaldee, along the Red Sea coast. Their own vain force, or their false gods shall boast ! A people naked, timorous, slow. To grasp the steel, nor skill'd, nor strong, But wasting on the wind their aimless blow ! * * Chiunque alberga tra Garona e '1 monte, E tra '1 Rodano e '1 Reno e I'onde salse, L' ensegne Christianissime accompagna : Et a cui mai di vero pregio calse Dal 290 ox THE LITERATURE We shall not enter into so minute an examination of those allegorical poems, to which Petrarch has given the name of Triumphs. Not because they display any paucity of imagin- ation, or any want of that pictorial art, by which the poet places the object of his verse before the eyes of his reader ; but because those compositions are evidently formed on the model of Dante. There is the same metre ; the same division into cantos, or chapters, not exceeding a hundred and fifty lines ; and there are similar kinds of visions, in which the poet is partly the spectator and partly the actor. lie is present, successively, at the Triumph of Love, of Chastity, of Death, of Renown, of Time, and of the Divinity. But the great vision of Dante, occupying a long poem, approaches almost to a second nature. We are struck with the action ; we are in- terested for the characters ; and we forget the allegory. Petrai'ch, on the contrary, never loses sight of his object, or the moral precept which he designs to inculcate. Two things alone are perpetually before our eyes ; the advice intended for the reader, and the vanity of the poet ; and we feel Dal rireneo a ultimo orizoiite, Con Aragon lascora, vota Lspagiia ; Inghiltcrra, con I'lsolc clie hagna L'Oceano, intra'l carro c le colonne, Infin la, dove sona Dottrina del santissimo llolicona, Varie di lingue, e d'armc, e de le goanc, A I'alta iinprcsa caritate sprona, Deh ! qual amor si licito, o si degno, Quai figli inai, qiiai donne Furou materia a si giusto disdcguo ) Una parte del mondo fe che si giace Mai semprc in ghiaccio cd in gelatc novi, Tutta loutana dal cammin del sole. La, sotto gioriii nnbilosi e brevi, Nemica naturalmente di pace, Nasce una gente a cui 'I morir non dole. Questa, se pii\ devota che non sole Col Tedesco I'uror la spada eigne, Turclii Arald e Chaldci Con tntti quel che speran ne gli Dei Di qiiil dal mar che t'a I'onde sanguignc, Quanto sian da prczzar, conoscer dei : Popolo ignudo, paventoso c lento, Che fcrro mai non strignc, Ma tutii i colpi siui commctte al venio. OF THE ITALIANS. 291 as little inclinetl to gratify the latter as to profit by the former. The Latin compositions, upon which Petrarch rested his fame, and wliich are twelve or fifteen times as voluminous as his Italian writings, are now only read by the learned. The long poem entitled Africa, which he composed on the vic- tories of the elder Scipio, and which was considered, in his own age, as a masterpiece worthy of rivalling the iEneid, is very fatiguing to tlie ear. The style is inflated, and the sub- ject so devoid of interest, and so exceedingly dull, as abso- lutely to prevent the perusal of the work. His numerous epistles in vei'se, instead of giving interest to the historical events to which they allude, acquire it from that circum- stance. The imitation of the anciei.ts, and the fidelity of the copy, which in Petrarch's eyes constituted their chief merit, deprive these productions of every appearance of truth. The invectives against the barbarians who had subjugated Italy, are so cold, so bombastic, and so utterly destitute of all colouring suited to the time and place, that we might believe tliem to be written by some rhetorician, who had never seen Italy ; and we might confound them with those which a poetic fury dictated to Petrarch himself, against the Gauls who besieged the capital His philosophical works, amongst which may be mentioned a ti-eatise on Solitary Life, and another on Good and Bad Fortune, are scarcely less bombastic. The senti- ments display neither truth nor depth of thought. They are merely a show of words, on some given subject. The author pre-determines his view of the question, and never examines the arguments for the purpose of discovering the truth, but of vanquishing the difiiiculties which oppose him, and of making every thing agree Avith his own system. His letters, of which a voluminous collection has been published, which is, however, far from being complete, are, perhaps, more read than any other of his works, as they throw much light upon a period which is well worthy of being known. We do not, however, discover in them either the familiarity of intimate friendship, or the complete openness of an amiable character. They display great caution, and studied propriety, with an attention to ettect, which is not always successful. An Italian would never have written Latin letters to his friends, if he had wished only to unfold the secrets of his heart ; but 292 ON THE LITEIIATURE the letters of Cicero were in Latin, and with them Petrarch Avishe;! to Iiave his own compared. lie was, evidently, always thinking mure of the public tlian of his correspondent ; and, in fact, the public were often in possession of the letter be- fore liis friend. The bearer of an elegantly-written epistle, well knew that he siiould flatter the vanity of the v.-riter by communicating it ; and he therefore often openly read it, and even gave copies of it, before it reached its destination. AVe find, in his correspondence, that several letters were lost in consequence of their too great fame. It is dillicult to say, whether the extended reputation which Petrarch enjoyed, during the course of a long life, is more glorious to himself, or to his age. We have elsewhere men- tioned the faults of this celebrated man ; that subtlety of intellect which frequently led him to neglect true feeling, and to abandon himself to a false taste ; and that vanity which too often induced him to call himself the friend of cruel and con- temptible princes, because they flattered him. But, before we part with him, let us once more take a view of those great ({ualities which rendered him the first man of his age ; that ardent love for science, to which he consecrated his life, his powers, and his faculties ; and that glorious enthusiasm for all that is high and noble in the poetry, the eloquence, the laws, and the manners of antiquity. This enthusiasm is the mark of a superior mind. To such a mind, the hero becomes greater by being contemplated ; while a narrow and sterile intellect reduces the greatest men to its own level, and mea- sures them by its own standard. Tliis enthusiasm was felt by Petrareh, not only ibr distinguished men, but for every thing that is great in nature, for religion, for philosophy, for patriotism, and for fieedom. He was the friend and patron of the unfortunate Rienzi, who, in the fourteenth century, awakened for a moment the ancient spirit and fortunes of Kome. He appreciated the line arts as well as poetry ; and he contributed to make the Romans acquainted with the rich monuments of antiquity, as well as with the manuscripts, wliicli they possessed. His passions were tinctured with a sense of religion which induced him to worship all the glorious works of the Deity, with which th(! earth abounds ; and he believed, that in tiie woman wlioni lie loved, he saw the mes- senger of that Heaven, which thus revealed to him its beauty. OF THE ITALIANS. 293 He enabled his contemporanes to estimate the full value of the purity of a passion, so modest and so religious as his own ; while, to his countrymen, he gave a language worthy of rival- ling those of Greece and of Rome, with which, by his means, the°y had become familiar. Softening and ornamenting his own language by the adoption of proper rules, he suited it to the expr'ession of every feeling, and changed, in some degree, its essence. He inspired his age with that enthusiastic love for the beauty, and that veneration for the study of antiquity, which gave it a new character, and which determined that of succeeding times. It was, it may be said, in the name of grateful Europe, that Petrarch, on the eighth of April, 1341, was crowned by the senator of Rome, in the Capitol ; and this triumph, the most glorious which was ever decreed to man, was not disproportioned to the authority which this great poet was destined to maintain over future ages. CHAPTER XI. BOCCACCIO. — ITALIAN LITERATURE, AT THE CLOSE OF THE FOURTEENTH, AND DURING THE FIFTEENTH CENTURY. The fourteenth century forms a brilliant a^ra in Italian literature, highly honourable to the human intellect, and is distinguished, beyond any other period, for the creativ(^ powers of genius which it exhibited. The germ of literature also existed in other countries. The poetry of this epoch which has survived to us, possesses a charm, derived from the dawn of civilization, in its novelty, vigour, and freshness of imagination ; but it belongs rather to the age which gave it birth than to any individual. The songs of the South of France, the chivalrous tales of tlie North of Europe, the romances of Spain, and the pastorals of Portugal, bear a national character, which pleasingly reminds us of the spirit and manners of the tniie ; but they do not strike us as the work of a powerful genius, nor awake in us an attachment to any individual poet. It v/as not thus with Italy. The cul- ture of the mind was, at least, as far advanced there, as in France and Spain ; but in the midst of their numerous con- temporaries, three writers, who, each in his own sphere, gave 294 ON THE LITERATURE a new impulse to tlieir native tonp;iie, were especially remark- able. These men ali'orded models which were ardently fol- lowed in other countries, and raised to themselves memorials which the most distant posterity will regard with delight. At the opening of this century, Dante gave to Europe his great poem ; the first which, since the dawn of letters, could bear a comparison with the ancient epic. The lyric muse again strung her lyre at the call of Petrarch ; and Boccaccio was the creator of a style of prose, harmonious, flexible, and enorasinfr, and alike suitable to the most elevated and to the most playful subjects. The last mentioned member of this illustrious triumvirate cannot, indeed, be ranked so high as his two contemporaries, since the prose style, of which he was the author, is not of so elevated a class as the efforts of the muse, and the formation of the language of common life seems less to require the higher powers of genius. His chief work, moi'eovei", is sullied by immorality ; and the eloquence of his expression is too frequently allied to an improper levity. Yet that energy of mind which enabled him to give birth to a style of prose at once so pure, so elegant, and so harmonious, when no model for it existed either in the Italian, or in any other language of the age, is not less deserving of admiration, than those inspirations of genius which awoke and gave rules to the higher strains of poetry. Giovanni Boccaccio was born at Paris, in 1313, and was the natural son of a merchant of Florence, himself born at Certaldo, a castle in the Val d' Elsa, in the Florentine terri- tory. His father had intended him for a commercial life, but before devoting him to it, indulged him with a literary edu- cation. From his earliest years, Boccaccio evinced a decided predilection for letters. He wrote verses, and manifested an extreme avei'sion to trade. He revolted equally at the pro- spect of a commercial life, and the study of the canon lavv, which his father was desirous of his undertaking. To oblige his father, however, he made several journeys of business; but he brought back with him, instead of a love for his em- ployment, a more extended information, and an increased passion for study. He at length obtained permission to de- vote himself wholly to literature, and fixed on Naples as his place of residence, where letters tlu;n flourished under the powerful protection of Robert, the reigning monarch. He OF THE ITALIANS. 295 was quickly initiated in all the sciences at that time taught. He acquired also the rudiments of the Greek tongue, which, though then spoken in Calabria, was an abstruse study with the early scholars. In 1341, he assisted at the celebrated examination of Petrarch, which preceded his coronation at Rome ; and, from that time, a friendship arose between him and the poet, which terminated only with their lives. At this period, Boccaccio, distinguished no less for the elegance of his person than for the brilliancy of his wit, and devoted to pleasure, formed an attachment to a natural daughter of King Robert, named Maria, who for several years had been the wife of a Neapolitan gentleman. This lady he has cele- brated in his writings, under the name of Fiammetta. In the attachment of Boccaccio, we must not look for that purity or delicacy which distinguished Petrarch in his love for Laura. This princess had been brought up in the most corrupt court of Italy ; she herself partook of its spirit, and it is to her depraved taste that the exceptionable parts of the Decameron, a work undertaken by Boccaccio in compliance with her request, and for her amusement, are to be attributed. On his side, Boccaccio probably loved her as much from vanity as from real passion ; for, although distinguished for her beauty, her grace, and her wit, as much as for her rank, she does not seem to have exercised any extraordinary influ- ence on his life ; and neither the conduct nor the writings of Boccaccio afford evidence of a sincere or profound attachment. Boccaccio quitted Naples in 1342, to return to Florence. He came back again in 1344, and returned for the last time in 1350. From that year, he fixed himself in his native coun- try, where his reputation had already assigned him a distin- guished rank. His life was thenceforth occupied by his public employments in several embassies; by the duties which his increasing friendship to Petrarch imposed on him ; and by the constant and indefatigable labours to which he devoted himself for the advancement of letters, the discovery of ancient manuscripts, the elucidation of subjects of antiquity, the introduction of the Greek language into Italy, and the composition of his numerous works. After taking the eccle- siastical habit, in 1361, he died at Certaldo, in the mansion of his ancestors, on the twenty-first of December, 1375, at the age of sixty-two. 296 0\ THE LITERATURE The Decameron, tl)e work to which Boccaccio is at the present day indebted for his highest celebrity, is a collection of one hundred Novels or Tales. He has ingeniously united them, under the supposition of a party formed in tlu; dreadful pestilence of 1348, composed of a number of cavaliers, and young, intelligent, and accomplished women, retired to a delightful part of the country, to escape the contagion. It "was there agreed that eacii person, during the space of ten days, should narrate, daily, a i'resh story. The company con- sisted of ten persons, and thus the number of stories amounted to one hundred. The description of the enchanting country in the neighbourlioud of Florence, wliere these gay recluses had established themselves ; the record of their walks, their numerous fetes, and their repasts, alforded Boccaccio an op- jiortunity of displaying all the treasures of his powerful and easy pen. These stories, which are vai'ied with infinite art, as well in subject as in style, from the most pathetic and tender to the most sportive, and, unfortunately, the most licentious, exhibit a wonderful power ol' narration ; and his description of the plague in Florence, which serves as an introduction to them, ma}- be ranked with the most celebrated historical descriptions which have descended to us. The perfect truth of colouring ; the exquisite choice of circum- stances, calculated to produce the deepest impression, and which place before our eyes the most repulsive scenes, with- out exciting disgust ; and the emotion of the writer, which insensibly pervades every part, give to this picture that true eloquence of history which, in Timcydides, animates the relation of the plague in Athens. Boccaccio had, doubtless, this model before his eyes; but the events, to which he was a witness, had vividly impressed his mind, and it was the faith- ful delineation of what he had seen, rather than the classical imitation, which served to develope his talent. One cannot but pause in astonisliment, at the choice of so gloomy an introduction to effusions of so gay a nature. We are amazed at such an intoxicated enjoyment of life, under the threatened approach of deatii; at such irrepressible desire in the bosom of man to divert the mind from sorrow; and at the torrent of mirth wliicli inundates the heart, in the midst of horrors which should seem to wither it up. As long as we feel delight in nourishing feelings that are in unison with OF THE ITALIANS. 297 a melanclioly temperament, we have not yet felt the over- whelming weight of real sorrow. When experience has, at leno-th, tauo;ht us the substantial griefs of life, we then first learn the necessity of resisting them ; and, calling the imagi- nation to our aid, to turn aside the shafts of calamity, we stru^'cle with our sorrow, and treat it as an invalid, from whom we withdraw every object which may remind him of the cause of his malady. With regard to the stories them- selves, it would be difficult to convey an idea of them by ex- tracts, and impossible to preserve, in a translation, the merits of their style. Tlie praise of Boccaccio consists in the perfect purity of his language, in his elegance, his grace, and, above all, in that naivete, which is the chief merit of narration, and the peculiar charm of the Italian tongue. Unfoi'tunately, Boc- caccio did not prescribe to himself the same purity in his images as in his phraseology. The character of his work is light and sportive. He has inserted in it a great number ot tales of gallantry; he has exhausted his powers of ridicule on the duped husband, on the depraved and depraving monks, and on subjects, in raoi'als and religious worship, which he himself regarded as sacred ; and his reputation is thus little in harmony with the real tenor of his conduct. The Deca- meron was published towards the- middle of the fourteenth century (in 1352 or 1353), when Boccaccio was at least thirty-nine years of age ; and from the first discovery of printing, was freely circulated in Italy, until the Council of Trent proscribed it, in the middle of the sixteenth century. At the solicitation of the Grand Duke of Tuscany, and after two remarkable negotiations between this Prince and Pope Pius V. and Sixtus V., the Decameron was again published, in 1573 and 1582, purified and corrected. Many of the tales of Boccaccio appear to be borrowed from popular recitation, or from real occurrences. We trace the originals of several, iu the ancient French fabliaux ; of some, in the Italian collection of the Centi NoceUi ; and of others, again, in an Indian romance, which passed through all the languages of the East, and of which a Latin translation ap- peared as early as the twelfth century, under the name of Dolopathos, or the King and the Seven Wise Men. Inven- tion, in this class of writing, is not less rare than in every other ; and the same tales, probably, which Boccaccio had VOL. I. T 298 ON THE LITERATL'Ri: collected in the gay courts of princes, or in the squares of the cities of Italy, have been rejieated to us anew in all the various languages of Europe. They have been versified by the early poets of France and England, and have afforded reputation to three or four imitators of Boccaccio. But, if Boccaccio cannot boast of being the inventor of these tales, he may still claim the creation of this class of letters. Before his time, tales were only subjects of social mirtli. He was the lirst to transport them into the world of letters ; and, by the elegance of his diction, the just harmony of all the parts of his subject, and the charm of his narration, he superadded the more rehned gratifications of language and of art, to the simpler delight afforded by the old narrators. A romance of Boccaccio, called the Fiammetta, is, after the Tales, the most celebrated of his works. Boccaccio may be considered as the inventor of the love romances. This species of composition was wholly unknown to antiquity. The Byzantine Greeks, indeed, possessed some romances, which have since reached us ; but there is no reason to believe that Boccaccio had ever seen them, nor, if he had been acquainted with them, is it probable that he would have imitated works of imagination, invented so long after the decline of literature. The chivalric romances of the French, of which vee have spoken, had, it is true, a connexion with that class of which Boccaccio may be considered tlie creator. But instead of having recourse to marvellous incidents, which might engage the imagination, he has drawn his resources from the human heart and passions. Fiammetta is a noble lady of Naples, who relates her passion and her sufferings. She speaks in her own person, and the author himself never appears. The inci- dents are little varied, and they fall off, instead of increasing in interest, towards the conclusion. But the passion is ex- pressed with a fervour and a voluptuousness, beyond that of any other Italian writer. We feel that Fiammetta is con- sumed bv the flame which she divulsres ; and althou2rh not in any way allied to Pluedra, that cliaracter recurs to our recol- lection. In the one, as well as in the other, " Cest Venus tout entiJire a sa prole attachee." Boccaccio was accustomed to represent, under the name of Fiammetta, the Princess Maria, the object of his love. The OF THE ITALIANS. 299 scene, which is laid at Naples, the rank of the lady, and many- other circumstances, would lead us to believe, that, in this romance, Boccaccio has in some measure related his own ad- ventures. But, in this case, it is remarkable, that he should assign the chief ])art to the lady; that he should paint the pas- sionate love of Fiammetta, and the infidelity of Panfilo, in a work dedicated to his mistress ; and that he should reveal to the public, adventures on which his honour and his life might depend. The conversations in the Fiammetta may, perhaps, be con- sidered tedious ; and we are fatigued by the scholastic mode of reasoning of the interlocutors, who are never disposed to relinquish an argument. The style is in reality dull ; but this was a necessary consequence of the education and pe- dantry in repute at the time of its composition. Another, and a more singular defect in this romance, arises from the incon- gruous mixture of the ancient mythology with the Christian religion. Fiammetta, who had seen Paniilo for the first time at mass, in a Catholic church, is determined, by Venus ap- pearing to her, to listen to his passion; and, during the whole recital, the manners and belief of the ancients and moderns are continually intermixed. We remark this incongruity in the romances andfahliaiix of the middle ages, on all occasions when the Trouvh-es have attempted the manners of antiquity. As these ignorant authors could not form an idea of any other mode of manners than that of their own age, they have given an air of Christianity to all which they have borrowed from ancient mythology. But the scholars who restored the study of the classics, with Boccaccio at their head, treated the sub- ject differently. It was to the gods of antiquity that they attributed life, power, and energy. Accustomed to confine their admiration to the ancient classics, they always recurred to the object of their studies, and to the images and machinery to which they were habituated, even in works which were founded on the warmest feelings of the heart. Boccaccio was the author, also, of another romance, longer than the Fiammetta, and more generally known, intitled Filocopo. In this, are narrated the adventures of Florio and Biancafiore, the heroes of an ancient chivalric romance, which Boccaccio has merely remodelled. The mixture of the ancient mythology with Christianity seems, there, to be T 2 300 ON THE LITERATURE effected in a more systematic manner than in the Fiainmctta. Boccaccio speaks always of the reliL,Mon of the moderns in the terms of the ancients. In alluding to the war between Manfred of Sicily and Charles of Anjou, he represents the Pope as high priest of Juno, and imagines him to be insti- gated by that goddess, who thus revenges herself on the last descendants of the emperors, lor the ancient wrong which Dido suffered. He afterwards speaks of the incarnation of the son of Jupiter, and of liis descending to the earth to re- form and redeem it. He even addresses a prayer to Jupiter, and, in short, seems determined to confound the two reli- gions, and to prove tliat they are, in fact, the same worship, under different names. It may be doubted, whether fasti- diousness might lead Boccaccio to believe that he ought not to employ, in a work of taste, names which were unknown to the writers of the Augustan age ; or whether, on the con- trary, a religious scruple, still more eccentric, ibrbade him to mingle the name of the Deity, with the tales of his own in- vention. In either case, this system of poetical religion is not less extraordinary than profane. There are, in the Filocopo, many more adventures, and a greater variety of in- cident, but less passion than in the Fiammetta. The perusal is sometimes rendered fatiguing, by the pains which Boc- caccio has taken to make the style harmonious, and to round his periods ; and this measured prose betrays a laboured and sometimes an affected style. Boccaccio has also left two heroic poems, La Theseide and Filostrato, neither of ^vhicb has obtained any great reputa- tion, and both are, at the present day, nearly forgotten. They deserve, however, to be mentioned, as being the first attempts at the ancient epic, since the fall of the Roman empire. Petrarch, it is true, had, in his Latin poem of Africa, attempted to rival Virgil ; but he did little more than clothe an historical narration in frigid hexameters, nor has he invested his subject with any other poetic charm than that which arises from the regularity of the verse. Boc- caccio, on the contrary, was sensible that a powerful imagi- nation and feeling were essential to the epic. But he over- reached his mark, and composed romances rather than poems; although, even here, he opened to his successors the route which they were to follow. OF THE ITALIANS- 301 • These two poems of Boccaccio, in another point of view, form an sera in the history of epic poetry. They are both composed in ottava rima, or in that kind of stanza of eight lines, which has since been employed by all the epic poets of Italy, Spain, and Portugal. Of this, Boccaccio was the in- ventor. He found that the terza rima, employed by Dante, imposed too great a constraint on the poet, and, by its close texture, held the attention of the reader too long suspended. All the other forms of versification were appropriated to the lyric muse ; and any verses which were not submitted to a regular structure, did not seem sufficiently poetical to the re- fined ears of the Italians. The stanza which Boccaccio in- vented, is composed of six lines, which rhyme interchange- ably with each other, and are followed by a couplet. There exist instances of the octave verse before his time, but under a different form.* * We find, in the earlier poetry of the Sicilians, stanzas of eight verses, with only two rhymes, alternately employed. As early as the thirteenth century, the Castilian writers made use of the octave stanza, with three rhymes ; and a remarkable work of Alfonso the Tenth, King of Castile, to "which we shall have occasion again to refer, is written in this metre. These stanzas of eight lines are composed of two distinct stanzas of four lines each, and the distribution of the rhymes may be thus denoted : 1, 2, 2, 1 ; 1, 3, 3, 1. The stanza invented by Boccaccio, and which was adopted even in Castile, runs thus : 1,2; 1,2; 1,2; 3, 3. As a specimen of this sort of verse, and of the style of Boccaccio, the commencement of La Theseide is subjoined. Sorelle Castalie, che nel monte Elacona contente dimorate, D'intorno al saggio Gorgoueo fonte, Sotto esso I'ombra delle frondi amate Da Febo, dalle quali ancor la fronte Spero d' ornarmi, sol che '1 concediate, Le sante orecchie a miei preghi porgete, E quelli udite come voi dovete. E' m e venutavoglia, con pietosa Rima, di scrivere una storia antica, Tanto negli anni riposta e nascosa Che latin autor non par che ne dica. Per quel ch'io senta, al libbro alcuna cosa. Dunque si fate, che la mia fatiea Sia gratiosa a chi ne fia lettore, O in altra maniera ascoltatore. Siate presenti, o Marte rubicondo ! Kelle tue armi rigido e feroce, E tu, madre d' amor, col tuo giocondo E lieto aspetto, e 1 tuo figliol veloce, Co 302 ox THE L1TER.VTURE The Latin compositions of Boccaccio are voluminous, and materially contributed, at the time they were written, to the advancement of letters. The most celebrated of these works, are two Treatises ; the one on the Genealogy of the Gods, and the other on mountains, forests, and rivers. In the first he gave an exposition of the ancient mythology ; and in the second, rectified many errors in geography. These two works have fallen into neglect, since the discovery of manu- scripts then unknown, and in consequence of the facilities which the art of printing, by opening new sources, has afforded to the study of antiquity. In the age in which they Co dardi sol possente a, tutto '1 mondo ; E sostcnete la mano n la voce Di me, ch' entendo e vostri affetti dire. Con poco bene e pien d'assai martire. And you, sweet sisters ! who delight to dwell Amid the quiet haunts of Castaly, Playing beside the brink of that famed well, And l)y the fount where springs the sacred tree Belov'd by you, and him, the god, whose shell Kesounds its praise ; whose honoured leaves shall be, So let me dream ! a poet's meed : hear His ardent prayer, if prayers to you be dear. For Love's sake, would 1 tell the piteous pain. The sad turns of a wild and ancient story, Long hidden 'neath the veil of time, in vain Sought for in lioman lore, or reconls hoary Of far-oflf years. help my feeble strain, That so it breathe some spark of love's own glory. And crown my ardent toils with pleasant rest, And solace to each listener's trouldcd breast. Nor let the martial god be distant far, In his stern panoply of proof divine ! Thou, Venus ! beaming like thy fiiv'rite star, \Vith joyous looks, and eyes that warmly shine. And thou, her son, victor in amorous war ! Strengthen my hand in this my high design. And swell the voice that pours young passion's sighs. And bitterest tears, with too few cxtacics ! La Tlieseide was imitated by Chaucer, the father of English poetry. "When the lapse of time had rendered his work almost unintelligible to the generality of readers, Dryden reproduced it in his poem of I'alamon and A r cite, -which, was well' received. It must he confessed, however, that the exaggerated passions, improbable incidents, and long tiresome dc'scriptions'ol" this fable, render the perusal of the original, and of the imitations, equally ditlicult. OF THE ITALIANS. 303 were composed, they were, however, equally remarkable for their extensive information and for the clearness of their arrangement ; but the style is by no means so pure and ele- gant as that of Petrarch. But, while the claim to celebrity, in these great men, is restricted to the Italian poetry of Petrarch and to the novels of Boccaccio, our gratitude to them is founded on stronger grounds. They felt more sensibly than any other men, that enthusiasm for the beauties of antiquity, without which we in vain strive to appreciate its treasures ; and they each de- voted a long and laborious life to the discoveiy and the study of ancient manuscripts. The most valued works of the ancients were at that time buried among the archives of convents, scattered at great distances, incorrect and incom- plete, without tables of contents or marginal notes. Nor did those resources then exist, which printing supplies, for the perusal of works with which we are not familiar ; and the facilities which are afforded by previous study, or the colla- tion of the originals with each other, were equally wanting. It must have required a powerful intellect to discover, in a manuscript of Cicero, for example, without title or com- mencement, the full meaning of the author, the period at which he wrote, and other circumstances, which are connected with his subject ; to correct the numerous errors of the copy- ists ; to supply the chasms, which, frequently occurring at the beginning and the end, left neither title nor divisions nor conclusions, nor any thing that might serve as a clue for the perusal ; in short, to determine how one manuscript, dis- covered at Heidelberg, should perfect another, discovered at Naples. It was, in fact, by long and painful journies, that the scholars of those days accomplished themselves for this task. The copying a manuscript, with the necessary degree of accuracy, was a work of great labour and expense. A collection of three or four hundred volumes was, at that time, considered an extensive library ; and a scholar was frequently compelled to -seek, at a great distance, the completion of a work, commenced under his own roof. Petrarch and Boccaccio, in their frequent travels, obtained copies of such classics as tliey found in their route. Among other objects, Petrarch. proposed to himself to collect all the works of Cicero ; in which he succeeded, after a lapse of 304 ON Tin: litkrature many years, lioccaccio, with a true love of letters, intro- tluced the study of tlie Greek to the Italians, not only with the view of securing the interests of commerce or of science, but of enriching their minds, and extending tiieir researches to the other half of the ancient world of letters, Avhich had, till then, remained hidden from his contemporaries. He founded, in Plorence, a chair for the teaching of the Greek language ; and he himsidf invited thither, and installed as professor, Leontius Pilatus, one of the most learned Greeks of Constan- tinople. He received him into his own house, although lie was a man of a morose and disagreeable temper ; placed him at his table, as long as this professor could be induced to remain at Florence ; inscribed himself among the first of his scholars, and procured at his own expence, from Greece, the manuscripts, which were thus distributed in Florence, and which served as subjects for the lectures of Leontius Pilatus. For the instruction of those days consisted in the public delivery of lectures with commentaries ; and a book, of which there, perhaps, existed only a single copy, sufliced for some thousand scholars. Tiiere is an infinite space between the three great men whose works we have just enumerated, and even the most esteemed of their contemporaries ; and, thuugh these latter have preserved, until the present day, a considerable reputa- tion, yet we shall only pause to notice their existence, and the epoch to wliich they belong. Perhaps the most remarka- ble are the three Florentine historians of the name of Villani. Giovanni, the eldest, who died in the first plague, in 1348 ; Matteo, his brother, who died in the second jdague. in 1361 ; and Filippo, the son of Matteo, who continued the work of liis father to the year 1364, and who wrote a history of the literature of Florence, the first attempt of this kind, in modei'n times. But it is in another work that I have rendered homage to these three celebrated men, who were, for more than a century, my faithful guides in the history of Italy, and who, by their candour, patriotism, and ancient frankness, by their attachment to the cause of virtue and of freedom, and to all that is ennobling in man, have inspired me with so much personal aifection, that in taking leave of them to pro- secute, without their further aid, my dangerous voyage, I felt as if bidding adieu to my own friends. Two poets of this OF THE ITALIANS. 30o age, shared witli Petrarch the honours of a poetic coronation : Zanobi
  • toryof Florence, which extends from 1350 to 14oo, and which is, perhaps, his best work, may be ranked many of his philosophical dialogues and letters, in which the most noble and elevated sentiments prevail. His memory, indeed, derives less honour from his too celebrated Book of F(iccfia>, which he published in his seventieth year; and in whicli, with a sarcastic gaiety, he outrages, without restraint, all irood manners and decorum. Nor are the numerous in- vectives, which, in his literary quarrels, he addressed to Francesco Filelfo, to Lorenzo Valla, to George of Trebizond, and to many others, less exceptionable. In an age when literature was confined to scholastic erudition, taste exercised on it little influence. Society could not repress the malignant passions, nor could respect for the other sex inspire a sense of propriety. We are astonished and disgusted at the odious accusations, with Avhich these scholastic champions attack each other; reproaching their opponents with theft and fraud, poisonings and perjury, in the most opprobrious language. In order to justify an insolent and gross expression, they did not consider whether it were consistent with a due observance of decorum, but merely whether it were authorized by its pure Latinity ; and, in these calumnious aspersion?, they were much less solicitous about the truth or probability of their charges, than about the classical propriety of their vitupera- tive epitliets. The man, whose life was most agitated by these furious literary quarrels, was Francesco Filelfo (1398-1481), the rival in reputation, and tlie declared enemy, of Poggio Brac- ciolini. Born at Tolentino, in 1398, he early distinguished himself by his erudition, and, at the age of eighteen, was ap- pointed professor of eloquence at Padua. He relinquished that situation to go to Constantinople, to perfect himself in the Greek language. lie repaired thither, in 1420, with a diplo- matic mission from the Venetians, and was afterwards em- ployed on others, to Amurath II., and the Emperor Sigismund. Having married a daughter of John CIn-ysoloras, Avho was allied to the Imperial family of the Palaiologi, this noble alliance intoxicated the mind of a man already too vain of his knowledge, and who considered himself to be the first genius, not only of his own, but of every age. On his return to Italy, his ostentatious disposition exposed him to numerous distresse?, OF THE ITALIANS. 313 notwithstanding the liberality with which, in many cities, he was rewarded for his instructions. At the same time, the violence and asperity of his cliaracter procured him many bitter enemies. Not content with literary altercations, he interfered also in political disputes, althougli, in these, he was not actu- ated by any noble feelings. He pretended that Cosmo de' Medici had twice intended his assassination, and he, in his turn, attempted tlie life of Cosmo. He published his invec- tives in all the cities of Italy, loading, with the heaviest accu- sations, the enemies whom he had drawn on himself. After the death of his first wife, he married a second, and subse- quently a third at Milan, where he resided a considerable time, at the court of the Sforza family. He died on the thirty-fii'st of July, 1481, on his return to Florence, to which place he was recalled by Lorenzo de' Medici. In the midst of these continual disquiets, Filelfo, however, laboured with indefatigable activity for the advancement of literature. He left behind him a prodigious number of translations, dissert- ations, and philosophical writings and letters ; but he contri- buted still more to the progress of study by his lectures, and by the treasures of his knowledge, which he displayed before four or five hundred scholars at a time, to whom he gave in- .struction on various subjects, four or five times repeated in the course of one day. Lorenzo Vaha is the last of these celebrated philologists whom we shall here notice. Born at Rome, at the close of the fourteenth century, he there completed his early studies. He was afterwards professor of eloquence at Pavia, until about the yearl431, when he attached himself to Alfonso V. He opened, at Naples, a school of Greek and Roman eloquence ; but, not less irascible than Filelfo and Poggio, he engaged with them and others in violent disputes, of which the written invectives left us by these scholars form a lamentable proof. He composed many works, on history, criticism, dialectics, and moral philosophy. His two most celebrated productions are, a History of Ferdinand, King of Aragon, father of Alfonso, and the Elegantia Linguce Latince. He died at Naples, in 1457. The attention of the literary men of the fifteenth century was wholly engrossed by the study of the dead languages, and of manners, customs, and religious systems,- equally extinct. VOL. I. U 314 ON THE LITERATURE The charm of reality was, of course, wanting to works wlaich were the result of so much research and labour. All these men whom we have noticed, and to whom we owe the dis- covery and preservation of so many valuable works, present to our observation, boundless erudition, a j ust spirit of criticism, and nice sensibility to the beauties and defects of the great authors of antiquity. But we look in vain for that true elo- quence, which is more the fruit of an intercouse with the world, than of a knowledge of books ; and these philologists professed too blind a veneration for every thing belonging to antiquity, to point out what was worthy of admiration, or to select what was deserving of imitation. They were still more unsuccessful in poetry, in which their attempts, all in Latin, are few in number ; and their verses are harsh and heavy, without originality or vigour. It was not until the period when Italian poetry began to be again cultivated, that Latin verse acquired any of the characteristics of genuine inspiration. The first man to whom may, perhaps, be attributed the restoration of Italian poetry, was, at the same time, one of the greatest men of his own and succeeding ages. This was Lorenzo de' 3Iedici, chief of the Florentine republic, and arbiter of the whole political state of Italy (1448-1492). Lorenzo the Magnificent had written his first poems, before he was twenty years of age. A whole century had elapsed since Petrarch and Boccaccio, renouncing subjects of love, had ceased to cultivate Italian verse : and, during this Ions interval, no poet worthy of commemoration had appeared. Lorenzo attempted to restore the poetry of his country, to the state in which Petrarch had left it ; but this man, so superior by the greatness of his character, and by the universality of his genius, did not possess the talent of versification in the same degree as Petrarch. In his love verses, his sonnets, and canzoni, we find less sweetness and harmony. Their poetical colouring is less striking; and it is remarkable, that they dis- play a ruder expression, more nearly allied to the infancy of the language. On the other hand, his ideas are more natural, and are often accompanied by a great charm of imagination. We are presented with a succession of the most delightful rural pictures, and are surprised to find the statesman so con- versant with country life. His works consist of one hundred and forty sonnets, and about twenty canzoni, tJmost all com OF THE ITALIANS, 315 posed in honour of Lucretia de' Donati. He lias not, however, named her ; and he seems to have chosen her only as the object of a poetical passion, and as the subject of his verse. He has celebrated her with a purity not unworthy of Petrarch, and with a delicacy which was not always observed in his other attachments. But Lorenzo did not confine himself to lyric poetry. He attempted all kinds, and manifested in all. the versatility of his talents and the exuberance of his ima- gination. His poem of Ambra, intended to celebrate the delicious gardens, which he had planted in an island of the Ombrone, and which were destroyed by an inundation of that river, is written in beautiful octave verse. In his Nencia da Barberino, composed in the rustic dialect of Tuscany, he cele- brates, in stanzas full of natural simplicity, gaiety, and grace, the charms of a peasant girl. His Altercazione is a philoso- phical and moral poem, in which the most sublime truths of the Platonic philosophy are displayed with equal clearness and sublimity. Lorenzo has also left, in his Beoni, an ingenious and lively satire against drunkenness ; and in his Carnival songs, couplets of extreme gaiety, that accompanied the tri- umphal feasts which he gave to, and shared with, the people. In his Canzonl a ballo, we have other verses, which he sung himself, when he took a part in the dances exhibited in public ; and in his Orazioni we find sacred hymns, which belong to the highest order of lyric poetry. Such was the brilliant imagination, and such the grace and versatility of talent, of a man to whom poetry was but an amusement, scarcely noticed in his splendid political career ; who, concentrating in himself all the powers of the republic, never allowed the people to perceive that they had relinquished their sovereignty ; who, by the superiority of his character and of his talents, governed all Italy as he governed Florence, preserving it in peace, and averting, as long as he lived, those calamities with which, two years after his death, it was overwhelmed ; who was, at the same time, the patron of the Platonic philosophy, the promoter of literature, the fellow- student of the learned, the friend of philosophers and poets, and the protector of artists ; and who kindled and fanned the flame of genius in the breast of Michael Angelo. u2 316 ON THE LITERATURE CHAPTER XII. POLITIANO, PULCI, BOIARDO, AND ARIOSTO. The century wliich, after the death of Petrarch, had been devoted, by the Italians, to the study of antiquity, during which literature experienced no advance, and the Italian language seemed to retrograde, was not, however, lost to the powers of imagination. Poetry, on its first revival, had not received sufficient nourishment. The fund of knowledge, of ideas, and of images, which she called to her aid, was too restricted. The three great men of the fourteenth century, whom we first presented to the attention of the reader, had, by the sole force of their genius, attained a degree of erudition, and a sublimity of thought, far beyond the spirit of their age. These qualities were entirely personal ; and the rest of the Italian bards, like the Provencal poets, were reduced, by the poverty of their ideas, to have recourse to these continual attempts at wit, and to that mixture of unintelligible ideas and incoherent images, wiiicli render the perusal of them so fatiguing. The whole of the fifteenth century was employed in extending, in every sense, the knowledge and resources of the friends of the muses. Antiquity w^as unveiled to them in all its elevated characters, its severe laws, its energetic virtues, and its beautiful and engaging mythology ; in its subtle and profound philosophy, its overpowering eloquence, and its delightful poetry. Another age was required to knead afresh the clay for tiie formation of a nobler race. At the close of the century, a divine breath animated the finished statue, and it started into life. It was in the society of Lorenzo de' Medici, in the midst of his fi-iends and of the objects of his protection, that several of those men of genius appeared, who shed so brilliant a glory on Italy, in tlie sixteenth century. Amongst these, the most distinguished rank may be as^igned to Politiano, who opened, to the Italian poets, the career of epic and lyric fame. Angelo Politiano was born on the twenty-fourth of July, 1454, at Monte Pulciano (Mons Politianus), a castle, of which he adopted the name, instead of that of Ambrogini, OF THE ITALIANS 317 borne by his father. He applied himself with ardour to those scholastic studies which engaged the general mind, in the fifteenth century. Some Latin and Greek epigrams, ■which he wrote between the age of thirteen and seventeen, surprised his teachers, and the companions of his studies. But the work which introduced him to Lorenzo de' Medici, and which had the greatest influence on his age, was a poem on a tourna- ment, in which Julian de' Medici was the victor, in 1468. From that time, Lorenzo received Politiano into his palace ; made him the constant companion of his labours and his stu- dies ; provided for all his necessities, and soon afterwards confided to him the education of his children. Politiano, after this invitation, attached himself to the more serious stu- dies of the Platonic philosophy, of antiquity-, and of law ; but his poem in honour of the tournament of Julian de' Medici, remains a monument of the distinguished taste of the fifteenth century. This celebrated fragment commences like a large work. In fact, if Politiano had merely intended to celebrate the toui'nament in which Julian was victor, he would have found it very difficult to finish his poem ; since, in one hundred and fifty stanzas, forming a book and a half, he only arrives at the first preparations for the tournament. But I willingly suppose that his design was of a more extended nature, and more worthy of the epic muse. He probably intended, after the death of Julian, to which he alludes in the second book, to combine, in a chivalrous description, all that could be found interesting in the character of this young prince, whose loves he Avas recording. Politiano, indeed, must soon have discovered that he had not made choice of a hero, who could excite either his own admiration or that of his reader. Events and actions were wanting ; and this was, doubtless, his reason for abandoning his work, almost at its commencement. But this mere opening of a long poem will not suffer from com- parison with those of the greatest writers ; and neither Tasso nor Ariosto exceed Politiano in his management of the octave stanza, in the spirit of his narration, in the grace and vivacity of his colouring, and in his union of an enciianting harmony with the richest and most varied description. The poet represents Juhan in the flower of his youth, devoted to the brilliant career of manly exercises, aspiring after glory, and 318 ON THE LITERATDHE contemning the shafts of love.* He allures the young com- panions of his games and exercises, from a weakness which he despises ; he conducts them to the chace ; and, himself, the most agile, the most ardent, and the bravest of all, he traverses the forest, and slays the tiercest of its inhabitants. But love, indignant to see his empire thus contemned, draws him off from the pursuit, by tlie means of a beautiful white liind, which separates him from his comrades, and leads him, by various windings, into a flowery mead, wliere Simonetta presents herself to his view, while the enchanted hind vanishes in air.f * Nel vago tempo di sua verde etate, Spargendo ancor pe '1 volto il primo fiore, Ne avendo il bcl Giulio ancor provate Le dolci acerbe cure che da amore, Viveasi lieto in pace, in libertate, Talor frenando un gentil corridore Che gloria fil de' Ciciliani armeuti ; Con esse a correr conteudea co' venti. Ora a guisa saltiir di leopardo, Or dentro fea rotarlo in brieve giro ; Or fea ronzar per 1" aer un lento dardo, Dando sovente a fere agro martiro ; Cotal viveasi '1 giovane gagliardo, Ne pensando al suo fato acerbo o diro, Ne certo ancor dc' suoi futuri pianti, Solea gabbarsi de gli afflitti amanti. Ah ! quante nint'e per hii sospirorno ! Ma fil si altero sempre il giovinetto Che mai le ninfe amanti lo piegorno, Mai polfe riscaldarsi 'I freddo petto. Facea sovente pc' boschi soggiorno : Inculto sempre e rigido in aspctto, II volto difcndea dal solar raggio, Con ghirlanda di pino, o verde I'aggio. Lib. 1. Stanz. 8. + Candida h ella, c Candida la vesta, Ma pur di rose e fior dipinta e d' erba ; Lo inannellato crin de I'aiirca testa Sccnde in la froutc uuiilmente superba. llidele attorno tutta la foresta, E quanto puO sue cure disacerba, Ne Tatto regalmcnte ii mansueta, E pur col ciglio le tempeste acqueta. Folgoran gli occhi dun dolcc sereno, Ove sue faci tien Cupido ascose : L' aer d' intorno si fa tutto ameno Ovunque gira le luci amorosc ; OF THE ITALIANS. 319 Julian now sees only the fair Ligurian ; forgets the chace, and foregoes his resolves against the power of Love. Cupid, in the mean time, proud of his conquest, flies to the palace of his mother, in the Isle of Cyprus, and boasts of his success ; and the description of this enchanted palace has served as a model to Ariosto and to Tasso, for the enchanted domes of Alcina and of Armida.* This description may, perhaps, be too far extended, as the action of the poem is not accelerated by it, and the poet indulges himself too far in his pictures of mythology. In the second book, Siraonetta, arrayed in the armour of Pallas, appears to Julian in a dream. She reminds him, that it is only by valour that a hero should Di celeste letizia 11 volto lia pleno, Dolce dipinto di ligustri e rose. Ogai aura tace al siio parlar divino, E canta offni augelletto iu suo latino. ■'5'- Lih. 1. Sfanz. AZ. * Yagheggia Cipri un dilettoso monte Che del gran Nile i sctte comi vede, Al primo rosseggiar de I'orizzonte, Ove poggiar non lice a mortal piede. Nel giogo un verde colle alza la fronte, Sott' esso aprico un licto pratel siede ; U' scherzando tra fior, laseive aurette Fan dolcemente tremolar I'erbette. Corona un muro d' or 1' estreme sponde Con valle umbrosa di schietti arboscelli, Ove in sii rami, fra novelle fronde. Cantan gli loro amor soavi augelli, Sentesi un grato mormorio de 1' onde Che fan duo freschi e lucidi ruscelli, Versando dolce con amar liquore, Ove arma 1' oro de suoi strali amore. Ne mai le chiome del giardino eterno Tenera brina o fresca neve imbianca : Ivi non osa entrar ghiacciato verno ; Non vento 1' erba o gli arboscelli stanca. Ivi non volgon gli anni il lor quaderno ; Ma lieta primavera mai non manca, Che i suoi crin biondi e crespi a 1' aura spiega E mille fiori in ghirlandetta lega. [For a translation of the above stanzas, and of some others, the reader IS referred to the note at the conclusion of the present chapter. — Tr.] 320 ON THE LITERATUEE think of obtaining her heart. Julian awakes, amidst the aspirations of glory and of love.* But here Politiano has relinquished his work, and leaves us to regret, either that a subject, of a more noble nature, and more exempt from flattery, had not animated his genius, or that too severe a taste caused him to abandon that which he had already chosen. Politiano had the honour of reviving, on the modern stage, the tragedies of the ancients ; or rather, he created a new kind of pastoral tragedy, a description of poetry on wliich Tasso did not disdain to employ his genius. Tlie i'ablc of Orpheus, Favola di Orfeo, of Politiano, was performed at the court of IMantua, in 1483, on occasion of the return of the Cardinal Gonzaga. It was composed in two days. It is not without regret that we contemplate the fine genius of Politiano. Before the age of nineteen, wnthout a model or a predecessor, he had successfully attempted the epic and tragic * Cosi dicea Cupido, e gia la gloria Scendea giil folgoraudo ardenle vampo, Con essa poesia, con essa istoria Volavaa tutte accese del suo lampo. Costei parea che ad acquistar vittoria Rapisse Giulio orribilmente in campo, E che r arme di Palla alia sua donna Spogliasse, e lei lasciasse in bianca gonna. Poi Giulio di sue spoglie annava tutto, E tutto fiammeggiar lo facea d'auro, Quando era al fin del gucreggiar condutto Al capo gl' intrecciava oliva e lauro. Ivi tornar parea sua gioia in lutto, Vedcasi tolto il suo dolce tesauro, Vedea sua ninfe, in trista nube awolta, Dagli occhi crudelmente esscrgli tolta. L'aria tutta parea divenir bruna, E tremar tutto de 1' abisso il fondo ; Parea sanguigna in ciel farsi la luna E cader gii\ le stelle nel jirofondo ; Poi vedea lieta in forma di fortuna, Sorgcr sua ninfa, c rabbellirsi il mondo ; E prcnder lei di sua vita goveruo E lui con seco far per fama eterno. Sotto cotali ambagi al giovanctto Fil mostro de' suoi iati il leggier corso, Troppo felice, se nel suo dileito 2Jon mettca morte acorba il crudcl morse, etc. OF THE ITALIANS- 32 1 walks of poetry, and has left us poems which, though little more than fragments, exact our high admiration. To what Jieight of fame might he not have aspired, if he had not abandoned the Italian muse for Latin verse and for philoso- phical works, which are now no longer perused ! The universal homage paid to Virgil had a decided influ- ence on the rising drama. The scholars were persuaded that this cherished poet combined in himself all the different kinds of excellence ; and, as they created a drama before they possessed a theatre, they imagined that dialogue, rather than action, was the essence of the dramatic art. The Bucolics appeared to them a species of comedies or tragedies, less animated, it is true, but more poetical than the dramas of Terence and of Seneca, oi*, perhaps, of the Greeks. They attempted, indeed, to unite these two kinds ; to give interest, by action, to the tranquil reveries of the shepherds, and to preserve a pastoral charm in the more violent expression of passion. The Orpheus, though divided into five acts, though mingled with chorus, ami terminating with a tragic incident, is still rather an eclogue than a drama. The love of Ari- steeus for Eurydice ; the flight and death of the latter, who is deplored by the dryads ; the lamentation of Orpheus ; his descent into hell ; and his punishment at the hands of the Bacchantes, form the subject of the five acts, or rather of the five little sketches lightly strung together. Each act con- tains little more than from fifty to one hundred verses. A short dialogue explains the incidents between the acts ; and he thus presents us with an ode, or a song, an elegy, or a lyric poem, whicli appears to have been the principal object of the author, and the essence of his poetry. He makes use of various metres, the terza rima, the octave stanza, and even the more involved couplets of the canzoni, for the dialogue ; and the lyric pieces are almost all supported by a burden. Nothing, indeed, can less resemble our present tragedy, or that of the ancients. The Orpheus of Politiano, nevertheless, produced a revolution in poetry. The charm of the decorations, united to the beauty of the verse, and the music attached to the words, exciting interest at the same time that it gratified the mind, combined to lead the way to the most sublime enjoyment which the Muse can bestow, and gave birth to the dramatic art. At the same time, the 322 ON THE LITEKATURE. scrupulous imitation of antiquity,' prepared, in another manner, the revival of the theatre. After the year 1470, the academy of learned men and poets of Eome undertook, for the better revival of the ancients, to represent, in Latin, some of the comedies of Plautus. This example, and that of Politiano, were soon followed. The taste for theatrical per- formances was renewed with greater eagerness, as it was re- garded as an essential i)art of classical antiquity. It was not yet supported by the contributions of the spectators, but formed, as in Rome and in Greece, a part of the public, and often of the religious ceremonies. The sovereigns, who at this epoch placed all their glory in the protection of letters and of the arts, endeavoured to surpass each other, in erecting, on occasions of solemnity, a theatre, for the purpose of a single representation. The scholars and the court disputed for the honour of the parts, in the performance of the piece, which was sometimes translated from the Greek or Latin, and at other times was the composition of some modern poet, in imitation of the ancients, Italy boasted of exhibiting, annually, two theatrical representations : the one at P"'errara or at Milan, the other at Rome or at Naples. All the neighbouring princes, within reach, repaired tliither, with their courts and retinue. The magnificence of the spectacle, the enormous cost, and the gratitude for an unbought pleasure, disarmed the severe judgment of the public. The recoi'ds of the ItaHan cities, in presenting to us the recollec- tion of these representations, speak of them always in terms of unqualified admiration. Thus, it was less the applause of the public than the restoration of the classics, which the poets had in view in their compositions. They confined themselves to the most faithful copy of tlie ancients ; and the imitation of Seneca being equally classical with that of Sophocles, many of the first dramatic attempts of the poets of the fifteenth century, contain tumid declamations, without either action or interest, and all the faults of the Roman tragedies. About the same time, that style of poetry Avhich was des- tined to form the glory of Ariosto, began to be cultivated. Luigi Pulci, a Florentine, the youngest of three brothers, all poets, composed and read, at the table of Lorenzi de' Medici, his 3Iorgante Ma(j(jiorc ; and IMatteo Maria Boiardo, Count OF THE ITALIANS 323 of Scandia, wrote his Orlando Innamorato. Both these poems are chivah-ous romances in verse, or rather in stanzas of eight verses, of the form which became peculiar to the epic poetry of Italy ; but neither the one nor the other can merit the name of an epic poem. The chivalrous romances, com- posed for the most part in French, in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, were early circulated in Italy, and we learn from Dante, that they were already very much read in his day. In their origin, they accorded with the vivacity of the prevailing religious sentiment, with the violence of the passions, and with the taste for adventures, which animated the Christians of the first crusades. The general ignorance of the times fixvoured the powers of imagination. The vulgar looked rather to some supernatural agency, than to nature, for the explication of events, and admitted the marvellous, as a part of the system to which their daily terrors and hopes had habituated them. At the close of the fifteenth century, when the poets possessed themselves of all the old romances of chivalry, in order to give a variety to the adventures of their hei'oes, and to versify these legends, the belief in the marvellous was much diminished ; and the warriors, who still bore the names and the armour of knights, were far from calling to recollection the loyalty, the true love, and the valour of the ancient Paladins. Thus, the adventures which the ancient romancers recounted with an invincible gravity, could not be repeated by the Italians, without a mixture of mockery ; and the spirit of the age did not admit, in the Italian language, a subject entirely serious. He who made pretensions to fame, was compelled to write in Latin. The choice of the vulgar tongue was the indication of a humorous subject; and the Italian language had, in fact, adopted, since the time of Boccaccio, a character of naivete mingled with satire, which still remains, and which is particularly remark- able in Ariosto. It was not all at once that the romantic poets of Italy arrived at a just measure, in the mixture of humour with fabulous narrative. Luigi Pulci (1431-1487) in his Mor- gante Maggiore, which first appeared in 1485, is alternately vulgar and burlesque, serious and insipid, or religious. The principal characters of his romance are the same which first appeared in the fabulous chronicle of Turpin, and in the 324 ON THE LITERATURE romances of Adenez, in the tliirteentli century. His real hero is Orlando, rather than Morgante. He takes up the Paladin of Charlemagne, at the moment wlien the intrigues of Ganelon de JMayence compel him to fly from the court. One of the first adventures of Orlando is a combat with three giants, who lay siege to an abbey. Two of these he kills, and makes the third, Morgante, prisoner : converts and bap- tizes him ; and tlienceforth selects him as his brother in arms, and the partaker in all his adventures. Although this romance consists entirely of warlike encounters, yve do not find in it that enthusiasm of valour which captivates in Ariosto, and in the old romancers. Orlando and Rinaldo are not vanquished, but they do not inspire us with a confidence in their invincibility. Morgante alone, armed with the liammer of a huge bell, crushes all that he encounters ; but his supernatural strength less exalts his bravery than his brutality. On the other hand, throughout the poem, a secondary part is assigned to the women. We do not find it imbued with that gallantry and devotion, which we are accus- tomed to consider as the characteristic trait of chivalry; and in this we have, perhaps, nothing to regret, as the habitual coarseness of the language of Pulci was little suited to the delineation of tender sentiments. The critics of Italy extol him for the purity of his style ; but it consists only in his fidelity to the Tuscan dialect, of which he adopted the proverbs, and all the vulgar expressions.* This poem of * Pulci commences all his cantos by a sacred invocation, and the interests of religion are constantly intermingled with the adventures of his storj-, in a manner capricious and little instructive. We know not how to reconcile this monkish spirit with the semi-pagan character of Bocicty under Lorenzo de' Medici, nor whether we ought to accuse Pulci of gross bigotry or of profane derision. Tins mixture of religion, of atfected sublimity, of solemn insipidity, and of vulgar expression, ■will Bufficiently a[>pear from the opening of the ninth canto : Felice alma d' ogni grazia piena, Fida colunua, e speme gniziosa, Vergine sacra, umile e Nazzarena, Perche tu se' di l)io nel cielo sposa, Con la tua mano iufiuo al fin mi mena, Che di mia fantasia truovi ogni chiosa Per la tua sol benignitii ch' iJ molta, Accio die '1 mio contar piaccia a chi ascolta. Fcbo OF THE ITALIANS. 32.5 twenty-eiglit cantos, eacli canto containing from one to two hundred stanzas, after having satiated us with the recital of combats against the Moors, and of ill-connected adventures, terminates with the death of Orlando at Roncesvalles, and the discovery and punishment of the ti'eachery of Ganelon. The Count Boiardo, a statesman, governor of Reggio, and attached to the court of Hercules I. of Ferrara (1430-1494), composed about the same time as Pulci, his Orlando Innaraorato, drawn nearly from the same sources ; but his death, which occurred in 1494, prevented its completion, and his poem was not printed until the following year. This poem, which is only known, at the present day, as improved by Berni, who remodelled it sixty years afterwards, is more attractive than that of Pulci, from the variety and novelty of Febo avea gia ne TOceano il volto, E bagnava fra 1' onde i suoi crin d'auro, E dal nostro emispero aveva tolto Ogni splendor, lasciando il suo bel lauro, Dal qual fii gia iniseramcutc sciolto : Era nel tempo che piu scakla il Tauro, Quando il Dauese et gli altri al padiglione Si ritrovar del grande Ermiaioae. Erminion fe' far pel campo festa : Parvegli questo buon cominciamento : E MattafoUe avea dricto gran gesta Di gente armata a suo contentamento, E' ndosso aveva una sua sopravesta, Dov' era an Macometto in pure argento : Pel campo a spasso con gran festa andava, Di sua prodezza oguun molto parlava. E si doleva Mattalblle solo Ch' Astolfo un tratto uou venga a cadere E minacciava in mezzo del suo stuolo, E porta una fenice per cimiere; Astolfo ne sare' venuto a volo Per cadere una volta a suo piacere ; Ma Ricciardetto, che sapea 1' omore Non vuol per nulla ch' egli sbuchi fore. Carlo muggliiando per la mastra sala Com' un lion famelico arrabiato, Ne va con Ganellon cbc batte ogni ala Per gran letizia, e spesso ha simulate, Dicendo; ah lasso, la tua fame cala Or fusse qui Kinaldo almen tornato ; Che se ci fusse il conte e Ulivieri lo sarei fuor di mille stran nensieri. 326 ON THE LITERATURE the adventures, the richness of the colouring, and the interest excited by tlie valour of the hero. Tlie female sex, who form the soul of the chivalrous romance, appear here with due lionour ; and Angelica displays her charms, and exercises supreme power over the hearts of the knights. All the Moorish and Christian warriors whose names have become almost historical, receive from Boiardo an existence and a character whioii they have ever since preserved. We are informed that he took the names of many of them, Gradasso, Sacripante, Agramante, and Mandricardo, from the vassals of his own fief of Scandiano, where these ftimilies still exist. It is added, that he was in want of a more high- sounding name for his redoubtable Moorish hero, and that, one day, whilst at the chace, the name of Rodomonte sug- gested itself to him. He instantly returned to his castle on the gallop, rang his bells, and fired his cannon, as for the solemnization of a festival ; to the astonishment of the peasants, who had never before heard of this new saint. The style of Boiardo did not correspond with the vivacity of his imagi- nation. It is negligent, and his verses are harsh and fatiguin'T ; and it was not without reason that in the fol- lowing age, it was thought necessary to remodel his work. * As the poem of Boiardo is become somewhat rare, I shall give, as a specimen of his style, the six first stanzas of his poem, wliich corre- spond to the first, fifth and ninth of Berni. In comparing them with the poem of the latter, we shall see how Berni has substituted his own facility and grace of expression, for the harsh and antiquated language of his predecessor. (Edit, in Ho. 1539.) Signori e cavalier, chc v' adunati Per odir cose dilettosse e nove, Stati attenti, quieti, ct ascoltati La bell' historia che '1 mio canto move; Et odcreti i gesti smisurati L' alta fatica e le mirabil prove Che fccc il franco Orlando per amore, Nel tempo del rh Carlo, imperatore. Non vi par gia, signor, m'araviglioso Odir cantar d'Orlando innamorato : Che qualunque nel mondo c piit orgoglioso E d'amor vinto al tulto c soggiogato. Ne forte braccio, ne ardire auimoso, Ne scudo maglia, ne brando affilato, Ne altra possanza puO mai far diffcsa Ch' al fin non sia d'amor battuta c presa. Quea OF THE ITALIANS. 327 The Italian language was thus at length perfected. The versification had received its rules ; the stanza, most appro- priate to epic poetry, had already been employed in works of length ; the romances of chivalry were versified, and their marvellous adventures desci'ibed in glowing colours. But, before Ariosto, the world had no idea of that inexpressible charm which the same adventures, recounted in the same stanza, were destined to receive from his pen. Genius, com- pared with talent, is like the oak compared with the low plants at its feet. The oak shoots, indeed, from the same earth, and is subject to the same laws of vegetation. But it aspires to a higher region of air; and, when we view it in single majesty, we forget that the humble shrubs, beneath its shade, are in the same class of organization. Questa novella e nota a poca gente, Perche Turpino istesso la nascose, Credendo forsi a quel conte valeute Esser le sue scritture dispettose, Poi clie contra ad amor pur fil perdentc Colui che vinse tutte 1' altre cose : Dico d'Orlando il cavalier adatto ; Non pill parole liormai, veuiamo al fatto. La vera historia di Turpin ragiona Che regnava in la terra d'Oriente, Di la dal India, un gran rii, di corona Di stato e di riccliezze si potente, E si gagliardo de la sua persona, Che tutt 'il mondo stimava niente. Gradasso nome avea quell' amirante Ch' i cor di drago, e membra di gigante. Et si come gli advien a gran signori, Che pur quel voglion che non ponno avere, E quando son difficulta maggiori La disiata cosa ad ottenere, Pongon il regno spesso in grand' errori, Ne posson quel che voglion possedere, Cosi bramava quel pagan gagliardo Sol Durindana e '1 bon destrier Baiardo. Onde per tutt' il suo gran tenitoro Fece la gente ne I'arme assembrare ; Che ben sapeva quel, che per tesoro Ne '1 brando ne "1 corsier potria 'quistare ; Duo mercadauti si erano coloro Che vendean le sue merci troppo care ; Pero destina di passar in Franza Et acquistarle con sua gran possanza. 328 ON TDK LITERATURE Lodovico Ariosto was born on the eighth day of September, 1474, at Rejrgio, of which place his father was governor, for the Duke of P^errara. lie was intended for the study of juris- prudence, and, like many other distinguislied poets, he expe- rienced a long struggle between tiie will of his fathei", who was anxious that he should pursue a profession, and his own feelings, wliich [trompted him to the indulgence of his genius. After live years of unprolitable study, his father at length consented to his devoting himself solely to literature. Ariosto then repaired to Rome ; and it was there that he wrote in prose, before the year 1500, his comedy of La Caasaria, which, if not the earliest of the Italian comedies, may at least dispute this honour with the Calanclra of Cardinal Bibbiena. He soon afterwards gave to the public a second comedy, / Siippositl. At the same time, we find him writing sonnets and love canzoni, in the manner of Petrarch ; but we know- not of whom he was enamoured, nor whether his passion was real or feigned. He was not of a melancholy or enthusiastic temperament ; his conversation was that of a man of wit and judgment; his manners were polished and reserved, and no peculiarities betrayed the poet in him. The death of his father, in 1500, recalled him to Ferrara; and the smallness of his fortune induced him to attach himself to the service of the Cardinal Tppolito of Este, the second son of Hercules I. He accom})anied the Cardinal in his travels, and was employed by him in many important negotiations. But, although skilful in business, he never pursued it without a secret regret; until, to the chagrin of the prince, he began to occupy himself with the trifling pursuits of poetry. About the year 1505, he commenced his Orlando F'nrioso, and he prosecuted this long task, for eleven years, amidst the constant distraction of business. He read his cantos, as they were finished, to his friends, and to persons of taste in Ferrara ; and he paid a scrupulous attention to their criticisms, in order to polish and perfect his style. He was at length enabled, in the year 1516, to give the first edition of this poem, which now con- tains, in forty-six cantos, 4831 stanzas, and 38,648 verses. Tiie reception given to the Orlando Furioso in Italy, was that of the most lively enthusiasm. Before the year 1532, four editions had appeared. The Cardinal Ippolito w^as the only person insensible to the merits of Ariosto; and, in 1517, they OP THE ITALIANS. 329 separated with feelings of mutual distaste, on the poet refusing to accompany him into Hungary. A ruinous law -suit, how- ever, constrained him, in a little time, to return again to court. Alfonso I. received him into his service, and gave him an employment under the government. Ariosto was commis- sioned to suppress the banditti of the Garfagnana, and we are assured that, amidst those lawless men, his poetical fame pre- ceded him, and served him as a passport. The Duke of Fer- rara gave him, at length, an appointment more congenial to his taste; that of superintending the erection of a theatre, and directing the magnificent representations which he in- tended to give. Ariosto employed, in this manner, the last years of his life. With a very limited income, he provided for his children. It is not known who was their mother, nor whether Ariosto was married to her. He died on the sixth of June, 1533. His brother Gabriel, and his son Virginio, erected a mounument to him, which, after many injuries, was restored, in 1612, by one of his descendants. The Orlando Furioso of Ariosto is a poem universally known. It has been translated into all the modern tongues; and by the sole charm of its adventures, independently of its poetry, has long been the delight of the youth of all countries. It may therefore be taken for granted, that all the world is aware that Ariosto undertook to sing the Paladins and their amours at the court of Charlemagne, during the fabulous wars of this monarch against the Moors. If it were required to assign an historical epoch to the events contained in this poem, we must place them before the year 778, when Orlando was slain at the battle of Roncesvalles, in an expedition which Charlemagne made, before he was emperor, to defend the frontiers of Spain. But it may be conjectured, that the ro- mance writers have confounded the wars of Charles Martel against Abdelrahman, with those of Charlemagne ; and have thus given rise to the traditions of the invasion of France by the Saracens, and of those unheard-of perils, from which the West of Europe was saved by the valour of the Paladins. Every reader knows that Orlando, of all the heroes of Ariosto the most renowned for his valour, became mad, through love for Angelica ; and that his madness, which is only an episode in this long poem, has given its name to the whole of the com- position, although it is not until the twenty-third canto that Orlando is deprived of his senses. VOL. I. X 330 ON THE LITERATURE It does not appear that Ariosto had the intention of writing a strictly epic poem. He had rejected the advice of Bembo, ■who wished him to compose his poem in Latin, the only lan- guage, in the opinion of the cardinal, worthy of a serious subject. Ariosto thought, perhaps, that an Italian poem should necessarily be light and sportive. 'He scorned the adopted rules of poetry, and proved liimself sufficiently power- ful to create new ones. His work may, indeed, be said to possess an unity of subject ; the great struggle between the Christians and the Moors, which began with the invasion of France, and terminated with her deliverance. This was the subject which he had pro[)osed to himself in his argument. The lives and adventures of his several heroes, contributed to this great action ; and were so many subordinate episodes, which may be admitted in epic poetry, and which, in so long a work, cannot be considered as destroying the unity. But Ariosto seems to have designedly thrown off the em- barrassment of an unity of action. He takes up the subject and the hero, as left to him by Boiardo, in the Orlando Innamorato. He commences his poem in the midst of combats, and in a moment of universal confusion ; and, not- withstanding this, he never makes us acquainted with the antecedent events, as if he thought that everyone must have read the work of his predecessor. In fact, it is difficult to comprehend the disposition of the plot of the Orlando Furioso, if we have not previously perused the Orlando Inna- morato, or if we are not, at least, masters of those traditions of romance, with which, in the time of Ariosto, the world was more familiar. He pays no regard to the simultaneous introduction of his principal personages. Towards the con- clusion of the poem, we find new characters making their ap- pearance, who engage our attention by important adventures; and who, so far from contributing to a developement, might servo equally well to fill a second poem of the same length as the first. In the course of the action, Ariosto, playing with his readers, seems to delight in continually misleading them, almost to the exhaustion of their patience ; and allows them no opportunity of viewing the general subject of this poem, and of bringing the individual events under one view\ On the contrary, he introduces each of his personages in their turn, as if he were the hero of the poem ; and when he has drawn him into an embarrassing situation, and has suffi- OF THE ITALIANS. 331 ciently excited the curiosity and anxiety of the reader, he abandons him, in his sportiveness, for some other character, or for another part of his story, wholly at variance with the first. In short, as he commenced, without assigning any reason why he so commenced, so he concludes with equal caprice, without informing us why he thus ends his poem. Many of his principal actors, it is true, are dead, and he moreover disposes of a great number of infidels, in his last cantos, in order to deliver himself, as it were, from their x)pposition. But in the course of his poem, he has so en- tirely accustomed us to see unnumbered hosts issuing from unknown deserts, and has so entirely carried our ideas beyond the boundaries of possibility, that we see without surprise, at the end of the forty-sixth canto, a new invasion of France by the Moors, no less formidable than the first ; or, rather, a new war in the north, succeeding that of the south ; and Ariosto has himself considered it in this light, in the com- mencement of a new poem, of which he has given us only five cantos. In this, the intrigues of Ganelon excite the Saxons to arms ; and the most valiant of the knights, as Astolfo and Ruggiero, are again made captive by Alcina.* The poem of Ariosto is, therefore, only a fragment of the history of the knights of Charlemagne and their amours ; and it has neither beginning nor end, farther than any par- ticular detached period may be said to possess them. This * The fourth volume of M. Ginguene, which I had not an opportunity of seeing before the completion of this work, proves that the hero of Ariosto was Ruggiero, and not Orlando ; and that the action of the poem ought to finish witli the marriage of this fabulous ancestor of the house of Este with Bradamante. The secret design of the poet is thus explained, and brought before the eyes of the reader by the French critic, in a way as lively as his whole analysis is novel and engaging. We cannot but feel surprised, however, that if the object of the poem was solely to flatter the house of Este, the author should so far have concealed it, that it was not discovered until 300 years after his death, when the house had become extinct. At the same time, I cannot but regret the feeling thus induced. The value of these noble monuments of the human mind is diminished in our eyes, when we view them only as Uie vehicle of a flattering and ingenious compliment. It is surely quite sufficient for the sons of genius to consecrate some passages, by way of episode, to commemorate their benefactors, without converting the entire structure of their greatsst works, into a theatre for the praises of those who are so little worthy of them. X 2 332 ON TUE LITERATURE want of unity essentially injures the interest and the general impression which we ought to derive from the work. But the avidity with which all nations, and all ages, have read Ariosto, even when his story is despoiled of its poetic charms by translation, sufficiently proves that he had the art of giving to its individual parts an interest which it does not possess as a whole. Above all, he has communicated to it a spirit of valour. In spite of the habitual absurdity of those chivalrous combats ; in spite of the disproportion of the causes with their effects, and the raillery which seems inseparable from the narration of his battles, Ariosto always contrives to excite in us an enthusiasm and an intoxication of valour which create a love of enterprise in every reader. One of the most exalted enjoyments of man, consists in the full developement of his energies and power. The great art of the poet of romance is, to awaken a proper confidence in our own resources, by raising against his hero all the forces of nature and the spells of magic, and by exhibiting hira as triumphant, by the superiority of his will and courage, over all the powers which had conspired his ruin. In the world into which Ariosto transports us, we find also another source of enjoyment. Tliis world, essentially poetic, in which all the vulgar interests of life are suspended; where love and honour are the only laws, and the only motives to action, and no factitious wants, no cold calculations chill the soul ; where all the pains and all the disquietudes incident to our lot, and the inequalities of rank and of riches, are forgotten ; this imaginary world charms away all our cares. We deliglit in making excursions into it, and in discovering in it a refuge from the distractions of real life. We derive, indeed, no instruction from these reveries ; for the difference between the world of romance and the real world is such, that we cannot, in the one, make the least use of the lessons received from the other. It is, in fact, a remarkable characteristic of this species of poetry, that it is impossible to derive from it any kind of instruction. But we receive no little gratification from an occupation of the mind, on a subject which disclaims all admonition ; and the dream of fancy, without any defined object, is, perhaps, the real essence of poetry, which ought never to be a means, but is in itself its only proper end. OF THE ITALIANS. 333 It is true, indeed, that this world of romance is not the creation of Aviosto. The scene of the Orlando Furioso and that of the Orlando Innamorato, is exactly the same ; and both authors, in availing themselves of the fabulous authority of Archbishop Turpin, have greatly profited by the brilliant invention of the French Trouveres, who, in the thirteenth century, composed many romances on the reign of Charle- magne : romances, which the wandering minstrels sung in the streets, after translating them into Italian verse, adapted to the taste of the common people. If, however, the repre- sentation of these ancient manners and the spirit of past times, was the work of several successive poets, yet Ai-iosto may be said to have completed this elegant and ingenious edifice. Chivalry, with him, shines forth in all its dignity, delicacy, and grace. The most exalted sentiments of honour, the protection of the feeble, a devoted respect for the female sex, and a scrupulous performance of promises, form the ruling spirit of the age into which he transports us. These sentiments are professed and felt by all his personages ; and the fanciful race of knights have received from him a being and a name. The magic and sorcery which pervade so great a portion of the poem of Ariosto, and which have been, in a manner, consecrated by the Christian poets, were borrowed chiefly from the Arabian tales, and had been transmitted to the Latins by their intercourse with the people of the East. The Christian warriors themselves had, indeed, many gross super- stitions. They had faith in amulets, which they imagined could render them invulnerable. They believed that certain ill-omened words and charms could rob them of their strength. Continually accustomed to the use of arms, they were disposed to believe that those of the finest steel and the most approved temper, possessed in themselves something marvellous. But their superstition often carried with it a more sombre charac- ter. Their priests had inspired them with a thousand terrors, which were allied to a persecuting faith. Evil spirits and ghosts incessantly troubled their imaginations ; and the same warriors, who had braved a thousand deaths in the field, were palsied with horror, in crossing a burial-place by night. This superstition, the result of the frightful pictures of Pur- gatory and Hell, is constantly found in the German poets j 834 ox TUE LITERATURE but it is entirely strange to Ariosto and to the writers of romance, whom he had studied in Spanish and in French, with both of which languages he was intimately acquainted. The supernatural agency, which Ariosto employs, is divested of all terror. It is a brilliant heightening of the energies of man, which embodies the dreams of the imagination ; the developement of the passions of the; living, not the unnatural apparition of the dead. The Genii of the East, whom the most ancient fables have represented as subservient to the ring of Solomon, are the prototypes of the fairies of the North. Their power is exercised, as in the Arabian fables, in splen- did creations, in a taste for the arts, and in a love of pleasure. In short, Alcina, Atlas, the ring of Angelica, and the Hippo- griff) are the creations of Islamism ; whilst the evil spirit of the mountain, and the spectre of the castle, who shakes his fetters and disturbs the hours of repose by his frightful visits, are European superstitions, allied to Christianity and to the mythology of Scandinavia and of Germany. But, if Ariosto was not the inventor of the mythology which he has employed, nor of the heroes whom he has introduced, he has not the less exhibited, in his poem, the most brilliant imagination, and the most fertile invention. Each of his knights has his own story, and each of these stories forms a tissue of agreeable adventures, which awake the curiosity, and often excite the liveliest interest. Many of these adventures have furnished excellent dramatic subjects to succeeding poets ; and the loves of Angelica and Medoro, those of Bradamante and Ruggiero, and of Genevra of Scot- land, and Ariodante, Ibrm a world of traditionary poetry, not less fruitful tiian that of the Greeks. It must be confessed, notwithstanding, that the dramatic powers of Ariosto do not equal his talent for description, and that his invention is more successful with regard to events than to character. He weaves a plot in the most novel and engaging manner. Our sympathy is excited from the com- menct;ment, and increases witli the embarrassment of the situations. All the incidents are unexpected ; almost all are of powerful interest ; and the scene and action are vividly presented to our eyes. But, when the poet, at length, brings forward, as a speaker, the character which he has placed in the most difficult situation, he suddenly disappoints his OF THE ITALIANS. 335 reader, and shows us tliat his imagination, and not his heart, was the source of composition. Thus, in the tenth canto, Bireno, the lover and husband of Olympia, arrives with her in a desert island. Already weary of her, he meditates her desertion, without her having the least presentiment of his perfidy. The small bay in which they disembark, the smiling spot on which they pitch their tent, and the serenity and con- fidence of Olympia, are admirably described. Wliilst she sleeps, Bireno forsakes her ; and the manner in which Olym- pia, at the break of day, half awaking from her slumbers, seeks for her lover in the couch which he has deserted, in the tent which he has abandoned, and on the border of the sea, and at length, from the point of a rock, sees his vessel, coursing the distant main, is painted Avith a delicacy of colour- ing, and a feeling of melancholy which profoundly penetrate the heart. But when Olympia speaks, and expresses, in seven stanzas, her regrets and her fears, she instantly checks our emotion ; for, in these stanzas, there is not a single verse that responds to the throbbings of the heart. It is, doubtless, the same failing which deprives the personages of Ariosto of individual character. Even Orlando, the hero who gives his name to the poem, differs little from Rinaldo, Ruggiero, and Griffone, or from the valiant Saracen knights. In respect to valour and bodily prowess, as they are all raised above the level of nature, thei-e are no means of distinguishing them from each other ; and, as to characters, there are properly only two, to which all the rest may be referred. One half of the heroes. Christians as well as JPagans, are mild, generous, and benevolent ; the other half, savage, arrogant, and cruel. Nor are the characters of the women more happily delineated. That of Angelica scarcely leaves a recollection which we can seize. AH the others are confounded together, except that of the Amazon Bradamante, the only one for whom we, perhaps, feel a personal interest. The versification of Ariosto is more distinguished for grace, sweetness, and elegance, than for strength. The opening of all his cantos is adorned, throughout, with the richest poetry; and the language is so perfectly harmonious, that no poet, either before or after him, can be, in this point, compared to him. Every description is a picture ; and the eyes of the reader follow the pen of the poet. As he always sports with 336 ON THE LITERATURE his subject, with his readers, and even with his st^'le, he rarely soars, and never attempts that majestic flight which belongs to the epic muse. He even seeks facility and grace in negligence itself; and it often happens that he repeats many words of a verse in the following one, like the narrator of a tale, who repeats his words in order to collect his thoughts.* The words are frequently thrown together negli- gently, and as if by chance. We perceive that the most eligible words are not made use of ; that parts of lines are inserted for the sake of the rhyme ; and that the poet has been desirous of writing like an Improvisato7'e, who, in reciting, is carried away by his subject, and contents himself with filling up his verse, in order to arrive sooner at the event, or description which has possessed his imagination. Tliis negligence, in others, would be considered as a fault ; but Ariosto, who gave a high polish to his verses, and who designedly left these irregularities, has in his language, when he surrenders himself to the impulse of his genius, such an inimitable grace, that we gladly acquiesce in his negligence, and admit it as a proof of his happy genius, and of the truth of his narration. We occasionally meet with passages highly pathetic, in this light and graceful poet. Thus, the circumstance which has given a name to the poem, the pangs of love which caused the madness of Orlando, is gradually developed W'ith a truth, delicacy of sentiment, and eloquence of passion, wholly unri- valled. The Paladin of Charlemagne finds traced, on the rock of a grotto, verses by Medora, in which he extols his bliss, derived from the partial love of Angelica.f CXI. Three times, and four, and six, the lines imprest Upon the stone that wretch perused, in vain Seeking another sense than was exprest, And ever saw the thing more clear and plain ; And all the while, witliin his troubled breast, He felt an icy hand his lieart-core strain. With mind and eyes close fastened on the block, At length he stood, not differing from the rock. * Ma quivi giunse In fretta un Messaggicr cho gli disgiunse. Yi giunse un Messaggicr, etc. + [The extracts are from Mr. Rose's elegant aud faithful Translatioo. —Tr.] OF THE ITALIANS. 337 CXII. Theu wellnigli lost all feeling ; so a prey Wholly was he to that o'ermastering woe. This is a pang, believe the experienced say Of him who speaks, which does all griefs outgo. His pride had from his forehead passed away, His chin had fallen upon his breast below ; Nor found he, so grief liarred each natural vent, Moisture for tears, or utterance for lament. CXIII. Stifled within, the impetuous sorrow stays. Which would too quickly issue ; so to abide Water is seen, imprisoned in the vase, Whose neck is narrow and whose swell is wide ; What time, when one turns up the inverted base, Towards the mouth, so hastes the hurrying tide. And iu the streight encounters such a stop. It scarcely works a passage, drop by drop.* He still pauses ; and he cannot believe that Angelica is faithless, until he is convinced by the recital of a shepherd, who had witnessed her infidelity. He flies into the forest, but in vain shuns the eye of man. He again sees the inscrip- tion on the rock, which converts his profound grief into rage. cxxix. All night about the forest roved the count, And, at the break of daily light, was brought By his unhappy fortune to the fount. Where his inscription young Medoro ^vrought. To see his wrongs inscribed upon that mount. Inflamed his fury so, in him was nought But turned to hatred, phrenzy, rage, and spite ; Nor paused he more, but bared his faulchion bright ; * Tre volte e quattro e sei lesse lo scritto Quello infelice, e pur cercando in vano Che non vi fosse quel che v' era scritto, E sempre lo vedea piil chiaro e piano. Et ogni volta, in mezzo il petto afflitto, Stringersi il cor sentia con fredda mano ; Rimase al fin con gli occhi e con la mente Fissi nel sasso, al sasso indifl'erente. Fil alhora per uscir del sentimento ; Si tutto in preda del dolor si lassa : Credete a chi n' ha fatto esperimento Che questo e '1 duol che tutti gl' altri passa. Caduto gli era sopra il petto il mento, La fronte priva di baldanza e bassa, Ne pot(5 aver, che '1 duol 1' occupo tanto, A le querele voce, humore al pianto. Canto 23, si. 112, 113. 338 ON THE LITERATURE CXXX. Cleft through the writing ; and the solid block, Into the skv, in tiny fragments sped. Wo worth eacii sapling and that cavemed rock, Where Medore and Angelica were read ! So scathed, that they to shepherd or to flock Thenceforth shall never furnish shade or bed. And that sweet fountain, late so clear and pure, From such tempestuous wrath was ill secure, cxxxi. For he turf, stone, and trunk, and shoot, and lop. Cast without cease into the beauteous source ; Till, turbid from the bottom to the top. Never again was clear the troubled course. At length for lack of breath, compelled to stop, (When he is bathed in sweat, and wasted force. Serves not his fury more) he falls and lies Upon the mead, and, gazing upward, sighs. CXXXII. Wearied and woe-bcgone, he fell to ground, And turned his eyes toward heaven ; nor spake he aught, Nor ate, nor slept, till in his daily round The golden sun had broken thrice, and sought His rest anew ; nor ever ceased his wound To rankle, till it marred his sober thought. At length, impelled by phrenzy, the fourth day, lie from his limbs tore plate and mail away. CXXXIII. Here was his helmet, there his shield bestowed ; His arms far off'; and, farther than the rest. His cuirass ; through the greenwood wide was strowed All his good gear, in fine ; and next his vest He rent ; and, in his fury, naked showed His shaggy paunch, and all his back and brea.st. And 'gan that phrenzj- act, so passing dread. Of stranger folly never shall be said.* * E stanco al fin, e al fin di sudor molle, Poi che la lena vinta non risponde A lo sdegno, al grave odio, a I'ardentc ira. Cade sul prato, e verso il ciel sospira. Afflitto e stanco al fin cade nc I'herba, E fieca gli occhi al cielo, e non fa motto ; Senza cibo e dormir cosi si serba Che 'I sol csce tre volte, e torna sotto. Di crescer non cesso la pena acerba Che fuor del senno al fin Tebbe condotto. 11 quarto di, dal gran furor commosso, E maglie e piastre si straccio di dosso. Canto 23, st. 131. OP THE ITALIANS. 339 We find another passage equally pathetic, where Ariosto recounts, in the twenty-fourth canto, the death of Zerbino, the generous son of the King of Scotland, who had collected together the arms which Orlando, in his madness, had left scattered in the field. He formed them into a trophy, to be preserved for the Paladin, when he should be restored to reason, and was soon called on to defend them, as the Moor, Mandricardo, had possessed himself of Durandal, the famous sword of Orlando. But, in his combat with this cruel enemy, tlie arms were too unequal. Those of Mandricardo were charmed ; and the armour of Zerbino was shattered by every stroke of the terrible Durandal. The two damsels, who follow the warriors, prevail on them, at length, to suspend their combat, and to separate ; but Zerbino's wounds were too deep to be staunched. In the midst of the forest, alone with Isabel, his love, his blood flows fast, his anguish increases, and life ebbs away. LXXV. For to leave Diirindana such misdeed To him appeared, it past all other woes ; Though he could hardly sit upon his steed. Through mighty loss of life-blood, which yet flows. Now, when his anger and his heat secede, After short interval, his anguish grows ; His anguish grows, with such impetuous pains. He feels that life is ebbing from his veins. LXXVI. For weakness can the prince no further hie, And so beside a fount is forced to stay : Him to assist the pitying maid would try, But knows not what to do, nor what to say. For lack of comfort she beholds him die ; Since every city is too far away. Where in this need she could resort to leech. Whose succour she might purchase or beseech.* * Per debolezza piil non potea gire, Si che fermossi a pi6 d'una fontana ; Non sa che far, n& che si debba dire Per aiutarlo la donzella humana. Sol di disagio lo vede a morire, Che quindi e troppo ogni citta lontana, Dove in quel punto al medico ricorra, Che per pietade o per premio 1 soccorra. Ella 340 ON THE LITEUATDRE Lxxvir. She, blaming Fortune, and tlic cruel sky, Can only ulter fond complaints and vain. " Wliy sank 1 not in ocean," (was her cry,) " When first 1 reared my sail upon the main?" Zerbiuo, \vho on her his languid eye Had fixt, as she liemoaned her, felt more pain Than that enduring and strong anguish bred. Through which the suffering youth was well-nigh dead. Lxxvni. " So be thou pleased, my heart," (Zerbino cried,) " To love me yet, when 1 am dead and gone, " As to abandon thee without a guide, " And not to die, distresses me alone. " For did it me in place secure betide " To end my days, tliis earthly journey done, " I cheerful, and content, and fully blest " Would die, since 1 should die upon thy breast. LXXIX. " But since to abandon thee, to whom a prize " I know not, my sad fate compels, I swear, " My Isabella, by that mouth, those eyes, " By what enchained me first, that lovely hair : " My spirit, troubled and despairing, hies " Into hell's deep and gloomy bottom ; where " To think, thou wcrt abandoned so by me, " Of all its woes the heaviest pain will be." Ella non sa se non in van dolcrsi, Chiamar fortuna e "1 cielo empio e crudelc. Perche, ahi lassa ! dicea, noa mi sommersi Quando levai ne TOcean le vele ] Zerbin, che i languidi occhi ha in lei conversi, Sente piil doglia ch' ella si qucrele, Che de la passion tenace e forte Che I'ha eondotto omai vicino a morte. Cosi, cor mio, vogliate (le diceva) Dapoi ch' io saro morto, aniarmi ancora, Como solo il lasciarvi ti che m'aggreva. Qui senza guida, et non gia perch' io mora ; Che se in seeura parte m'accadeva Finir de la mia vita 1' ultima ora, Lieto e contcnto e fortunate a j)ieno Morto sarei, pui ch' io vi moro in seno. A OF THE ITALIANS. 341 LXXX. At this the sorrowing Isabel, declining Her mournful face, which with her tears o'erflows. Towards the sufferer, and her mouth conjoining To her Zerbino's, languid as a rose ; Eose gathered out of season, and which, pining Fades where it on the shadowy hedgerow grows, Exclaims, " Without me think not so, my heart, " On this your last, long, journey to depart. LXXXI. " Of this, my heart, conceive not any fear, " Tor I will follow thee to heaven or hell ; " It fits our souls together quit this sphere, " Together go, for aye together dwell. " No sooner closed thine eyelids shall appear " Than either me internal grief will quell, " Or, has it not such power, I here protest, " I with this sword to-day will pierce my breast. LXXXII. " I of our bodies cherish hope not light, " That they shall have a happier fate when dead : " Together to entomb them, may some wight, " Haply by pity moved, be hither led." She the poor remnants of his vital sprite Went on collecting, as these words she said : And while yet aught remains, with mournful lips. The last faint breath of life devoutly sips. LXXXIII. 'Twas here his feeble voice Zerbino manned, Crying, " My deity, I beg and pray, " By that love witnessed, when thy father's land " Thou quittedst for my sake ; and, if I may A questo la mestissima Isabella Declinando la faccia lacrimosa, E congiungendo la sua bocca a quella Di Zerbin, languidetta come rosa, Rosa non colta in sua stagion, si ch' ella Impallidisca in ail la siepe ombrosa, Disse, non vi pensate gia, mia vita, Ear senza me quest' ultima partita. Zerbin, la debil voce rinforzando, Disse : io vi prego e snpplico, mia diva. Per quelle amor che mi mostraste, quando Per me lasciaste la patcrmi riva ; E 342 ON THE LITERATDRE " In any thing command thee, I command, " That, with God's pleasure, thou live-out thy day : " Nor ever banish from tliy memory, " That, well as man can love, have I loved thee. LXXXIV. " God haply will provide thee with good aid, " To free thee from each churlish deed I fear ; " As, when in the dark cavern thou wast stayed, " He sent, to rcBcue thee, Anglante's peer ; " So he, (grammercy !) succoured thee dismaid " At sea, and from the wicked Biscaynecr. " And, if thou must choose death, in place of worse, " Then only choose it, as a lesser curse." LXXXV. I think not these last words of Scotland's knight Were so exprest, that he was understood : With these, he finished, like a feeble light, Which needs supply of wax, or other food. — Who is there, that has power to tell aright The gentle Isabella's doleful mood 1 When stif}', her loved Zerbino, with pale face. And cold as ice, remained in her embrace. The death of Isabel herself is related in the twenty-first canto, in a manner infinitely touching. But Ariosto, less than any autlior, requires illustration by fragments or trans- lations, since he is so generally known ; and those who have not yet read him, cannot possibly, from the translation of a few stanzas, form any idea of tlie grace which pervades the whole poem, where the style, the enchanting language, and the nature of the ornaments, are in perfect harmony with the subject. The glory of Ariosto is attached to his Orlando Furioso ; but this is not his only work which remains to us. lie wrote five comedies, of five acts each, and in verse, which are not now performed, and are scarcely read, since they no longer E se comandar posso, io vel comando, Che fin che place a Dio restiate viva : Ne mai per caso poniate in oblio Che quanto amar si puo v' abbia amato io. Non credo che quest' ultime parole Potesse esprimer si che fosse inteso ; E fini come il debil lume suole Cui cera manchi od altro in che sia acceso. Canto 24. st. 76, ' an able usurper, who is not restrained by any moral principle, may consolidate his power, gave to the duke instructions conformable to his taste. The true object, however, of Machiavelli could not be to se- cure on his throne a tyrant whom he hated, and against whom he had conspired. Nor is it probable that he only pro- posed to himself, to expose to the people the maxims of tyranny, in order to render them odious ; for an universal experience had, at that time, made them known throughout all Italy, and that diabolical policy, which Machiavelli reduced to a system, was, in the sixteenth century, that of all the states. Tliere is, in his manner of treating the subject, a general feeling of bitterness against mankind, and a contempt of the human race, winch induces him to address it in lan- guage adapted to its desjjicable and depraved condition. He ajjplies himself to the interests, and selfish calculations of OF THE ITALIANS. 431 iiiankind, since they do uot deserve an appeal to their enthu- siasm and moral sense. He establishes principles in theory, which he knows his readers will reduce to practice ; and lie exhibits the play of the human passions with an energy and clearness which require no ornament. The Principe of Machiavelli is the best known of his political works, but it is neither tlie most profound, nor the most considerable. His tliree books of discourses on the first Decade of Livy, in which he investigates the first causes of the power of the Romans, and the obstacles which have im- peded otlier nations in a similar career, discover an extensive knowledge, a great perspicacity in judging of men, and a powerful talent of mind in abstracting and generalizing ideas. The most profound political observations, which have been written since this epoch, in any language, have been derived from these early meditations of Machiavelli. As in this work he goes much more directly to his object, and as he did not write either for a tyrant or for a free people, but for every honest mind which loves to reflect on the destinies of nations, this book is, in consequence, more moral in principle, though containing lessons not less profound ; nor has it incurred, on the part of the church or of society, the same anathema which some time after the death of Machiavelli was pronounced against his treatise of the Prindpe. It was also at this period of his life that Machiavelli wrote his History of Florence, dedicated to Pope Clement VII., and in which he instructed the Italians in the art of uniting the eloquence of history with depth of reflection. He has attached himself, much less tlian his predecessors in the same line, to the narration of military events. But his work, as a history of popular passions and tumults, is a masterpiece, and Machiavelli has completed, by this noble example of his theories, his analysis of the human heart. He was again em- ployed in public afltiirs by the Pope, to whom he dedicated his book, and was charged with the direction of the fortifica- tions, when death deprived his country of liis farther services, on the twenty-second day of June, 1527, three years before the termination of the Florentine Republic. Machiavelli might have rendered himself illustrious as a comic writer, if he had not preferred political fame. He lias left three comedies, which, by the novelty of the plot, by the 432 ON THE LITERATURE Strength and vivacity of the dialogues, and by their admirable delineation of cliaraeter, are i'ar superior to all that Italy had then, or has, perhaps, since produced. We feel sensible, in perusing them, of th-i talent of the master who conceived them, of the elevation from which their author judges the beings whom he has depicted with so much truth, and of his profound contempt lor all the duplicity and hypocrisy which he so faithfully exposes. Two monks in particular, a brother Timoteo, who appears in the two first, and a brother Alberico, protagonist of the third, are represented with a vivacity and accuracy which have left nothing to the invention of the author of the Tarlufe. It is to be regretted, that public manners authorized, at that time, such an extreme license in theatrical representations, that it is im- possible to give even an analysis of these comedies. His tale of Belfagor, or the devil, who takes refuge in hell to avoid a scold, has been translated into all languages, and remodelled in French by La Fontaine. His poems are more remarkable for vigour of thought, than for harmony of style, or grace of expression. Some are composed of historical facts versified, and others, of satirical or burlesque frag- ments. But the pleasantries of the author are generally mingled with gall, and when he indulges his humour, it is always in dei"ision of the human race. It was thus that he wrote the Carnival Songs, to be recited by difierent troops of masks ; each dance having a song or an ode, appropriated to its character and to its disguise. In the streets of Florence there were successively seen, on the triumphant cars, despairing lovers, ladies, the spirits of the blest, hermits, fruit-sellers, and quacks. They were connected by a kind of dramatic action, but Machiavelli contrived that they should be preceded by a chorus of demons ; and we seem to recognize the writer of the Principe in the morose manner in which he introduces this annual and popular feast. The foDowing are the opening stanzas : Driven from tlie mansions of immortal bliss. Angels no more, the fate Of pride was ours. Yet claim we here, in this* * Gia fummo, or non siam pid, spirti beati, Per la superbia nostra Dair OF THE ITALIAJJS. 433 Your rude and ravaged state. More torn with faction and iierce powers Of vengeance than our realms of hate. The rule we lost in Heaven, o'er man below. Famine, war, blood, fierce cold, and fiercer fire, Lo ! on your mortal heads, The vials pour our hands that never tire : And we, while the glad season spreads 1 The feast and dance, are with you now. And must with you remain, To foster grief and pain. And plague you with fresh woes, and crimes that bring forth woe. Some similitude may, perhaps, be remarked between Machiavelli and a man of this time, Pietro Aretino, whose name has acquired an infamous celebrity. Those who are not acquainted with the works of either the one or the other, regard them both with equal horror ; the first, as the abettor of political crime, and the other, as having made a boast of his impiety, immorality, and profligacy. A comparison, however, cannot be admitted between them. Aretino was a man of infamous character ; Machiavelli was, at the worst, only a culpable writer. Such, however, was the power of wit, and the favour shown to poets, in the sixteenth century, that Charles V., Francis I., and the greatest men of the age, loaded Aretino with honours, and admitted him to their inti- macy. An acknowledged friend of Leo X. and Clement VII., he was recommended to Paul III. by his son, the Duke of Parma, as deserving a cardinal's hat, and had nearly attained that distinction, on the death of Paul, from his suc- cessor Julius III. He composed, during a considerably long life, (1492 to 1557) a great number of works, which are scarcely read at the present day. Some of these owed their Dall' alto e sommo ciel tutti scacciati ; E 'n questa terra vostra Abbiam preso '1 governo, Perche qui si dimostra Confusione e duol piil che 'n inferno. E fame e guerra, e sangue e ghiaccio e foco Sopra ciascun mortale Abbiam messo nel mondo a poco a poco ; E in questo carnovale Vegniamo a star con voi, Perche di ciascun male Stati siamo e sarem principio noi. 434 ON THE LITERAl'URE reputation to their extreme licentiousness ; others, to the caustic satire with wliicli he attacked his powerful enemies ; many, which were purchased at an extraordinary price by reigning sovereigns, are filled with the most base and de- grading flatteries; and others, in no small number, are devotional pieces, which the author, an enemy to every religious faith and to all morals, wrote only because they brought him a larger sum of money. Notwithstanding this profligacy of mind and heart, Aretino received from his con- temporaries the epithet of II Divino. Possessed of assurance of every description, he adopted this title himself, repeated it on all occasions, and attached it to his signature as a person attaches a title to his name, or takes an addition to his arms. His life was sullied by every species of vice. His enemies, who found they could not wound the honour of a man who professed to have none, were obliged to have recourse to personal chastisement, which, in consequence, he frequently underwent. At other times, he drew on himself more serious attacks. At Rome, a Bolognese gentleman struck him with his poniard, and lamed him for life. Pietro Strozzi, a mar- shal of France, against whom he had written some satirical pieces, threatened to have him assassinated in his bed ; and the unfortunate Aretino shut himself up in his house, in in- expressible terror, and thus led a prisoner's life, until Strozzi had quitted Italy. Tintoretto, whom he had attacked with his accustomed virulence, accidentally meeting him near his house, and feigning ignorance of what he liad written, told him that he had long wished for an opportunity of ])aiuting his portrait. He led him into his house, placed him on a chair, and suddenly presenting a pistol, advanced against him in a menacing attitude. "How now, Giacomo!" cried the terrified poet. " I am only taking your measure," gravely answered the painter ; and added, in the same tone, " I find you just four and a half pistol lengths." He then bade him instantly depart, an injunction which Aretino lost no time in obeying. It seemed, indeed, probable that he would have died either by the dagger or bodily chastisement, but he was reserved for a lighter death. He had some sisters at Venice, whose lives were as dissolute as his own. A person was one day recounting to him some of their amours, and he found them so comic, that he threw liimself back with violence in OF THE ITALIANS. 435 his chair. The chair fell backwards, his head was struck against the marble floor, and he died instantaneously, at the age of sixty-five. The dramatic pieces of Aretino are the only works of his which can be said to liavc contributed to the advancement of letters in Italy ; and it must be allowed that they are some- times singularly attractive. In spite of all the disgust which the character of the author inspires ; in spite of the effrontery with which, even in these comedies, he by turns sets himself above all the laws of decency in speaking of others, and those of modesty in speaking of himself ; in spite of the gross faults in the conduct, and, almost always, of the want of interest in his characters, of perspicuity in the plot, and life in the action ; we still find in his comedies a genuine dramatic talent, an originality, and often a gaiety, rarely met with in the early dramatic writers of Italy. Aretino probably owed his merit in great part to the absence of all imitation. He had neither the Greek nor Latin models before his eyes ; he depicted human nature merely as he saw it, with all its vices and all its deformity, in a corrupted age ; and, inasmuch as, like Aristophanes, he confined himself to the manners of his own time, he bears a greater resemblance to the Athenian di-amatist than they who have taken him for their immediate model. In his comedies, Aretino makes continual allusions to local circumstances ; he paints undisguisedly the vices of the great as well as those of the people ; and, at the same time that he mingles his satires with the lowest flattery, in order to procure for himself the protection of the great, or to remunerate them for the money he had obtained from them, he always preserves the picture of the general dissoluteness of manners, and the loose principles of the age, with singular truth and vivacity of colouring. From no other source can we obtain a more correct insight into that abandonment of all morals, honour, and virtue, which marked the sixteenth cen- tury. This age, so resplendent in literary glory, prepared at the same time the corruption of taste and of genius, of senti- ment and of imagination, in destroying all that Italy had hitherto preserved of her ancient laws. As we are compelled to pass over many illustrious authors, lest we should fatigue the reader by a barren enumeration of names, we shall conclude this list by a short notice of Teofilo 436 ON THE LIljiUATURE Folengi, better known by the name of Merlino Coccajo. He was the inventor of tlie maearonie poetry, u species not less below the burlesque, tlian the Berncsque is above it. It is difficult to say whether these poems are Italian or Latin. The words and phrases are chosen from the most vulgar of the low Italian dialects ; but the terminations are Latin, as is also the measure of the verse ; and the wit consists in lending to a composition and to ideas already burlesque, the language and the blunders of an ignorant scholar. This ridiculous style, supported by great vivacity, but often by pleasantries of very bad taste, had a prodigious success. Mer- lino Coccajo had many imitators ; and macaronic verses have been written, formed of Latin and French, as his partook of Latin and Italian. Tlie induction of the physician, in the Malade ImcKjinaire, is in this macaronic language. Folengi was born in tlie state of Mantua, and was a Benedictine monk, but escaped from his convent to follow his mistress. After a lapse of eleven years, spent in an irregular life, Folengi returned to his convent in 1526, and sought pardon for his errors in the composition of religious poems ; in one of which, amongst others, in octave verse, on the life of Christ, we find considerable strength and elegance. There are also beauties in some passages of his macaronic verses, but it requires no small degree of courage to look for them. We shall not speak at length of Baldassare Castiglione, the celebrated autlior of the Corteyiano, who exhibits in liis verses both grace and sensibility ; of Francesca Maria Molza of Modena, whose whole life was consecrated to love and the Muses, (1487 — 1544), and whom many critics have placed in the first rank of the lyric poets of the age ; of Giovanni Mauro, a burlesque poet, a friend and imitator of Brrni ; nor of Nicolo Franco, wlio, after having been brouglit up in the school of Aretino, had a furious quarrel with him, but attacked at the same time, with not less effrontery than his rival, both the government and public morals, in sucli a manner that Pius v., to put an effectual stop to his pasquinades, caused him to be hanged in 1 569. Nor shall we pause to notice the Latin poets of this period. .Sadoleli, Fracastoro, Pontano, and Vida, all of whom, by the purity of tlieir language, by the elegance of their taste, and often by their classic genius, have approached the authors of antiquity whom they had OP THE ITALIANS. 437 taken for models. The greater part of these have Avritten poems on didactic subjects. This kind of composition appears, in fact, to suit better than any other with authors who sub- mitted their genius to prescribed rules, and who, wishing to restore a nation and a literature which would not harmonize with their own age and manners, have in their poems studied more the form than the substance. Nor shall we further speak of several distinguished historians of this epoch, Giovio, Nardi, and Nerli ; nor of a man more celebrated and uni- versally read, Francesco Guicciardini, whose history is quoted, even at the present day, as a school of politics, and a model of judicious criticism. In works of this nature, the literary merit, tliat of expression, is only secondary. It is from their profoundness of thought, and their vivacity, that we assign a rank to historians ; and, in order to pass an opinion on Guicciardini, we should be obliged to go beyond the bounds which we have prescribed to ourselves, on a sub- ject already too extensive in itself. We shall conclude this review of Italian literature of the sixteenth century, by some remarks on the progress of the comic drama. This branch of the dramatic art, which arose at the beginning of the age, if it was not brought to perfec- tion, had at least rapidly advanced. The first pieces were little more than pedantic copies of the Latin comedy. They were represented at the expense of the Courts, before learned audiences. But at the end of a little time, although we do not know the precise period, troops of mercenary comedians possessed themselves of these dramas, and recited them be- fore the public, who paid for their seats. From that time, the taste of the public became a matter of greater importance to the actors and to the authors. It was no longer sufficient that a piece was made conformable to the rules which the critics pretended to have deduced from the ancients. It was also requisite that it should interest or amuse. Machiavelli and Pietro Aretino had shown how laughter might be ex- cited by the delineation of modern manners and vices. The example of Terence was gradually neglected, and a crowd of authors undertook, with less erudition, indeed, but with more vivacity, to entertain the public. The most remarkable amongst them was Anton Maria Grassini, of Florence, sur- named II Lasca, (the name of a fish), who endeavoured to 438 ON THE LITERATUKE give to his native drama manners and rules entirely national, and who overwhelnie