I have always thought that the old ballad-singer's world--the world in which he moved, and again the ideal world of his songs--is nowhere to be so vividly realised as in the Hofkirche at Innsbruck, among that colossal company who watch the tomb of Kaiser Max; huge men and women in richly wrought bronze array, ugly indeed, most of them, but with two of their number seeming to embody every beautiful quality that was possessed or dreamt of through well nigh a millennium: the pensive, graceful form of Theodoric, king of the Ostrogoths, and the erect figure whose very attitude suggests all manly worth, all gentle valour, under which is read the quaint device, "Arthur _von England_." If not rewarded with sufficient promptitude and liberality, the ballad-singer was not slow to call attention to the fact. Colin Muset, a jongleur who practised his trade in Lorraine and Champagne in the thirteenth century, has left a charming photograph of contemporary manners in a song which sets forth his wants and deserts. Lord Count, I have the viol played[2] Before yourself, within your hall, And you my service never paid Nor gave me any wage at all; 'T was villany: By faith I to Saint Mary owe, Upon such terms I serve you not, My alms-bag sinks exceeding low, My trunk ill-furnished is, I wot. Lord Count, now let me understand, What 'tis you mean to do for me, If with free heart and open hand Some ample guerdon you decree Through courtesy; For much I wish, you need not doubt, In my own household to return, And if full purse I am without, Small greeting from my wife I earn. "Sir Engele," I hear her say, "In what poor country have you been, That through the city all the day You nothing have contrived to glean! See how your wallet folds and bends, Well stuffed with wind and nought beside; Accursed is he who e'er intends As your companion to abide." When reached the house wherein I dwell, And that my wife can clearly spy My bag behind me bulge and swell, And I myself clad handsomely In a grey gown, Know that she quickly throws away Her distaff, nor of work doth reck, She greets me laughing, kind and gay, And twines both arms around my neck. My wife soon seizes on my bag, And empties it without delay; My boy begins to groom my nag, And hastes to give him drink and hay; My maid meanwhile runs off to kill Two capons, dressing them with skill In garlic sauce; My daughter in her hand doth bear, Kind girl, a comb to smooth my hair. Then in my house I am a king, Great joyance and no sorrowing, Happier than you can say or sing. Ballad-singing suffered by the invention of printing, but it was in England that the professional minstrel met with the cruellest blow of all--the statute passed in the reign of Queen Elizabeth which forbade his recitations, and classed him with "rogues, vagabonds, and sturdy beggars."