More than one time that reading struck our eyes Together, and discoloured us in face: But it was only one point conquered us: Whereas we read about the longed-for smile How by so great a lover it was kissed, This one, who from me ne’er shall be disjoined, Trembling all over, kissed me on the mouth. A Galahalt[7] was the book, and he that writ: Further that day we read in it no more. (W. M. ROSSETTI’S translation.) Many poets might wish to rest their posthumous fame on such lines rather than on their own works; but it may be inferred on the other hand that Arnaut Daniel (if he really be the author referred to) must have been a mighty mover of the heart to gain such a tribute from the lips of Francesca da Rimini. It may seem strange that the Provençal biography is completely silent with regard to Arnaut’s epical achievements. But, in the best times at least, the professional story-teller was strictly divided from the Troubadour, and the biographer may have thought it wiser to say nothing on the subject. With reference to the same matter it is perhaps significant that Arnaut is described as a ‘joglar’ in the Provençal notice of his life. In Italy this point of etiquette was, of course, of no importance; and hence most likely the indirect channel through which Arnaut’s fame as a writer of romance has reached posterity. It must be confessed, however, that the Troubadour’s lyrical efforts would hardly lead one to credit him with lucid exposition or narrative grace. Arnaut Daniel is the Browning of Provençal literature. He delights in ‘motz oscurs’ (dark words) and ‘rims cars’ (dear or scarce rhymes) and equally far-fetched similes. One of these latter, a symbol of unrequited love, became almost proverbially attached to his name. ‘I am Arnaut,’ it ran, ‘who loves the air, who hunts a hare with an ox, and swims against the stream.’ His intentional obscurity and his mannerism were largely imitated, but no less frequently attacked and travestied by contemporary poets and satirists. Petrarch’s allusions to ‘his novel speech,’ and Dante’s expression, ‘smith of his mother-tongue,’ evidently allude to Arnaut’s peculiarities of style. We can also quite understand how the great Florentine could admire a dark shade of melancholy, a bold originality of thought, and a hankering after scholastic depth, but too nearly akin to his own mental attitude; but how far these qualities would have fitted into the frame of a narrative, or whether the poet succeeded in dropping them for a season, must remain an open question. It is curious that one of the brightest and most amusing bits of literary gossip which Provençal biography can show is attached to the sombre figure of this troubadour. As there will be no occasion in the following pages to return to the biography of Arnaut, the clever little anecdote may follow here. It will serve at the same time as a specimen of Provençal prose.