Amongst the most detestable things, the monk ranks quarrelsome and arrogant people, a halting horse, a young knight without a rent in his shield, a monk with a long beard, a proud though poor lady, and finally, an over-affectionate husband. This last point is again highly characteristic of the Provençal conception of marriage already referred to. Our poet also abhors a small piece of meat in a large dish; and that a little wine with a great quantity of water is not to his taste, we would willingly believe without the testimony of St. Martin, solemnly invoked. His culinary principles being thus established, the monk proceeds to take us into his confidence with regard to the tender secrets of his heart. We conclude, from his confessions, that he has met with some ill-treatment at the hands of those members of the fair sex who, although of maturer beauty, have not yet abandoned their claims to admiration. Only personal experience can account for the poet’s bitter resentment. Three times he returns to the point, growing more venomous with every new attack. In one instance he goes so far as to use the ungallant expression, ‘Vielha caserna’—old barracks. In this manner he goes on grumbling and complaining of contrary winds when he wants to start on a voyage, of badly-lined fur caps, false friends, bad fiddlers, and other miscellaneous evils of this wicked world. A whole litany of saints is called to witness frequently on such precarious points, as to remind one of the Italian brigand, who prays to his Madonna previously to cutting purses or throats, as the case may be. But the monk is not an entire pessimist. His praise is as eloquent as his vituperation. He likes gaiety and carousals, courteous knights and noble ladies. A powerful man, he wishes to be friendly to his friends, hostile to his foes. The same un-Christian sentiment is repeated still more emphatically in the further course of the poem. The hated foeman’s death I cherish, The more, if by my hand he perish. Milder impulses, however, are not wanting. In two charming, melodious stanzas the poet depicts the delights of a summer’s day passed with his love by the side of the murmuring brook, while the air is sweet with the fragrance of blossoms and the song of the nightingale. Truth compels me to confess, that in close juxtaposition to this charming idyl, the very material wish is expressed of having a ‘_grans salmos ad hora nona_’—that is, a large salmon for supper.