to his friends, hostile to his foes. The same unChristian sentiment is repeated still more emphatically in the further course of the poem. The hated foeman's death I cherish, The more, if by my hand he perish. In Milder impulses, however, are not wanting. two charming, melodious stanzas the poet depicts the delights of a summer's day passed with his love by the side of the murmuring brook, while the air is sweet with the fragrance of blossoms and the song of the nightingale. Truth compels me to confess, that in close juxtaposition to this charming idyl, the very material wish is expressed of having a 'grans salmos ad hora nona'—that is, a large salmon for supper. The Monk of Montaudon, as the reader will perceive, was little given to sentimentality, and the love-songs which he wrote, in compliance with the custom of the time, show accordingly more cleverness than true fecling, They are, however, full of happy turns of expression, and particularly abound with well-chosen similes-a proof that the poet was by no means wanting in imagination. Nevertheless, it must be confessed that satire was his true field of action, and we are not surprised at seeing a man of his keen sense of ridicule turn this weapon against those objects of superlative romantic adorationwomen. The weaknesses of the fair sex are indeed the theme of two remarkable sirventeses by our troubadour, which we now must consider a little more closely. They deserve attention, both by the original boldness of their satire and by the quaint disguise in which this main purpose is clad. The form adopted by the monk is that of a vision, familiar to the reader from those two great monuments of medieval literature, the Divina Commedia' and Piers the Ploughman.' Heaven itself, in deed, is the scene of the troubadour's poem, but a heaven how different from the celestial abode to which the inspired Italian singer was welcomed by Beatrice! The Monk of Montaudon introduces us into the midst of a legal action, the cause of which is, I am almost ashamed to say, that immemorial privilege of the fair sex to counteract the ravages of time by the rosy bloom of artificial colour. The scene of the action, as has been seen before, is heaven; the Judge, the Deity itself; the monks act as accusers ; the ladies are defendants. The painted cheeks of the latter are alleged to outshine the votive pictures in the monasteries. Painting, and the mixing of colours, the monks assert to be their own inventions, to the use of which the ladies have no claim or title. This monstrous allegation the ladies, of course, deny indignantly. Colouring, they say, is their natural birthright, and has been practised by them long before either monks or votive pictures were thought of. At this juncture a compromise is proposed by the bench, to the effect that ladies on the right side of twenty-five shall be allowed to retain the bloom of youth by what means they please for a further term of twenty years. But the vicious monks refuse to grant more than ten years; and it is only by the intercession of those accomplished diplomats, SS. Peter and Lawrence, that a medium time of fifteen years is at last agreed upon by the contending parties. Forty years, then, is the limit up to which, to judge from this decision, a Provençal lady might, without incurring ridicule, play youthful parts in life's comedy. 'But,' the monk adds, 'I see that the ladies have broken their promise, which is unfair and wicked; few only have been faithful to their vow.' He further enters upon a detailed enumeration of the various ingredients of paint which, by the way, seems to throw some new light on that interesting question in the history of medieval art, the composition of colours previous to the introduction of the oil-medium. The old monks,' we hear, ' are deprived of their beans, the only thing which they can eat; and they are therefore left without any food. The price of saffron also, which ought to be used for the sauces of ragoûts, has been driven up by the ladies to such a degree, that people over the sea begin to complain, as pilgrims tell us. Let the ladies take the cross, and go themselves to Palestine, to fetch the saffron of which they stand in such need.' In the second poem the ladies have been charged with the breach of the former treaty, and it seems that the monk has been summoned to heaven for a preparatory consultation. The Supreme Judge is indignant at such audacity. Monk,' he says, 'I hear the ladies have broken their promise; go down, for the love of me, to tell them that if they again use colour, I shall take dire revenge.' But the poet has evidently been under gentle pressure since the last trial. He now takes the part of the ladies in the warmest terms. 'Gently, gently, my lord!' he interposes; 'you must have patience with the ladies, for it is their nature to sweetly adorn their countenance.' To this opinion he adheres with obstinacy. In vain it is alleged against him that the ladies, by trying to perpetuate their youth, infringe the unalterable laws of Nature. The monk is not to be shaken. There is only one alternative, he thinkseither to grant unfading beauty to the ladies, or else to deprive the whole human race of the art of painting. This is, in brief outline, the argument of two of the quaintest productions medieval literature can show. The bold cynicism with which the delicate secrets of the dressing-room are revealed justly surprises us in a troubadour of noble family and liberal education; but much more are we astonished at the familiarity with which the Deity itself is mixed up with these worldly matters. It is true that, in the old Mysteries and Miracle-plays, tolerated and even countenanced by the Church, sacred topics are treated with a naïve simplicity strange to modern religious feeling. But the experienced eye can almost always discern the under-current of sacred awe at the bottom of the wildest outburst of popular imagination. Even the Wanton Wife of Bath,' whose tongue is a match for all the saints in heaven, 'trembles at his sight,' when the Saviour himself appears in his glory. This sacred tremor is entirely unknown to the Monk of Montaudon, who, moreover, as an artistic poet addressing a refined audience, is without the excuse of popular rudeness and ignorance. Yet I think we should be unjust in ascribing to him any conscious intention of blasphemy, or even irreverence. Supposing even he had been a sceptic, he was at the same time too much attached to life and its pleasures to parade his heresies at the risk of his neck. The only way of solving the psychological puzzle is to follow the ancient example of the monk's superiors, and to make ample allowance for the reckless buoyancy of a poet's fancy, difficult to check at a certain point when once let loose. To give an idea of the ease with which he moves in the celestial regions, I will quote the opening stanza of another poem, the tone of which reminds one somewhat of the Prelude in Heaven' of Goethe's 'Faust.' It seems to have been written at a time when, after a prolonged stay at his monastery, the author was fain to set out on another expedition. Up to heaven I found my way Tell me how fares Montaudon, Where thy pious brethren dwell? The drift of the poem is easily discernible. |