All things considered, this antagonism was not wholly unjustified. It has already been said that the humbler members of the profession were fain to turn an honest penny by enlivening the feasts and fairs of villagers by ingenious tricks of jugglery, and whoever will consult the ‘Instructions to Joglars,’ above mentioned, will find a considerable portion of the modern _répertoire_ anticipated. Even dancing on the tight rope, and training and producing clever dogs and monkeys, were accomplishments not wholly beneath the dignity of the joglar. No wonder that noble troubadours shunned all contact with a profession comprehending such doubtful elements. But of course there were joglars and joglars, just as in our times there are artists and artists; and a man like Perdigo, who himself wrote beautiful songs, and kept a singer to sing them, and who was knighted by the Marquis of Montferrat on account of his poetic merits, would no more have considered a common trickster his equal than Mario or Faure would artistically fraternise with the ‘Great Vance.’ And yet the old biographer calls Perdigo repeatedly and persistently a joglar. It is in such cases as this that the distinction between the two classes alluded to practically ceases. Joglars were received in the best society on the same terms of equality as were granted to the more exclusive brethren; the same gifts of horses and rich garments rewarded their efforts, and these efforts also were to a large extent identical with those of the troubadours, excepting perhaps the one circumstance that the joglars, although poets themselves, included the pieces of other authors in their _répertoire_, while the troubadours, if gifted with executive talents, always confined themselves to their own productions.