Nothing more truly characterises the period than this popular passion for musicians, poets, and buffoons. Far from becoming degraded by contact with the mob, poetry seemed thereby to gain in breadth. A pure Virgilian named Andrea Marone (Virgil’s surname) never felt at ease unless sitting on a stone post; in that position inspiration seized him like an ancient sibyl or a fakir; his veins dilated, drops of sweat stood on his brow, his whole being expressed itself in gestures which gave emphasis to his song, lightning flashed from his eyes; it seemed as though a part of his individuality left him and shed itself upon his audience like a rain of fire. Almost all women were fond of music, for men were very accessible to ear-charming sound. Even in France, in spite of the poverty of aesthetic education, the villages harboured a surprising number of harpists and taborers. The duchess of Orleans patronised at Blois a crowd of more or less official “gitternists,” fiddlers, and trumpeters, without reckoning strolling guitarists, always sure of a warm welcome. Like all the princesses she had her private band, and also two taborers, magnificent in their crimson badge,—so magnificent that during her lyings-in she had them to play at the foot of her bed. It was a great sorrow to her to have to dismiss, from a prudent motive of economy, the ducal choir and even one of the taborers; Pierre de Vervel, once her master of music, always remained her friend. We have in a former volume shown Louise of Savoy, a cithara in her hand, surrounded by a harp, an organ, and a complete orchestra. Louise Labé approved of young girls devoting to music the best part of their time. It was incomprehensible how any lady who possessed this divine means of fascination[239] could neglect it; when a Mademoiselle de Hauteville had to be pressed to display her magnificent voice, her false modesty was censured as a sort of professional error. Mary of England, accompanying herself on a guitar, used to sing of a morning to Louis XII., her doddering old husband, and the poor prince felt himself revived, such “wondrous pleasure did he take therein.” Margaret of France, who has left us thousands of verses, evidently betook herself to poetry as nowadays we go to the piano, to let her thoughts wander at large; instead of singing with her lips, she sang with her pen. It is highly probable that many ladies abandoned themselves thus to their inspirations, half music, half poetry. Sometimes people had too much of it. It was irritating to meet certain people perpetually humming a refrain. As soon as you entered a drawing-room, you saw an instrument looming menacingly before you, and you had to perform. And then, how many amateurs would do better to muzzle themselves than to go quavering out their little songs!