University of Virginia Library

5. CHAPTER V.

As a matter of course, the contribution of our fair companion
was received with warmest thanks and congratulations. She
had delivered herself of the pleasant labor, as if there had been
a pleasure in the service — unaffectedly, with equal ease, modesty
and spirit. Her narrative was graceful, while her lyrical
efforts were marked by an enthusiasm which was regulated, in
turn, by the nicest delicacy and good taste. My Gothamite
friend was all in raptures, and I fancied that his praises were
by no means of ungracious sound in the ears of Miss Burroughs.
Selina, by the way — the name which my long intimacy with her
permitted me to use familiarly — was young enough for sentiment
— was, as I believed, quite free of any attachments; and,
though too quiet to figure conspicuously in a fashionable jam,
was here just in the situation which could most effectually exhibit
her more charming qualities. My friend Duyckman was
evidently touched. There was a probability, indeed — so I
fancied — that each of them, before long, would be inclined to
say, in the language of Nicholas Bottom, “I shall desire you of
more acquaintance, good master Pease Blossom.” I could look
on such a growth of liking between the parties with great complaisancy.
To one who is no longer in the field, the sweetest
picture in the world is in the gradual approach of two young
fond hearts to one another — they themselves, perhaps, quite
unconscious of the tendency, yet as docile as the ductile needle
to the directing finger of the pole.

For awhile the conversation became general among the
group. The night was passing insensibly. It was so calm,
soft, seductive, that sleep was forgotten. The cares of trade,
the tasks of toil, the intensity of study, affected none of us.

Each, with a fresh sense of freedom, was free also from all sense
of physical exhaustion. Why sleep? There were listeners,
and each unlocked his stores. The oyster war was re-called,
and other anecdotes given. As we swept along by the shores
of New Jersey, which we could no longer see, her people, character,
and history, furnished our topics. It was admitted that
the Jerseyans were a sterling sort of people. They had
shown good pluck in the Revolution, and their country had
furnished the battle-fields of some of our most glorious actions
— Monmouth, Princeton, Trenton. These recalled Washington,
and Lee, and Lafayette, and many others. It was admitted that —

“The Jerseyan, when a gentleman, was of the best models;
and even when not exactly a gentleman, was still to be recognised
as a good fellow. Without being the swashing, conceited
Gothamite, he was yet very far from resembling the prim,
demure broad-brims of the Quaker city. In other words, he
was gay and gallant, without rudeness or foppery; and firm and
thoughtful, without being strait-laced and puritanical. In brief,
he had a character of his own, and was not made up of the odds
and ends of all sorts of people.”

Our son of Gotham did not exactly relish the comparison
thus made by one of the group, and replied in a rather stale
sarcasm:—

“The less said by way of comparison between Jersey, as
between New York and Philadelphia, the better. As old
Franklin phrased it — she is the barrel on tap at both ends.”

The retort followed from the former speaker.

“These two cities are the sewers of Jersey. She uses them
for common purposes — employing them where needful for her
common uses, without being responsible for their morals, or
troubled with their nuisances. She is fortunate in escaping the
evils of great cities, which she can nevertheless use at pleasure.”

This was a new view of the case which had never occurred
to our Gothamite, and required reflection. He had no immediate
answer. The other speaker continued, and made his
contributions to our entertainment by a statement of certain
facts which might be wrought into story.

“Jersey,” he said, “even along the shores, and, in recent
periods, is not without its picturesque and romantic. It is not

long, since that the coast which we are passing was distinguished
infamously by a class of cruel outlaws, who were not the less
murderous because they performed their crimes under the cover
of night and tempest. Here, in situations favorable to their
accursed trade, dwelt a race of land pirates, such as roved the
wastes of the Mississippi — such as not many years ago occupied
the Keys of Florida — such as still mislead and prey upon
the innocent and unsuspecting, on the dreary land routes to
Oregon and California. These were wreckers, who lived upon
waifs cast up by the sea, and who hung out false lights, when
the nights were dark and stormy, to beguile the unwary and
exhausted mariner. Everybody is aware of the sort of life
which they pursued, for many years, during a period still fresh
within the memories of men; though no one can conjecture the
extent to which they carried their nefarious traffic. I heard a
story, not long ago, told by a sea-captain along this route, which
he assured me he had from the very best authority.”

We were all agog to hear, and our Jerseyan thus proceeded:—

“It appears that some twenty years ago there suddenly appeared
a stranger in the country along shore — in a lonely and
sequestered spot — of whom nobody knew anything. Briefly,
no one was particularly curious to inquire. He was moody,
reserved, somewhat sullen, and a person whose aspect gave
warning of irritable passions, while his physique was one of
great muscular activity and power. He described himself as
an Englishman, and went by the name of Dalton. As far as
the people could gather from himself and others, he was understood
to have been a sailor, and a deserter from the royal navy.
This was, to a small degree, a source of sympathy for him —
particularly as he had been cruelly treated in the service.
Some accounts spoke of him as one who, in sudden fray, had
used a marlin-spike with a little too heavy a hand upon an insolent
and brutal lieutenant. In leaving the service, however, in
disgust, and at short notice, he yet took up another trade which
still kept him in daily commerce with the ocean. The sight of
this field was, perhaps, more natural to his eyes than any other.
He made his way along shore to a portion of the coast where
the restraints of society and law were fewest. Here he naturally
became a wrecker, and gathered his spoils along the sea-side,

after a fashion but too common with his neighbors. Every
storm brought him tribute, and his accumulations began to be
considerable. Wrecks increased fearfully after his appearance
in the neighborhood; and, for the goods thus brought to these
wild outlaws, by a wretched fortune, they had but one duty to
perform — to bury out of sight the human sufferers who were
quite as frequently the victims of their cruel snares as of the
treacherous shores and tempests.

“Dalton prospered in the horrid trade; and the rude cabin in
which he dwelt alone, and which was visited but rarely, began to
improve in its furniture. Bedsteads and beds, beyond what he
himself could use or seemed to need, were accumulated in his solitary
chamber. Chairs and tables and mirrors followed. Supplies
of crockery, and other things, implying the presence of woman,
were gradually brought from the cities; and conjecture exaggerated
the value of his stores and treasures. At length, the mystery
of these proceedings was explained. Dalton was now heard
to speak of mother, wife, and sister — all of whom he expected
from England — to whom he had written, and sent the necessary
money for emigration. He spoke of these relations with a show
of feeling which occasionally softened, and even sweetened, his
savage aspect and utterance; and seemed to entertain for them
severally a degree of affection, which could hardly have been
expected from his nature. He was a coarse, uneducated man,
and the villanous scrawl which declared his wishes to his kindred,
was revised by one of his neighbors, better read than himself,
from whom, it seems, these particulars were afterward obtained.
His letter was despatched, and he spoke frequently of the family
which he expected, and for which he had prepared his dwelling,
filling it with comforts, to which, in all probability, they had
never before been accustomed.

“But months elapsed, bringing him no answer to his entreaties.
Meanwhile, he still continued his fearful and criminal employments.
Still he prospered in all merely pecuniary respects.
He became the envy of those who regarded his accumulations
as the proper and permanent objects of desire. But the wages
of sin and death are delusions also;— mockeries, which mortify
the very meanest hearts, even when they are most sought,
and most in possession.

“One dark and threatening evening in September, the wind
blowing a gale which increased in fury as the night came on, a
sail was dimly descried in the distance. In the growing darkness
she disappeared. But, through the night, at intervals,
the boomings of a cannon might be heard. These appeals of
terror soon ceased; swallowed up in the united roar of sea and
storm and thunder. The billows, in mountain rollers, came in
upon the sandy shore. But the tempest did not affright our
wreckers. They welcomed the increasing violence of the storm.
They were abroad and busy — one of them at least.

“Dalton had marked the vessel, dimly seen at sunset, for his
prey. The course of the wind, the season, the violence of the
gale, the proximity of the fated craft to the leeshore, all contributed
to fill him with the horrid hope of plunder at the expense
of life and humanity. He stole out from his hovel, under
cover of the darkness, heedless of the driving fury of the wind,
to an elevated hammock of sand, where he fired a beacon of tarbarrels.
What mocking hopes did this blaze awaken in the bosoms
of the hapless creatures in that barque? He thought nothing of
them. Possibly, other lights were kindled, like those of Dalton,
and with like charitable purposes. The diabolical purpose was
aptly answered by the watchful Fates!

“That night, while Dalton crouched in his cabin, he fancied
that he heard human voices appealing to him, above all the voices
of the storm. It was not the lingering human feeling within his
heart, which made him listen and tremble with strange and stifling
sensations. But, he fancied that he was called by name.
He fancied that the voices were familiar, and it seemed to him
that, in his very ears were syllabled in shrieks, the several words
— `brother,' `husband,' `son.' He was paralyzed. A cold
sweat covered his frame. He could not stir. He could not
speak. He sat beside his chimney in a strange stupor, which
forbade that he should either sleep or go forth!

“But habitual guilt is a thing of rare powers of hardihood
and endurance. Cupidity came to his relief. He meditated the
great gains of his trade. The prey was in the toils, beyond
possibility of escape, and before the dawn its struggles would
have ceased. The morning came. With the first gray streak
of light he was forth and upon the sands. The storm had subsided,

the sun had opened his eyes, all brightness, upon the
beautiful world. But the seas were still tumultuous, and Dalton
could see that a large fragment of the stranded ship, was still
tossing in their wild embraces in a little cove which the waves
had eaten into the sands. Everywhere before him were the
proofs of wreck and ruin. Here a mast and spar, there a bit of
deck and bulwark; there rolled a barrel in upon the reef, and
there floated away a naked raft and hammock.

“As he wandered, seeking and picking up his spoils, he happened
suddenly upon other trophies of the storm. On the very
edge of the sea, where it blended with the shore in comparative
calm, lay two human bodies locked closely in a last embrace.
Both were females. Their heads rested upon the sands. Their
garments, and the arms of one, were lifted to and fro by the
billows. Did they live? He approached them with feelings,
strange to him, of equal awe and curiosity. He had a fearful
presentiment of the truth. He drew them from the waters.
He unclasped them from that strong embrace which they had
taken in death. He beheld their faces.

“`Mother! Sister!'

“He knew them at a glance!

“And it was his hand that had fired the beacon which had
conducted both to death.

“`My wife! my wife! I have drowned my wife!'

“Where was she! He looked for her in vain. The remorseless
sea gave up no other of its victims. But he found a box
in which were his own letters. They told her fate.

“His horror and remorse, too lately awakened, suffered him to
keep no secrets. His first outcry revealed the whole terrible
history. He had avenged humanity upon himself. Even among
the wild creatures with whom he herded, the terrible judgment
upon his own miserable soul, inflicted by his own deed, was too
awful to seem to need other penalties. He was suffered to go
free. He remained only long enough in the neighborhood to
see the poor corses deposited in earth, and then fled, leaving all
behind him, — fled into the interior, and, it was said, nine years
afterward, that he was then to be found, somewhere in Ohio,
a sad, gray-headed man, a devout Christian, reconciled to the
Church, and waiting humbly for that change, which, it was his

hope — and should be ours, — might witness the purification of
his stains through the saving grace of his Redeemer.”

Our Jerseyan, having finished his voluntary yarn, was voted
the thanks of the company; and it was then unanimously agreed
that our Gothamite should take up the reel, and see what he
could do, at warp and woof, in the business of invention.

“We were promised a story of the troubadours, I think, sir,”
said Miss Burroughs.

We all concurred in the subject thus indicated, and, after
certain modest preliminaries, Duyckman gave us a curious picture
of the fantastical sentiment — serious enough in its way —
of which we may find so many remarkable examples in the history
of chivalry and the crusades. It may not be amiss to apprise
the reader that he will find an actual biography in what
follows.

THE PILGRIM OF LOVE.

The history of the Provençal troubadours is full of grateful
and instructive material — curious as history, instructive as developing
a highly-artificial state of society, and full of interest
as literary biography. To the young poet, the study is one
which will teach many useful lessons of his art. To the passionate
dreamer of romance, it will yield delicious provocations
to revery, in which all his ideals will be satisfied. These biographies
should be written out by poets; not in verse, for that
might suggest doubts of their veracity, but in a prose at once
sparkling and sentimental; uniting the oriental fancy of Curtis,
with the sighing pathos of a Norton or a Landon. We commend
the idea to study and examination; and will content ourselves,
in the meantime, with a brief sketch of one of the most remarkable
troubadours of his age and order.

Geoffrey Rudel was a prince of Blaye, as well as a troubadour.
In those days, nobility was not inconsistent with letters.

Our poet was one of those who could wield the sword as
well as the lyre. He was a knight of high reputation, and a
gentleman; and, as such, wore the honors of chivalry with all
the grace of one “to the manner born.” But, with all these
possessions, there was one deficiency, which was considered
fatal to the perfection of his character. His grace and courtesy
were acknowledged in court and chamber. He could make his
enemy tremble in the field. As a poet he had fire and sentiment,
and was peculiarly sensible to the glories of the visible
world. He was the favorite of princes, and was ranked among
the friends of no less a personage than Richard Cœur de Lion.
But he had never once been troubled with the tender passion.
He had never been beguiled to love by beauty. He acknowledged
the charms of woman, but he remained unenslaved. He
could sing of the attractions which he did not feel. He had his
muse, perhaps his ideal perfection, and to her he sung. He
portrayed her charms, but he neither found nor seemed to seek
them. Tradition vaguely hints at efforts which he made, to
discern a likeness in the living world to the exquisite creation
embodied in his mind. But he seemed to search for her in vain.
His wanderings, seeking for this perfect creature, were wholly
without profit. It does not seem that he exulted in his insensibility.
An object of universal admiration himself, he himself
constantly strove to admire. He did admire, but he did not
love. The object of pursuit eluded his grasp. In those days,
it was deemed no impropriety, on the part of the fairer sex, to
seek openly the conquest of the brave knight and the noble
poet. Beauty sought Geoffrey Rudel in his solitude. She
brought him rarest tribute. She spoke to him in songs, sweet as
his own, and with oriental flowers more precious than any which
his care had cultured. She did not conceal the passion which
his accomplishments had inspired; but she declared her secret
in vain. His heart seemed invulnerable to every shaft. His
soul remained inaccessible to all the sweet solicitings of love.

It must not be thought that he found pride in this insensibility.
He felt it as a misfortune. For the troubadour not to
love, was to deprive his verses of that very charm which alone
could secure them immortality. For the knight to be untouched
by the charms of woman, was to wither the greenest chaplet

which valor had ever fixed upon his brow. He declared his
griefs at the insusceptibility of his heart. His prayer embodied
a petition that he might be made to love. But he prayed for
heavenly succor, and he looked for earthly loveliness, in vain.
His mind was greatly saddened by his condition. His isolation
impaired his energies. He ceased to sing, to seek the tourney
and the court, and delivered himself up to a musing and meditative
life, which was only not utter vacancy. At a season of
general bustle among the nations, he sank into apathy. He
had served in arms with Richard, but the entreaties of that
impetuous and powerful monarch no longer succeeded in beguiling
him from his solitude. The world was again arrayed in
armor — the whole wide world of Christendom — moving under
the impulses of religious fanaticism, at the wild instance of St.
Bernard. Preparations were in progress for the second crusade,
but the stir of the multitude aroused no answering chord in his
affections. He put on no armor; his shield hung upon his
walls; his spear rusted beneath it, and no trumpet was sounded
at his gates. Like one overcome with sloth, Geoffrey Rudel
lay couched within the quiet retreats of his castle near Bourdeaux,
and gave no heed to the cries and clamors of the world
without. But his soul had not lapsed away in luxuries. He
was immersed in no pleasures more exciting than those of song.
His soul was full of sadness rather than delight. His lyre sent
forth the tenderest pleading, and the most touching lamentation.
His heart was filled with sorrow, as he entreated vainly that it
should be filled with love. Very sweet were his ballads; plaintive
always, and teeming with fancies, which fainly sought to
ally themselves to affections. With a soul given up to contemplations,
which, if not loving, were not warlike, he gave no heed
to the movements, or even the reproaches of his brethren —
knights and troubadours. The preaching of St. Bernard touched
not him. We do not know that he ever listened once to that
great apostle of the crusades; nor, indeed, can we pretend to
assert that his conversion ever formed a special object with the
preacher. But the entreaties of others were urged upon him,
and without success. He answered them with a melancholy
denial, which declared his regrets more than his indifference.
Some of his ditties, written at this period, have been preserved
to us. They are remarkable for their delicacy, their plaintiveness
of tone, the nice taste by which his spirit was informed,
and the grief of those yearnings, the denial of which was the
true cause of his lethargy. The muse to which he now yielded
himself was that of a latent affection. The wild spirit of warfare
had no voice for his soul. He sung — but why not suffer
him to speak for himself, those tender sensibilities which he has
put into verse, not wholly unworthy of his renown? Our rude
English version may show the character of his sentiment, if not
the peculiar art and the ingenuity of his strain. He speaks in
this sonnet of his despondency, and of that ideal which he despairs
to find in life.

This is a sweet murmur, not overstrained, and happily expressed.
It should have silenced the reproaches which were at
length showered upon his head. It shows him to have possessed
a soul at once tender and passionate, if not susceptible; and
such now was the usual burden of his song. But it failed to
convince his neighbors. Beauty, disappointed in all her endeavors,
proclaimed him an insensible. We little know, at this
day, how keen and terrible was such a reproach, at a period
when love was the very soul of chivalry. Knighthood regarded
him as a recreant to its order, which insisted upon a mistress as

the first and most powerful incentive to valor. He was called
by many cruel epithets — cold, selfish, ungentle; barren of
heart, capricious and peevish; loving himself only, like another
Narcissus, when a whole world, worthy of a better heart, crowded
around him soliciting his love; and this, too, at the very
moment when he was repining with the tenderest yearnings, for
some one object, precious over all, upon whom to expend the
whole wealth of his affections. But he was not long to yearn
thus hopelessly. The fates were about to give an answer to the
cruel reproaches under which he had suffered. They were
about to show that his passion was intense in proportion to the
infrequency of its exercise. His destiny was quite as curious as
it is touching: we say this by way of warning. The reader
must know that we are writing sober history. We are not now
practising with artful romances upon his fancy. The chronicles
are before us as we write. We are fettered by the ancient
record, in complexion of the most sombre black-letter.

It was while Geoffrey Rudel thus lay, sad and sighing, at his
castle of Blaye, near Bordeaux, that news came from the Holy
Land, which set Christendom once more in commotion. The
Crusaders had gone forward in iron legions. They had been
successful in every battle, and their triumphs were upon every
tongue. Jerusalem, the Holy City, had fallen before their arms,
after prodigies of valor had been shown in its defence. But the
deeds of knighthood, and the bloody triumphs of the battle-field,
were not alone the theme of the troubadour and the traveller.
The story which, above all, had served to enliven the
imagination, and charm the lyre of Europe, was that of a certain
countess of Tripoli — a lady, whose bravery, under circumstances
of particular difficulty and peril, was deemed the subject
of greatest wonder and delight. Her beauty had been already
sung. It was now ennobled in Provençal minstrelsy, by instances
of courage, magnanimity, and greatness of soul, such as
had seldom been shown by her sex before. Her elastic spirit,
the firmness of her soul, the grace of her carriage, the loveliness
of her face and person, were duly recorded in a thousand ditties.
The pilgrims from the Holy Land could speak of nothing else.
The troubadour caught up the grateful history, and found new

inspiration in the recital. Faint echoes of the story reached our
disconsolate poet, and fell with a renovating influence upon his
spirit. He heard, and hearkened with a greedy interest. The
recital touched the dormant chords of his nature. He grew
excited as he listened, suddenly flung off his lethargy, and soon
his lyre began to emulate and excel all others, in rehearsing the
charms of her person and the beauties of her soul. He all at
once realized his ideal. The countess of Tripoli was the creature
of all his imaginings. The image in his soul had found a living
likeness. It had long been the image in his dreams — it was
now the object of his waking passion. It filled the measure of
his hopes; it heightened the glory of his dreams. He loved —
he was no longer without a soul.

2. II.

The imagination of our troubadour thus powerfully excited,
it was not surprising that he should enjoy a glorious vision of
the lady of his thoughts. He lay sleeping, during a slumberous
summer evening, in a favorite bower of his garden: his lute,
resting beside him, was silent also; but he still clasped between
his fingers the illuminated missal, in which the wandering monk,
scarcely less infatuated than himself, had sought to enshrine the
beauties of the Lady of Tripoli in the character of the Blessed
Virgin. In the deep draughts of delirious passion which the
picture had helped to enliven, the troubadour might well lapse
away from delicious fancies into as delicious dreams. The warm
sun of his region helped the influence. The birds of Provence
ministered also — singing overhead those sweet capriccios, half
play, half sentiment, which seem to have furnished the model
for many of the best specimens of Provençal poetry. The
flowers gave forth a soft, persuasive fragrance. The leaves
floated to and fro upon the slenderest green vines, under the
balmy influence of the southern breeze, ever and anon stooping
to his floating hair, and trembling over his somewhat pallid
cheek. A favorite greyhound slept at his feet, his long brown
nose resting upon the gayly-wrought slippers which enclosed them.
Warm fancies, working with the season and the scene, proved
to our poet as deliciously narcotizing as those fabled breezes

that sweep with delirium the poppy gardens of Yemen. The
protracted denial of his previous life was all compensated in the
intoxicating fancy of the hour. The creature of his imperfect
waking desires, grew to a perfect being in his dreams. He was
transported to Paradise, a region which, at that moment, he
could find at Tripoli only. And she came forth, the first, to bid
him welcome. His reception was not only one of blessing but
of ceremonial. The lady of his love was environed by state;
but this did not lessen the benignity of her favor. Princes were
grouped around her — the severe and stately forms of the
Knights of the Temple — the humbler, but not less imposing
Brothers of the Hospital — and many others, knights and nobles,
with their banners and their shields. And he himself — he,
Geoffrey Rudel, prince of Blaye — was in the midst of the
splendid circle — the person to whom all eyes were drawn —
upon whom her eye was specially fastened — she, the nearest
to his heart and person, the lovely countess of Tripoli. But a
moment was the glorious vision vouchsafed him; but, even as it
began to fade away — growing momentarily more and more dim,
without growing less beautiful — he caught the whispered words
of her parting salutation — “Hither to me, Rudel — hither to
me — and the love that thou seekest, and the peace — shall they
not both be thine?”

3. III.

This was a bliss too great for slumber. It was a bliss too
precious to lose at waking. Rudel necessarily awakened with
the excess of rapture. He started to his feet with a new impulse.
The birds sang, but vainly, from his trees. The flowers
in vain stretched forth to his hand. He heeded not the endearments
of his greyhound, who staarted up at the same moment
with his master, and whined, and lifted his paws to receive the
accustomed caresses. He saw these things no longer. The old
temptations and pleasures were discarded or forgotten. A new
soul seemed to inform his spirit. A new hope was embodied in
his heart. He had received in that dream an inspiration. What
was tenderness simply in his heart before, was now passion. His
dream was reality. He no longer sighed — he felt. He lived,

at last; for, until one loves, he can not be said to live. The
life of humanity is love. The new passion prompted new energies.
Geoffrey Rudel was still at Blaye, but he might soon be
at Tripoli. He made his preparations for Tripoli accordingly.
Once more his good steed was put in exercise. His shield was
taken from the wall. His lance was cleansed of its rust, and
glittered gayly in the sunbeams, as if rejoicing in its resumed
employments. The proud spirit of knighthood was once more
rekindled in the bosom of our hero. He was again a living man,
with all the tenderness which inspires bravery to seek adventure.
It was easy now to feel all the enthusiasm at which it
was his wont to smile; and he could now look with regret and
mortification at those days of apathy which kept him in repose
when St. Bernard went through the land, preaching his mission
of power. He could now understand the virtue of leaving home
and family, friends and fortune, to fight for the Holy Sepulchre.
The spirit of the crusade suddenly impregnated his soul. Solemnly
he took up the cross — literally, in the figure upon his
garments — and made his preparations for embarking for the
East. Never had a change so sudden been wrought in human
bosom. Nor did he conceal the true occasion of the miracle.
When did troubadour ever withhold the secret of his passion?
It was his pride to reveal. Geoffrey Rudel loved at last. He,
too, could be made to yield to the spells of beauty. His lyre
was not silent. He unfolded himself in the most exquisite improvvisations,
which we should but coldly render in our harsh
language of the North. He who had been all apathy before,
was now all excitement. His limbs trembled with the wild fever
in his veins. A deep spot of red grew suddenly apparent on
his faded cheek. A tone of nervous impatience now distinguished
the utterance which had hitherto been gentle and forbearing
always. His muse spoke more frequently, and with
a spasmodic energy, which had not been her usual characteristic.
We preserve another of his sonnets, feebly rendered into
our dialect, which he penned just before leaving Provence for
the East:—

His preparations were not long delayed. His soul was too
eager in its new passion to permit of any unnecessary waste of
time. His flame had become a frenzy — the leading idea of his
mind, which reason had ceased to resist, and which friends no
longer ventured to combat. His preparations completed, and
the bark ready, his pen records one of the usual vows of knight-errantry.
In the following sonnet, he professes that humility
which was commonly set forth quite too ostentatiously to be sincere
always; but which, in his case, the sequal of our story will
show to have been deeply seated in his soul. We shall not find
it necessary to call the attention particularly to the delicacy of
the sentiments contained in these selections — a delicacy, we
may add, which speaks more certainly for the particular instance
before us, than it ordinarily did, at that period, for the general
character of chivalry:—

The sentiment that touched the soul of Geoffrey Rudel, was
certainly no common one. It may have been a fanaticism, but
it was such a fanaticism as could only happen to a poet. In inferior
degree, however, the frenzy was not an unusual one. It
belonged to the age and to his profession, if the performances of
the troubadour, at any time, could properly deserve this title!
Common to his order, it was heightened as well as refined by
the peculiar temper of his individual mind, and by that contemplative,
inner or spiritual life which he had lived so long.
Though spoken aloud, and fondly and frequently reiterated, it
was no momentary ebullition. The passion had fastened upon
his mind and his affections equally, and was fixed there by the
grateful image that informed his dreams. These, repeated
nightly, according to the tradition, gave him no time to cool.
Their visitation was periodical. Their exhortation was pressing.
They preyed upon his strength, and his physical powers
declined in due degree with the wondrous increase of his mental
energies. He set sail for Palestine with all the fervor of his
enthusiasm upon him, as warm and urgent as when it had seized
upon him first. The voyage was protracted, and the disease of
our pilgrim underwent increase from its annoyances. But, if his
frame suffered, the energies of his soul were unimpaired. His
muse was never in better wing or vigor. Still he sung, and
with all the new-born exultation of a lover. The one hope of
his heart, the one dream of his fancy, gave vitality to every utterance.
The image of the beautiful and noble Countess of
Tripoli was reflected from, and through, all his sonnets, as
through a mirror of magic. Of their usual burden, a single
specimen will suffice:—

The last allusion in this poem may not be so readily understood
in our times. It is still a subject of some discussion. It
is thought by some to have reference to the old tradition of gifts
bestowed by fairies upon persons in their infancy. Our own notion
is, that it is taken from one of the institutions of chivalry.
A knight was said to be born only when he had received the
honors of knighthood. At this ceremony he had a god-father or
sponsor. This person was usually chosen by the novice in consideration
of his high renown, his bravery and good fortune. A
certain portion of these good qualities were naturally supposed
capable of transmission. The sponsor answered for the good
qualities of the youthful squire, and bestowed on him his blessing
with his counsel. The allusion in the verses quoted is not
obscure, if we remember the relationship between the parties.

4. IV.

But we must not linger. The excitement of our troubadour
increased with the voyage. It was hardly restrainable within
the bounds of sanity as the ship approached her port of destination.
Rudel was beloved by all on board. His grace, talent,
gallantry, and enthusiasm, had touched all hearts. The curious
history of his passion had lifted him in their admiration and
wonder. They saw, with many misgivings, that it was growing
momently at the peril of his life and reason. But it was vain to
expostulate with one so completely lifted by his fervor beyond
the reach of ordinary argument. He ate but little and had no
appetite. His ailments, derived wholly from the strange flame
by which he was possessed, were yet stimulating influences
which gave him strength in the absence of mortal nutriment.
Very thin, indeed, were the cheeks which yet brightened with
the liveliest intelligence. The skin of his face had become so
delicately white and transparent, that the blue veins stood out
prominent upon his forehead, and you might trace everywhere
the progress of the fiery blood through his face and hands. His
eye wore a wild, unnatural intensity that seemed to dart through
the beholder. And yet it was apparent, even then, that the

glance which seemed to penetrate your soul, was full of intelligence
to which you were not a party. The soul of that glance
was elsewhere, far in advance of the slowly-sailing ship, in
search of the mistress of his desires.

Fearful was the fever that preyed upon his enfeebled frame.
Yet, while momently sinking in the sight of all, his heart was
full of hope and courage. There was a cheering and surprising
elasticity in his tones — an exulting consciousness of assured
success in voice and aspect — which made him superior to
all human anxieties. While no one even supposed he could
ever reach the shore alive, he himself had no doubts that he
would certainly do so. His confidence in this destiny raised
strange supernatural convictions in his brother knights, the companions
of his voyage. Their interest in his fate increased
as they beheld and listened. He spoke to them freely, and
poured forth, at frequent moments, the sentiments which were
inspired by his passion. The exquisite sonnets which were thus
delivered, seemed to them the utterance of a being already released
from human bonds; they were so tender, so hopeful, and
withal so pure. The extravagance of his flame was forgotten in
its purity. The wildness of his delirium was sweet, because of
its grace and delicacy. They spread their fruits before him,
and poured forth their beakers of Greek wine, to persuade him
to partake of more nourishing food than any which his passion
could provide; and he smiled as he tasted of their fruits, and
lifting the goblet to his lips, he chanted: —

And, without quaffing, he flung the beaker into the deep. He
needed not the stimulus of wine. As he had no longer a relish
for earthly nourishment, so it had no power upon his blood
or spirit.

They were cheered at length with the sight of the shores of
Palestine, — the Promised Land, indeed, to him. But such an
enthusiasm as that which had possessed his soul could not have
been entertained by any mortal, except at vital hazard. His
joy became convulsion. Lifted from the vessel and placed with
his feet upon the earth, he sank down in a swoon, to all appearance
dead. But the faith which he had in the promise of his
dream, was sufficient to reanimate his strength. Borne on a litter
to the nearest dwelling, the wonderful story of his passion,
and of his voyage in pursuit of its object, was soon borne through
Tripoli. It reached, among others, the ears of the noble lady
who had been so innocently the cause of his misfortunes. Then
it was that he realized the vision that blessed him while he slept
at Blaye. The princess of Tripoli was sensible to all his sorrows.
She was touched by the devotion of the troubadour, and,
even as he lay in a state of swoon that looked the image of
death itself, his ears caught once more the endearing summons,
and the accents of that melodious voice, which had aroused him
from his despondency and dreams. Once more it whispered to
his exulting soul the happy invitation: “Hither to me, Rudel,
hither to me; and the love that thou seekest — and the peace —
shall they not both be thine?”

5. V.

These dear words aroused him from his swoon. He opened
his eyes upon the light, but it was only to close them for ever.
But they had gained all that was precious in that one opening.
The single glance around him, by the dying troubadour, showed
him all that he had sought. Her holy and sweet face was the
first that he beheld. Her eyes smiled encouragement and love.
It was her precious embrace that succored his sinking frame.
These tender offices, let it not be forgotten, were not, in those
days, inconsistent with the purest virtue. The young maiden
was frequently nurse and physician to the stranger knight. She
brought him nourishment and medicine, dressed his wounds, and
scrupled at no act, however delicate, which was supposed necessary
to his recovery. Our countess had been taught to perform
these offices, not merely as acts of duty, but as acts of devotion.

It is probable that a deeper interest in the sufferer before her
gave a warmer solicitude to her ministrations. She had heard
the whole story of our troubadour, and of the influence which
she had possessed in rousing him from his apathy into life, even
though that awakening had been, finally, fatal to life itself.
Of his graces and virtues she knew before, and many were the
admirers who had already taught her how sweet and passionate,
and how purely due to herself, were the songs and sonnets of
Rudel. It was even whispered that their offices were by no
means necessary to her knowledge. There were those who
insisted that there had been some strange spiritual commerce
between the parties, though so many leagues asunder. The
story ran that Geoffrey Rudel had been as much the object of
her dreaming fancies as she had been of his. They said that
while he beheld her in the inspiring vision of the noonday, in
his garden at Blaye, she herself, in a state of prolonged trance
at Tripoli, was conscious of his presence, and of her own interest
in his fate, elsewhere. It is certain that she betrayed no
surprise when she heard his story from mortal lips. She betrayed
no surprise at his coming, and she was among the first
to attend the bedside of the dying man. He felt her presence,
as one, even in sleep, feels the sudden sunshine. He breathed
freely at her approach, as if the flitting soul were entreated back
for a moment, by her charms, to its prison-house of mortality.
She embraced him as he lapsed away, while her eyes, dropping
the biggest tears, were lifted up to heaven in resignation, but
with grief. He, in that mysterious moment, gazed only upon
her. His fading glance was filled with exultation. His hope
was realized. He expired, thrice happy, since he expired in
her arms. The prophetic vision had deceived him in no single
particular. She was one of the first to receive and welcome
him. His reception had been one of state and sympathizing
ceremonial. He beheld, even as he died, the very groups which
his dream had shown him. There were the severe and stately
aspects of the Knights of the Temple — there again were the
humbler Brothers of the Hospital. Princes and barons drew
nigh in armor and resting upon their shields, as at a solemn service;
and he was in the midst, the figure to whom all eyes were
addressed, and she, the nearest to his heart, was also the nearest
to his person. The love and the peace which she had promised
him completed the full consciousness of his exulting spirit.

All these things had really come to pass. But the stately
ceremonial, which his flattering fancies had persuaded him was
his bridal, was in truth his funeral. Dying, thus surrounded,
he felt that it was a bridal also. In the brief communion which
his eyes enjoyed with those of her he loved, he felt that their
souls were united. She said to him, as plainly as eyes could
speak — “The love and the peace thou seekest, shall they not
be thine?” and in this happy faith he yielded up his spirit on
her bosom. He was magnificently buried among the Knights
Templars at Tripoli. Scarcely had this last ceremonial taken
place, when the woman he had so worshipped made a sign,
which seemed to confirm the previous rumors of their strange
spiritual sympathies. Her heart was certainly more deeply
interested in his fate than might well have been the case, had
their mutual souls not communed before. The very day of his
death, she who had lived a princess, in the very eye of pleased
and wondering nations, suddenly retired from the world. She
buried her head, if not her secret, beneath the hood of the
cloister. “They were placed to sleep apart,” says the ancient
chronicle, “but, by the Virgin's grace, they wake together!”

An old Provençal author, whose name is unknown, writes:
“The Viscount Geoffrey Rudel, in passing the seas to visit his
lady, voluntarily died for her sake.” His passion has been
deemed worthy of the recording muse of Petrarch, who says:
“By the aid of sails and oars, Geoffroi Rudel obtained the boon
of death which he desired.” We have furnished the ample
history of this event. In one of the ancient metaphysical discussions
so common in the Courts of Love, during the prevalence
of chivalry, one of the questions proposed for discussion was as
follows: —

“Which contributes most powerfully to inspire love — sentiment
or sight? — the heart or the eyes?”

The case was at once decided in favor of sentiment when the
story of our troubadour was told. Once more, this narrative is
no fiction, though of the purest school of fiction. Its facts are
all to be found in the sober records of a period, when, however,
society was not quite sober.