2986 AN HISTORICAL SKETCH OF FRENCH LITERATURE. 
tive his fetters, all formal and scholastic rules, gave the death-blow to 
the Provencal, and soon caused its beauties to be totally eclipsed in 
the dazzling and surpassing brilliancy with which they endued the 
Tuscan. 
With but few exceptions, the Troubadours appear to have been 
merely the children of nature, uninformed by books, unacquainted 
with Latin, the ecclesiastical language, and defective in address. The 
delicate tracery and the elegant simplicity of the classic fictions* seem 
to have been almost altogether unknown to them; and we find that 
their imaginative flights are dull and insipid, consisting merely of the 
objects which immediately surrounded them. Simplicity is the cha- 
racteristic mark of all their poetry, and we very seldom find any 
allusion to extraneous sources. This is, perhaps, best seen in their 
pastorals: in these compositions they crowded together “the foliage 
of the trees, the fragrancy of the flowers, the resplendency of the sun, 
and the warbling of the birds,”+ without ever attempting to form a 
pleasing or a striking picture. Born and bred in courts, however, 
we may easily conceive that they would have little relish for the 
beauties of a country life; and though they sometimes attempt the 
pastoral style their compositions are very inferior, and we find that 
™ Ovid appears to have been the only classic poet of whom they had any 
knowledge; his name frequently occurs in their productions, but they do 
not appear to have studied the beauties of his fables. 
“Mas Ovidis retrais, 
Quw’ entre’ els corals amadors, 
Non paratge ia ricors. 
‘ Mout eran doutz.’” 
ARNAUD DE MarkvEIL. 
“ Qu’ Ovidis ditz en un libre e no i men, 
Que per sufrir a hom d’amor son grat.” 
RicHarD DE BarsBkstiev. 
See, also, Diez, Poesie der Troubadours, pp. 126-7. 
+ Bertrand de Ventadour affords one of the most favourable specimens 
of this style of composition. We have superadded a literal translation. 
“ Quau la vertz fuoilla s'espan When the leaves grow green 
E par flors blanqu’ el ramel And the boughs are loaded with blossoms, 
Per lo dolz chan del auzel By the sweet warbling of the birds 
Si va mos cors alegran ; I feel my heart rejoiced ; 
Lanquant vei los arbres florir, But if the trees are in flower 
Et aug lo rosignol chautar And the nightingale sings, 
Adone se deu ben alegrar Then may he well rejoice 
Qui bon ‘amor saup chausir.” Who experiences an honourable love. 
