Who will question the influence exercised by Molière over our comic writers-Sheridan, Farquhar, and Congreve? Indeed, our theatre seems to have a prescriptive right to import its comedies from France, wholesale and duty free. At the brilliant and dazzling torch of La Fontaine, Gay humbly lit his slender taper; and Fielding would be the first to admit his manifold obligations to Le Sage, having drank deep at the fountain of "Gil Blas." Hume the historian is notorious for his Gallicisms; and perhaps it was owing to his ong residence abroad that the pompous period of Gibbon was attuned to the melody of Massillon. If I do not men tion Milton among our writers who have profited by the perusal of Gallican models, it is because the Italian school was that in which he formed his taste and harmonised his rhythmic period. But, to trace the vestiges of French phraseology to the very remotest paths of our literary domain, let us examine the chronicles of the Plantagenets, and explore the writings of the incomparable Froissart. His works form a sort of connecting link between the two countries during the wars of Cressy and Agincourt: he was alternately a page at the court of Blois, a minstrel at the court of Winceslas in Brabant, a follower of the French King Charles, and a suivant of Queen Philippa of England. Though a clergyman, he was decidedly to be classified under the genus troubadour, partaking more of that character than of any ecclesiastical peculiarities. For, lest I should do injustice to his life and opinions, I shall let him draw his own portrait : "Au boire je prends grand plaisir, Violettes en leur saison, Et roses blanches et vermeilles ; Now this jolly dog Froissart was the boon comrade of our excellent Geoffrey Chaucer; and no doubt the two worthy clercs cracked many a bottle together, if not in Cheapside, at least on this side of the Channel. How far Geoffrey was indebted to the Frenchman for his anecdotes and stories, for his droll style of narrative, and the pungent salt with which he has seasoned that primitive mess of porridge, the "Canterbury Tales," it would be curious to investigate. But it is singular to find the most distinguished of France, England, and Italy's contemporary authors met shortly after, as if by mutual appointment, in Provence, the land of song. It was on the occasion of a Duke of Clarence's visit to Milan to marry the daughter of Galeas II.; a ceremony graced by the presence of the Count of Savoy and the King of Cyprus, besides a host of literary celebrities. Thither came Chaucer, Froissart, and Petrarca, by one of those chance dispositions of fortune which seem the result of a most provident foresight, and as if the triple genius of French, English, and Italian literature had presided over their réunion. It was a literary congress, of which the consequences are felt to the present day, in the common agreement of international feeling in the grand federal republic of letters. Of that eventful colloquy between these most worthy representatives of the three leading literatures of Europe, nothing has transpired but the simple fact of its occurrence. Still, one thing is certain, viz., that there were then very few features of difference in even the languages of the three nations which have branched off, since that period, in such wide divergency of idiom: "When shall we three meet again!" Chaucer has acknowledged that it was from Petrarch he learned, on that occasion, the story of Griselda; which story Petrarch had picked up in Provence, as I shall shew by and by, on producing the original French ballad. But here is the receipt of Chaucer, duly signed, and most circumstantial : "I wol you tel a tale, the which that I Hight was this clerk, whose rhetoricke so swete Prologue to Griselidis. in "Cant. Tales." We learn from William of Malmesbury (lib. ii.), and from various contemporary sources, that the immediate successors of the Conqueror brought over from Normandy numbers of learned men, to fill the ecclesiastical and other beneficial employments of the country, to the exciusion of the native English, who were considered dunces and unfit for office. Any one who had the least pretension to be considered a sçavant clerc, spoke French. In the reign of Henry III. we have Robert Grossetête, the well-known bishop of Lincoln (who was born in Suffolk), writing a work in French called "Le Chasteau d'Amour ;" and another, "Le Manuel des Péchées." Of this practice Chaucer complains, somewhat quaintly, in his "Testament of Love" (ed. 1542): "Certes there ben some that speke thyr poysy mater in Ffrench, of whyche speche the Ffrenchmen have as gude a fantasye as we have in hearing of Ffrench mennes Englyshe." Tanner, in his "Biblioth. Brit.," hath left us many curious testimonies of the feeling which then prevailed on this subject among the jealous natives of England. See also the Harleian MS. 3869. But the language of the troubadours still remained common to both countries, when, for all the purposes of domestic and public life, a new idiom had sprung up in each separate kingdom. Extraordinary men! These songsters were the favourites of every court, and the patronised of every power. True, their life was generally dissolute, and their conduct unscrupulous; but the mantle of poetic inspiration seems to have covered a multitude of sins. I cannot better characterise the men, and the times in which they lived, than by introducing a ballad of Béranger-the "Dauphin :" La Naissance du Dauphin. Du bon vieux tems souffrez que je vous parle. D'un gros dauphin on fêtait la naissance; Il apprit là le bonheur de la France. Pour votre roi chantez, gai troubadour ! К La harpe en main Richard vient sur la place: Puis au dauphin consacre une chanson. Pour votre roi chantez, gai troubadour! Le chant fini, Richard court à l'église ; "Le grand malheur, mon père, c'est qu'on m'aime!" Parlez, mon fils; expliquez-vous enfin.” "J'ai fait, hélas! narguant le diadème, Un gros péché! car j'ai fait-un dauphin!!" D'abord le moine a la mine ébahie : Mais il reprend, "Yous-etes bien en cour ?— Pour votre roi chantez, gai troubadour! Le moine ajoute: "Eut-on fait à la reine Allez, mon fils! vous direz cinq Ave." Au nouveau-né voit prodiguer l'amour ; Vive à jamais notre race royale! Pour votre roi chantez, gai troubadour! The Dauphin's Birthday. Let me sing you a song of the good old times, About Richard the troubadour, Who was loved by the king and the queen for his rhymer; But by which of our kings I'm not sure. Now a dauphin was born while the court was at Blois, So he went with his harp, on his proud shoulder hung, To the Virgin a hymn of thanksgiving he sung, For the dauphin a new "rondelay.' And our nobles ocked round at the heart-stirring sound, Praised his bold, gallant mien, and said " He'll please the queen !` Oh, sing well you may, troubadour young and gay! But the song is now hushed, and the crowd is dispersed : And he seeks an old monk, in the legend well versed, And "Oh, save me!" he cries, "holy father, from hell "Of your shrift tell the Drift;" "J'ai trop aimé les belles!" Sing for your king, young and gay troubadour ! Sing well you may, troubadour, young and gay! "But the worst is untold!" "Haste, my sonne, and be shriven; Tell your quilt-its results-hom you sinned, and how often." Oh, my guilt it is great!--can my sin be forgiven tr Its result, holy monk! is-alas, 'tis a DAUPHIN!" And the friar grew pale at so startling a tale, But he whispered, "for us, sonne, procure (She will grani it. E ween) abbey land from the queen.” Sing for your king, young and gay troubadour! And to Paris went Richard to sing for the fair, May our old royal race never want for an heir! Sing for your king, young and gay troubadour! It does not enter into my plan to expatiate on the moral conclusion or political TUOIO which this ballad suggests, and which with sarcastic ingenuity is so adroitly insinuated. It is, in fact, a lyrical epigram on the admirers |