member that in primitive societies the code of ethics can be enforced alone by the power of custom; the derivation, indeed, of our word morality from the Latin mores is by no means a mere etymological coincidence.

Prepared by an education such as I have tried to sketch, the lady generally contracted a marriage at an early age, the choice of a husband being in most cases determined by her parents or her feudal overlord. In the higher classes of society -and these alone concern us here-her own inclination was taken into little account. Her position at the head of a great baron's family was by no means an easy one. She had to soften the coarse habits and words of the warlike nobles; and, on the other hand, to curb the amorous boldness of the gay troubadours who thronged the courts of the great barons. The difficulties and temptations of such a situation were great, and further increased by the perfect liberty which, in ancient as in modern France, married ladies seem to have enjoyed. Indirect, but none the less conclusive, evidence establishes this point beyond doubt. We hear, for instance, of ladies travelling about the country without attendance; like the pretty wives of Sir Guari and Sir Bernart, whom Count William of Poitiers deceived by acting a deaf-and-dumb pilgrim. Even the dueña, as a regular institution at least, seems to have been unknown in Provence. There certainly were jealous husbands who tried to protect their wives from gallant intrusion by watchfulness and strict confinement.

The husband of the lovely Flamenca is an example of such fruitless care. But his fate could not invite imitation; and the universal horror expressed by all gallant knights and ladies at this fictitious and at some real instances of similar cruelty, sufficiently proves the high degree of personal freedom enjoyed by the ladies of Southern France.

That this freedom was frequently abused is, unfortunately, no matter of doubt. France is not, and never has been, a prosperous climate for the growth of wedded happiness. The heroines of all the lovestories connected with the history of the troubadours are, indeed, with not a single exception that I am aware of, married ladies. This fact is certainly of deep significance, but its importance ought not to be overrated. We must remember that the troubadours and their biographers were by nature and profession inclined to magnify the force and extension of the great passion. Frequently they may, and in some cases we positively know that they did, mistake gracious condescension for responsive love; and to accept all their statements au pied de la lettre would be about as advisable as to judge the institution of marriage in modern France solely by the works of Flaubert and Ernest Feydeau. In many cases, however, the perfect innocence of the relations between the troubadour and the lady he celebrates is fully acknowledged by all parties. It was the privilege of high-born and high-minded women to protect and favour poetry, and to receive in return the troubadours' homage. It is in this beautiful character

as admirer and patroness of the literature of her country, that I wish first to consider the lady of Provence. In the choice of an individual instance of the relation alluded to, I have been guided by a feeling of historic, not to say poetic, justice.

History and fiction have vied with each other in painting the picture of Eleanor, wife of Henry II. of England, in the darkest colours. The former convicts her of faithlessness to two husbands, and of conspiracy with her own sons against their father; the latter charges her with the murder of Rosamond Clifford. Any redeeming feature in such a character ought to be welcome to the believer in human nature. Her connection with Bernart de Ventadour, one of the sweetest and purest of troubadours, is such a feature. The poet came to her court in sorrow. The lady he loved had been torn from him, and it was by her own desire that he left her and the country where she dwelt. He now turned to Eleanor for comfort and sympathy, and his hope was not disappointed. The old Provençal biography of Bernart is provokingly laconic with regard to the subject. He went to the Duchess of Normandy,' it says, 'who was young and of great worth, and knew how to appreciate worth and honour, and he said much in her praise. And she admired the canzos and verses of Bernart. And she received him very well, and bade him welcome. And he stayed at her court a long time, and became enamoured of her, and she of him, and he composed many beautiful songs of her. And while he was

with her King Henry of England made her his wife, and took her away from Normandy with him. And from that time Bernart remained sad and woful.'

This statement is incorrect in more than one respect, and may be cited as another instance of the desire on the part of the ancient biographers to give a dramatic, and at the same time an erotic, turn to the stories of their heroes. The allegation of the poet's prolonged courtship of the Duchess of Normandy having been interrupted by the lady's marriage with Henry is self-contradictory, for the simple reason that she became Duchess of Normandy and took up her residence in that country in consequence of this identical marriage, which took place in the same year with her separation from Louis VII. of France. Moreover, all the songs known to us as having been addressed by the poet to Eleanor are written after Henry's accession to the English throne. One of these songs, in which Bernart calls himself 'a Norman or Englishman for the king's sake,' was most likely composed in England, whither Bernart had followed the court of his supposed rival.

The same songs tend also to throw grave doubts on another statement of the old manuscript-that with regard to the mutual passion between lady and troubadour. It is true that his devotion frequently adopts the language of love; but there is no evidence to show that this love was returned by anything but friendship and kindness. He never boasts of favours granted, as troubadours were but too prone to do, and the joyful expectation expressed in one

of his poems is evidently and confessedly a hope against hope. One somewhat obscure remark of the poet seems to indicate that King Henry did not regard the matter in an altogether innocent light. The line reads thus in the original Provençal : 'Per vos me sui del rei partiz ;' which means, 'For your sake I have parted from the king,' and seems to indicate some sort of disagreement between the poet and the lady's husband. But, supposing even that Henry's jealousy were proved by this vague hint, we are not for that reason obliged to adopt his suspicions. Internal evidence points strongly towards a different relation-a relation much more common between the ladies and poets of Provence than is generally believed, and which is marked by fervent admiration on the one side, and by helpful and gentle, but irreproachable, kindness on the other.

Frequently, however, the case was different. Not all ladies were inexorable: not all troubadours contented with a purely ideal worship. Ardent wooings led to passionate attachments, and lovers' bliss was frequently followed by lovers' quarrels. Such quarrels-or, it might be, differences of opinion on abstract points of love and gallantry-were, as we know, discussed in a poetic form: the 'tenso,' or 'song of contention,' being especially reserved for that purpose. It was mostly on occasions of this kind that ladies took up the lute and mingled their voices with the chorus of Provençal singers. The names of fourteen gifted women have in this manner