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Northern France in the Thirteenth Century.

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ourselves that the jongleur told them amidst the rapt attention or the fierce applause of knights and squires, stretched on the greensward in the summer, or lounging on the rushes before the great hall fire in the wearisome winter time. How pleasant is it to think, as we read some metrical romance of old times, that (as saith old Gower of the Tale of Pericles)

'It hath been sung at festivals,

On ember-eves and holy-ales;
And lords and ladies of their lives
Have read it for restoratives."

The volume now edited by MM. Moland and d'Héricault contains five prose romances. Of these, the first four are from manuscripts of the thirteenth century, recently discovered. The fifth, which is interspersed with metrical passages, is a translation of a story previously current in the South, into the northern dialect of the Isle-of-France.

The thirteenth century is rich in rhymed romances, in satire, and in song, but we have little of its prose; and the greater, accordingly, is the interest which belongs to such specimens as these.

Great also is the interest attaching both to the language and the manners of that Northern France which was destined, in this thirteenth century, to absorb the France of the west, and the France of the south-to assert itself as the first nation of the Continent, and to humble the Papacy as no emperor had ever humbled it. The dialect of these romances is that of Picardy, of the region about Paris, and of Champagne-those north-central provinces where that rough but vigorous life was strongest and most active, which was to unite and centralize the nationality of France. Picardy, bordering upon Flanders, shared something of the busy democratic spirit of that land of guilds and communes. Enthusiastic as were these Picards, there were not wanting clear heads among them-witness Beaumainoir and Desfontaines, who laid the foundations of French jurisprudence. But Champagne, above all, was the region of Northern France most prolific in the chronicle, the romance, the satire, and the merry tale. Grotesque shows, riotous festivals, dramatic parodies of everything solemn, where the delight of the Champenois. To Champagne belong the earliest of the romance poets, and the earliest writers of history and memoir. She boasts of ancient singers, like Chrétien de Troyes; and of nobles who wrote history, like VilleHardouin and Joinville.

The language of these romances, therefore, is the language of the men whose actions lead off the history of France-who laid

the basis of its greatness in modern history, consolidating by head and hand-by policy and war-its many duchies and counties into a formidable kingdom. Many causes contributed to facilitate their labour. In the thirteenth century, the Normans in England began to grow cool towards their brethren on the Continent. For our Normans, be it remembered, are by this time men of substance: their fortunes are made; while the Normans in Normandy are but a kind of poor relations—always wanting help-always in trouble, and giving trouble. It is not to be wondered at, therefore, that these latter-what with the irksomeness of the Norman yoke, on the one side, and the fair promises of Philip Augustus on the ather-should have thrown themselves, but too eagerly, into his arms, and should then have been abandoned to their fate. In a few generations the last reminiscence of kindred will have vanished, and Normandy will hate England as religiously as does the rest of France.

Such was the process of consolidation in the West. In the South, when the thirteenth century opened, the Count of Toulouse was a person of far more consequence than the king who reigned at Paris. When the thirteenth century closed, the riches and the culture of the South had been absorbed, or destroyed utterly, by the more barbarous North. For Languedoc was found guilty of heresy; and Dominic and De Montfort scored the cross, in characters of blood and fire, over all that lovely region of the vineyard and the olive.

Next, we see this very France-so greatly indebted thus far to the papacy for her own development-assuming the port of the master. Unwittingly she avenges on the Popes the blood of the last of the Hohenstauffen. In reality, the cause of the Empire is maintained in the thirteenth century, not by Germany, but by France that France which a pope had summoned to oppose the German. For the cause of Emperor against Pontiff, is the cause of the secular against the spiritual,—and it is represented, in fact, by any temporal kingdom whatever, strong enough to hold the Pontiff in check. A sense of right which is not the casuistic sense of the church; a law of duty which is not the ceremonial duty of the churchman, now assert and even avenge themselves. When a French lawyer-the intrepid and relentless Nogaret-beards the trembling Pope at Anagni, when, in his person, the lay power has successfully asserted itself against the merely ecclesiastical-the act is significant of a great and necessary revolution in the thoughts of men-a revolution of which France was the first to reap the largest and most direct advantage.

And now let us come to the romances themselves. MM. Moland and d'Héricault have discharged their editorial functions

King Florus and the Fair Jeanne.

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in a manner most praiseworthy. Their object has been to produce a volume which shall interest the general reader, and not the scholar merely. Their introduction conveys the requisite amount of literary and philological information with clearness and brevity. In the notes they have appended to the text, they are content to remove as simply and expeditiously as possible, the principal verbal difficulties which the old French presents even to educated readers. Their remarks are really elucidations-not obscurations, as antiquarian hypothesis and disquisition too frequently become.

We shall begin with the story of King Florus and the Fair Jeanne (Le Roi Flore et la Belle Jehanne), not because it is altogether the best, but because it transports the reader most completely into the world of feudalism, and best illustrates the manners and spirit of the time. For it must never be supposed that fictions such as these even when fullest of improbable incident or extravagant adventure-are without their use for the gravest purposes of history. Our dreams take their complexion from the events and employments of the day. In like manner, the ideal world of romance takes its tone from the actual world of daily life. The sculptures of Nineveh, while they exhibit monstrous symbols, like the winged bulls, and strangest combinations of bestial and of human forms, do yet accurately depict for us the costume, the ceremonies, and the usages of remote antiquity. And so the chivalrous romances, amidst the wildest creations of the fancy, exhibit to us the manners, the apparel, the solemnities, the recreations, of the Middle Age. The Morte d'Arthur itself is not more full of enchanters, giants, fairies, evil spirits, and prophetic visions, than the romance of Perceforest. Yet the romance of Perceforest pourtrays so fully the laws, the arms, the ritual, the spirit of chivalry, that it was chosen as his textbook by M. de Sainte Palaye, one of the first of mediæval scholars.

The story of King Florus and the Fair Jeanne is somewhat awkwardly told, and its simple structure can lay no claim to that callida junctura which is the accomplishment of a more artificial

age.

Several plots or actions are carried on together, and the transition from one to the other is effected by the set phrase 'Now the story is going to quit so-and-so, and to tell of so-and-soin a word, the fabric leaves visible all the knots and ends of thread. We shall confine ourselves as much as possible to the main line of incident, where the matter has interest fully sufficient to compensate for anything homely or unskilful in the manner.

A brave knight, dwelling on the marches of Flanders and

Hainault, had a daughter of surpassing beauty named Jeanne. He had also a squire named Robert, to whose fidelity and courage he was indebted for many a prize in the lists. The wife of our good knight was anxious to see him take some steps toward providing a suitable match for their lovely daughter. Finding her husband, who thought of little but feats of arms, careless about the matter, she urged the squire to use his influence with him. Accordingly, as they were on their way home from a tournament in which the knight had been twice crowned victor, chiefly through the prowess of Robert, the faithful squire began to remind his master that it was time he thought of his daughter's marriage.

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'She shall soon be married,' quoth the knight, since you wish it so much-provided you have no objection.'

'I? Assuredly not, sire.'

'You give me your word on it ?'

'Yes, sire.'

'Robert, thou hast served me right well. I have found thee brave and true, and what I am thou hast made me. Through thee I have gained five hundred livrées of land.* I had only five hundred at first, now I have a thousand. I tell thee thou art very dear to me, and therefore will I give thee my fair daughter, if thou art willing.'

Our readers will observe here, how completely the tournament was the business of the knight in those days. A poor knight might become rich; a rich one might double his estate, by going from tournament to tournament, and winning the arms and horses of his vanquished antagonists, or their equivalent in money.

Our grateful knight is in earnest. In spite of some opposition on the part of his lady, he betroths Jeanne to Robert, knights him, and settles on him four hundred livrées of his land. The marriage was to take place on the day following that on which Robert had been made a knight. Now it so happened, that Robert had once, when in peril of his life, vowed a pilgrimage to St. Jago of Compostella, to be undertaken within a day from the time when he should have received the knightly spurs. Sad at heart, but piously true to his vow, he tells his lord that he must leave his bride in the Church when the marriage has been solemnized, and ere noon ride away towards Spain. One Raoul, an evilminded knight, who plays the Iachimo to our Posthumus, lays him a wager of four hundred livrées of land, that the wife thus speedily abandoned shall prove faithless-that he, Raoul, will bring to her husband, on his return, proofs of her inconstancy, or forfeit the stake. The depositions are taken in the presence of

* A livrée was as much land as brought in a livre of rental.

Successful Treachery.

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the Seigneur. Robert departs, confident in the virtue of his bride; and she remains to offer prayers for the safe return of her beloved lord.

Raoul, unable to attract the slightest notice, begins to tremble for his land. He corrupts one of Jeanne's domestics, and partly by stratagem, partly by violence, furnishes himself with tokens which will support but too strong his boast of her infidelity. Robert returns in safety, but, within a day or two, his joy is turned into anguish. The seeming proofs adduced by Raoul are not to be gainsaid. In a moment, love and lands are lost together. Without speaking a word he takes horse and secretly departs for Paris.

The fair Jeanne, vainly protesting her innocence, reproached by her father, abandoned by her husband, adopts a brave resolve. Cutting off her beautiful tresses and assuming the dress of a squire, she rides towards Paris in search of her husband. Having discovered him without much difficulty, she enters into conversation, and asks whither he is going. He tells her that he has no purpose, no hope; she whom he loved best in the world has proved untrue; and his broad lands, too, they are gone. Under the name of John, she then offers her services as his esquire. When he replies that he cannot afford to hire her, is penniless, in three days must sell his good steed, she shows him a sum of money she has with her, which she begs him to use. Right gladly, and with many thanks, Sir Robert accepts her help; and they travel together to Marseilles, attracted thither by rumours of war in that neighbourhood.

Meanwhile, a sore sickness befals the false Raoul, and believing himself about to die, he confesses to a priest the artifice by which he has blasted the reputation of his lord's daughter, and reduced his brother knight to penury and exile. Saith the priest, Perform the penance I enjoin, and I will take your sin upon my soul; 'you shall be quit of it. You must promise and give pledge that 'you will, as soon as recovered, assume the cross, go on pil'grimage to the Holy Land, and truly confess your crime to 'whomsoever you meet that shall ask you the reason of your 'journey. But Raoul, when restored to health, showed little disposition to keep his vow; till the good priest at last threatens to acquaint the seigneur with his guilt. Then, indeed, the reluctant sinner promises to set out on the March passage.'

It appears that, after the commencement of the Crusades, there were, every year, two regular seasons of departure for Palestine, on each of which a fresh company of pilgrims and Crusaders set forth together. One of these seasons was called the March passage, or Passagium vernale; the other was the summer, or

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