THE TROUBADOURS. What a wonderful flavour of romance hangs over the word troubadour! The imagination immediately turns to the gorgeous pictures of the chivalry of the middle-ages, when the minstrel (often a knight, sometimes a prince) donned his armour, placed the gage d'amitié of his fair lady in his helmet, and set out to sing her praises in every court, and to do battle in her honour with each disputant who met him. Or we think of that other minstrel who, wandering over Europe, sang his lays beneath every fortress in Germany, until answered by one who had suffered a sad imprisonment; and then, turning his steps to England, told his discovery to the barons, who, collecting a ransom, released the valiant Richard Coeur-deLion. How it came about that, after the long centuries of barbarism (during which poetry seemed banished from the world), there should suddenly have sprung up a race of Provengal poets, flourishing for three centuries in the greatest vigour, and then their language becoming a dead one, is a problem of history; let us first hear the legend in explanation, and then turn to the more sober side of fact. In the days when Merlin, the great enchanter, was wandering over the earth, consoling and teaching, he met with a fine-looking youth begging by the road-side. Merlin had already parted with his stores to the wretched, but a lady appearing from a neighbouring castle, riding with a falcon on her wrist, the wizard addressed her, saying: "I bring you a great happiness, madam." "What is that?" said she. "A rare occasion of giving away your horse and falcon." "To whom?” "To this wretched man." "You are mad, Merlin," replied the lady, disdainfully: "recollect yourself." "Ah, madam, I have just returned from the infernal regions. I have seen nothing more terrible than what I see now-avarice on an angel's brow." The lady was struck with this pointed reply. She felt she had a heart, and was ashamed that her clouded face should seem as if she had wrinkles and thin lips. She cast a more cheerful glance on the beggar. Nothing could equal her astonishment when she saw in him a young man with black eyes and curly hair. She jumped lightly to the ground, and, giving her horse and bird to Merlin, said: "There, I give them to him." This kindness melted the heart of the young man like wax. He immediately poured forth some verses prompted by his devotion, and in his gratitude were mingled words of love. They were the first poetry that had been composed in this country and language. The lady's No, madam," said Merlin, "it is the language of love." And he taught her that these verses were the most beautiful that had been composed since the days of Virgil, and how she had performed the miracle. When she re-entered her castle, the lady was suffering from the deepest ennui. of "Speak to me in verse," she said to a crowd courtiers, who were waiting for her favour. But none understood her: all seemed coarse and rough in comparison with what she had heard. Listening, when seated on the tower, the voice of her slave sounded in the valley. From that day the one gave, the other received, and both were filled with happiness. This was one of Merlin's greatest prodigies. He reconciled the rich with the poor, and at the same time invented poetry. Leaving these poetical fancies, we must turn our eyes to the eleventh and twelfth centuries, and we shall find that the Provençal or romance language, in which the thousands of poets wrote who sprung up as if by the touch of Merlin's magic wand, was one well known and generally used in the southern half of France, and by the Christians of Spain. These latter, refined by their intercourse with the Moors, introduced among their northern neighbours the spirit of gallantry, with the refinements in art and science, which the Arabians understood so much better than the descendants of those barbarian hordes who had overrun Europe, and quenched the light of Latin taste and poetry. Cordova, Grenada, and Seville were famed for their colleges and libraries, where the young men practised oratory, and, mingling prose and poetry, excited the people in a manner well suited to the love of Eastern nations for storytelling: indeed, Arabia is said to have produced more poets than any other nation in the world, and they are celebrated for the boldness of their imagery and warmth of imagination; so much so as to astonish the reader by their hyperbole run mad. Thus they excited in the southern nations among whom they lived an intense admiration for women, with that tender and delicate passion which was so strongly developed in the age of chivalry; the effects of which may be traced long after in the literature of Ariosto and Boccacio, many of whose stories are borrowed from the Arabian tales. As the courts of these Moorish sovereigns encouraged talent of every kind, Christians were attracted to them; and if, on any occasion, they felt mortified or oppressed, their remedy was an easy flight to Catalonia or Provence, where the Princes were only too happy to receive amusement from the troubadour, or inventor of verse, as the name imports. It is pleasant also to remember that, distant as England would then seem to the nations of whom we are speaking, yet our kings exercised great influence in advancing and encouraging the Provençal poets. The Count Raymond Berenger, descended from a branch of the kings of Aragon, could boast of four beautiful daughters, whose praises were the perpetual theme of the troubadours thronging their father's court. The eldest of these is well known in history as the Marguerite or pearl of the French Court, the wife of St. Louis, who accompanied her husband with the utmost devotion to the crusade in Egypt and Palestine, a worthy mate of the adored monarch to whom she was united. The second sister, Eleanor, was married to our Henry the Second, and brought as a dowry to the crown several countries where the laugue d'oc was spoken, Guienne, Poictou, and Saintouge; whilst the third sister, Sancie, married Richard, Henry's brother, elected King of the Romans. Thus there arose a kind of rivalry between the French and English monarchs as to which should be the greatest patron of literature, and we may trace the formation of our language to these poets, as they no doubt furnished Chaucer with a model for imitation. These princes, as well as the rulers of Provence and Catalonia, invited the troubadours to attend every tournay and fête after the joust was over, and the brilliant assemblage had turned to the festal board, they were requested to hold a literary tournament, and questions were proposed for their discussion relating to the most delicate loveaffairs. The lady of the castle, or court, after distributing the crowns which had been won by the conquerors, collected around her the youngest and most beautiful women; and thus, in imitation of the baron and his peers, formed her court of love, inviting two troubadours to advance and show their skill. Often a knight who had won his crown at the fight, would, harp in hand, sing his prelude, proposing a subject on which to argue; another replying, in the same air and in a composition of five stanzas, which was the rule, took the opposite side, on which the whole Court then deliberated and decided. Many of these tensons (a word signifying a contest) are still extant. Sometimes the question is: "If it were necessary either to forego the delight of your lady-love, and to renounce the friends whom you possess, or to sacrifice to the lady of your heart the honour which you have acquired by chivalry, which of the two would you choose?" Sordello, a trou badour of the court of Raymond Berenger, and mentioned with admiration by Dante, proposes this tenson, and decides in favour of resigning everything for the happiness enjoyed in the society of his lady-love; whilst Bertand d'Alamanon, a crusader, prefers the honour of arms in order to merit her esteem, and leaves his opponent to be the protector of the follies of love. Many of the ladies present were able to reply to the verses they had inspired, and take a part in the contests. But these tensons were by no means the only efforts of the early poets; as the "Lay le Fraine" expresses it, their songs were various: "Some be of war and some of woe, The sirventes were martial and political the First during his fifteen months' captivity in songs, two of which, composed by our Richard the Tour Tenebreuse, in Germany, are still extant, one stanza of which we quote : "Too true it is-so selfish human race! 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 ?" The knight whose sirventes are considered the most impetuous and passionate, was one who exercised a powerful and by no means advantageous influence over the destinies of England's royal family, and the many family feuds which disgraced the sons of Henry the Second. This was Bertrand de Born, Viscount of Hautefort, who was strongly attached to Helen the sister of Richard the First, both the brother and sister accepting with pride and pleasure the homage of so distinguished a poet. But one of the poems he dedicated to her remain; it was composed in camp when the army was without provisions, and he endeavoured to forget the necessities of hunger by feeding upon love. Always in the field of war, he roused his soldiers and animated his allies by writing sirventes; "Let others embellish their mansions if they will; let them surround themselves with all the conveniences of life; but for me, my sole desire is to collect lances and casques, and swords and horses." Thus he wrote, and attaching himself to the cause of Henry, Duke of Guienne, the heir to the English crown, who was fighting against his brother Richard, he laboured with unconquerable ardour, securing for him support among the neighbouring provinces, and arming the the close of life, he set off to the east to pursue his chimerical project of becoming Emperor, but, failing in it, he returned to his native land, and died in 1229. towns people; but the young prince dying in 1183, Bertrand was left to face the anger of Henry the Second, the outraged father, and found himself besieged in his castle, which he defended to the last, and was taken prisoner. A long list of kings may be added to adorn Brought before the king, he reminded him of the ranks of the troubadours; the Emperor the great friendship which existed in former | Frederick the First delighted greatly in their years between him and Prince Henry; and the works, and replied on one occasion by the unhappy father, bursting into tears at the allu- following lines: sion, generously restored to Bertrand his castle and possessions. His turbulent spirit could not rest, but at length wearied of the world, he retired to a Cistercian convent, and died in the habit of a monk. Dante, in his great poem, describes his meeting with Bertrand de Born in hell, holding his head by the hair in his hand; thus it spoke: ** * * * "Know that I "A Frenchman I'll have for my cavalier, A Genoese for his honour clear I'll have the grace of the Arragonese, An Englishman's hands and face for me, Alfonso the Second, and Peter the Third of Arragon, Frederic the Third of Sicily, were among the troubadours, and the unfortunate King Rêné of Provence, who endeavoured with all his power in the fifteenth century to restore the race, but in vain; the invasions of the English had driven poetry away, and the troubaThe career of one other celebrated troubadour dours were extinct. Some ascribe their fall may be glanced at; those who wish to know to the degradation their poems met with at the more of their lives and loves, will find a long and hands of the Jougleurs, to whose share it fell tedious repertory in the Abbe Millot's "His-to recite the composition of the troubadours toire Littéraire des Troubadours." When the third crusade was preached through the length and breadth of Europe, a native of Toulouse, Pierre Vidal by name, joined the ranks of King Richard. He had long been celebrated for his extravagance in love as well as his poetical powers: every woman he believed fell into raptures at his approach, whilst he saw in himself the model of the bravest warrior. His friends were not slow in turning his vanity to ridicule, and thus, when the crusading army landed at Cyprus, he was persuaded to marry a lady whose family had been connected with one of the Bizzantine Emperors. In consequence of this he considered himself competent to adopt the title, assume the purple, and have a throne carried before him; whilst the money he received for his songs was to furnish him with the means for recovering his kingdom. Finding his efforts unavailing, and by no means constant to one affection, he returned to Provence, and falling in love with a lady whose name was Louve de Penantier, he thought it the highest compliment to adopt the surname of Loup, and, to add to its force, he clothed himself in a wolf's skin, and even induced the shepherds of the neighbourhood to hunt him with their dogs, and was thus carried half-dead, to the feet of his mistress, who could only pity such madness, instead of applauding him, as he hoped. Yet his poems were very superior to his character, and Tasso gives him the highest place among the race of troubadours; his descriptions were not merely sensual, but pointed to the higher place which the poets might occupy in advancing morality and heroic sentiments. Once more, at playing at the same time on the tambourine and cymbals, the claricord, guitar, and harp, with many other instruments now unknown. But, in order to amuse the grosser tastes of the people the Jougleurs became little else than mountebanks; dressed in grotesque attire, carrying bears and apes with them, and performing tricks of sleight-of-hand, looking only for a high reward. Thus it was that the nobles objected to admit both classes, ranking them as equal to their castles; and felt jealous of the attentions paid them by ladies of rank, sometimes even their own wives; and a lament on this subject forms one of the last poems of the troubadours dated 1275. But cruel war, which destroys through the violent passions it excites, the softer pleasures of society and literature, disturbed Languedoc and Provence, and probably gave the final deathblow to the courts of love and the troubadours. The infamous crusade against the Albigenses desolated the country; Charles of Anjou, their sovereign, gained the crown of Naples in addition, and, carrying his Court thither, Italian became the fashionable language, and the langue d'oc was left to the people. One last effort was made-which, singularly enough, exists to this day-in the year 1323 Charles the Fourth, King of France, paid a royal visit to Toulouse, in company with the kings of Bohemia and Majorca. Loving learning himself, he did all he could to encourage it among the inhabitants, who had already formed an academy, afterwards to become so famous. Seven of the principal citizens, amateurs of the fine arts, who were delighted to find a patron of letters in their king, proposed (in order to excite emulation) a prize to him who should excel in poetry. Their first step was to write a letter in Provençal verse, styling themselves "la gaie Société des sept Trobadors," inviting all the poets of Languedoc to meet at Toulouse, to read their works and decide upon the author of the piece who should be judged worthy of the crown. The subjects were to be in honour of God, the holy Virgin, or the saints. The invitation was welcomed, and, on the day appointed, people arrived from all parts and met in the garden, where the seven associates were accustomed to assemble. The different poems which were presented were read aloud; the following day they were examined in private, and, the day after, "la joya de la violetta" was adjudged to Master Arnaud Vidal de Castelnauderi, who, at the same time, was made doctor in "la gaie science," or poetry. The prize was of the most elegant description, and given for the best song-it was a violet of gold, more than a foot high, and carried on a pedestal of silver-gilt, on which were engraved the arms of the city. In 1355 two others were added-an eglantine of silver (not the flower of the wild rose, but of the Spanish jasmine) for the author of the best sirvente, or pastoral; and the flor de gaug, or joy-flower (that of the thorny acacia), to the writer of the best ballad. Thus they gained the name of the floral games of Toulouse. The citizens, enchanted with the success and utility of such a project, and pleased with the concourse of clever men that this assembly brought to their city, decreed that every year a similar prize should be given at the public ex pense. The seven associates chose one of themselves as chancellor to preside over them, and a secretary to draw up a treatise on rhetoric and poetry, giving rules by which to judge fairly of the merit of the works presented to them. Besides this, statutes were framed, which were called "loix d'amour," and in which the rising academy was named "le jeu d'amour." The title of Bachelor in the "gaie science" was given to those who carried away the first prizes, if they could pass an examination before the chancellor; and a further public examination was necessary if they were advanced to the rank of doctor and master. On being received they took an oath to keep faithfully the laws, and to be present each year at the meeting when they adjudged "la principale joie,' or jewel. The place of assembly, too, was changed; the garden and the faubourgs having been destroyed in the English war, it was transferred to the Hôtel de Ville, and took the name of the College of Rhetoric. About the end of the fourteenth, or beginning of the fifteenth century, it received a new lustre by the liberality of a lady of Toulouse, Clemence d'Isaure, who, wishing to show her love for literature, left by will suffcient to defray the expense of the flowers they gave each year. The citizens, out of gratitude, ordered a statue of white marble to be placed on her tomb in the church of the Daurade; but which was eventually put in the hall where the yearly meeting was held, and on the third of May it is crowned with flowers. There may still be heard the echo of the names troubadour, sirvente, Provençal ballad; but the courts of love, the tournays, and the chivalry of the days of the troubadours are for ever extinct. CHAP. I. UNDINE. A bleak north wind was blowing in fitful gusts one winter's night, and a cold sleet falling, covering with a white shower the unlucky foot-passengers, who, with heads well bent to the storm, hastened their footsteps towards some welcome shelter. "This is pandemonium darkness," muttered honest Hans Schmidt to himself, as he stepped from the theatre into the street; and he wrapped himself closely in an old faded shawl, and hurried homewards. He had hardly taken a dozen steps, when he knocked his foot against some object that lay upon the ground; with a muttered exclamation, he stooped down, and found what seemed to be a bundle of rags. He dragged it under the light of a street-lamp, and at the same moment a violent gust of wind dispersing the mass of rags, disclosed to the eyes of the horrorstricken Hans the white face of a child. "Good God!" he exclaimed, "a little child left in the street in such weather as this; who ever heard of such a thing? Oh, God! I believe it is dead!" He knelt down and laid his hand upon its heart: a movement showed him there was still life, and in another moment it opened a pair of large, black, glistening eyes. "What are you doing here in the street, my child? Why do you not go home?" asked Hans. "Home!" repeated the child, and looked at him wonderingly. "Yes, home: where do you live?" "With old Beck; but she beats me, and makes me beg, and I hate her," said the child, with a sudden flash of anger in her dark eyes. "Have you no mother or father?" asked Hans, looking down with pity on the little halfstarved creature. "I had once a mamma, a long time ago, but she is gone away," answered the little thing. "How is it that you were lying here on the pavement?" asked Hans, whose sympathies became stronger with each answer. "I asked a man to give me something, and he called me a little thief, and that he would put me in prison, and then I ran away and fell down. But Sir, I am not a thief!" said the child earnestly. Certainly not, you do not look like a thief. What is your name ?" "Undine." "A strange name for a beggar girl; but now go home, that is the best you can do." "I cannot go home." "Why not?" "Because I have no money; and Beck halfkills me when I take nothing home," said the child, despairingly." Look at these four naked walls, and these five hungry children, and at me, who, from one week's-end to the other, work all the flesh off my bones, and then tell me how you could have taken in this beggar-child!" There was no answering these words. Hans was silent, sat down, and warmed his hands over the stove. At length he said, "I believe, dear wife, that the Lord will not let us starve because we give shelter to a poor child who is still poorer than we are; and perhaps she can herself help something towards her keep. Tell me, what can you do, Undine?" "I can dance," said the child. "Beck played the organ, and Marie the tambourine, and I dance in the streets." Hans rose, and, taking a violin from the wall, began to play, saying, "Now show us, little one, how you can dance." The child threw the torn hat and shawl on one side, shook back the long elfin locks from her broad white forehead, and, bending slightly forward, she began to dance. There was a wonderful grace and lightness in every movement as the slight, childish figure swayed backwards and forwards to the time of the music, and "Poor child," said Hans, compassionately, when, at the end, she sank on one knee, her "I wish I could help you." He thought for a head bent forward, as though waiting the apmoment on his wretched garret; his over-plause of the bystanders, Hans Schmidt clapped worked wife, and five hungry children. Then he thought that this poor child was worse off even than they; and Hans, who, though only a poor actor, had as noble a heart as ever beat, said kindly to the little thing, "will you come home with me, Undine?" She looked at him as though to see if he were really in earnest; and when she saw his friendly face, she put out her little hand, and said "Yes." CHAP. II. In a small, poorly-furnished room sat Mrs. Schmidt, bending closely over her work. Four children-two boys and two girls-crouched shivering by a stove, that seemed to give out more smoke than heat. A pale, sickly child lay in a broken cradle, that was moved from time to time by the foot of the mother. Hour after hour passed, and no sound disturbed the silence of the room but the rocking of the cradle. "Wilhelm is very hungry, mother: will father soon be home?" cried a weak voice from the corner of the room. "Yes, soon. I hear him coming now: run and open the door, Hans," said Mrs. Schmidt. The child ran hastily to the door, and the next moment Hans Schmidt entered, leading by the hand the little Undine. "Good heavens! Schmidt, what have you brought home with you?" cried Mrs. Schmidt, letting her work fall in her astonishment. "A poor little homeless, forsaken creature, that the Lord has sent us," answered Schmidt. "Oh, Hans, Hans, you will drive me mad! his hands vigorously, and cried, "Well done, little woman! your fortune is made! Why, the little Tina, whom the public clap so much, is not worthy to tie your shoe; I tell you what, wife, Undine will make our fortune yet, or my name is not Hans Schmidt! CHAP. III. "Have you seen the wonderful dancer La Villette?" asked a fashionable-looking young man of his friend, Friedrich Bernhardt, whom he had just met in the public promenade. "You "Seen her-no," was the answer. know very well that I have only been in Vienna two days, and I have had no chance." "Oh, come with me then; I have a free entrance into the green-room, and will introduce you—that is, if you promise not to supplant me." . Is she pretty?" asked Bernhardt. "Pretty!" cried his friend: "My dear Friedrich, she is a perfect angel, but proud as Lucifer-faith, you would declare she was a princess, instead of a dancer." "Who are her friends ?" "I do not believe she has any: an old actor picked her up in the streets when she was about five years old; and, since she has appeared on the stage, she has been the favourite of the public. She is a splendid dancer, and beautiful as a houri; but, as I have said, so confoundedly proud, that she will hardly look at one," and the young man sighed, as he spoke these words. In the meantime, the object of their remarks |