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ma*te0> VOX.. 4. HARPERS-FERRY, VZR6XNZA, SEPTEMBER -29, 182V. NO. 26. PUBLISHED EVERT SATrRDAT EVKM5G, I1Y JOHN S. GALL AII Kit. TERMS.—One dollar and fifty cents per annum, payable at the expiration of the first quarter, or one dollar and twenty-five cents, to he paid at the time of subscribing. Payment in advance, from distant subscribers who are not known to the pub lisher, will invariably be expected. Should pay ment be deferred to the end of the year, f2 will be required. *.* Postage on all letters MUST be paid. THE REPOSITORY. GEOFFREY RUDEL. The first awakening light which fell upon the modem world, when the dark ignorance in which it had been wrapped for many centuries was about to be dispelled, was shed by the ge nius of Provencal poets. Nothing can be more unjust and ungenerous than to try their compo sitions by those rules of criticism which an ac quaintance with the classical writers (whose names and existence were unknown to the trou badours.) and the successful efforts of later and more gifted poets have enabled us to arrive at. The disadvantages under which they wrote, with no other than their own taste, no other in spiration than their own feelings, should be ta ken into the. estimate; the state of the society whose applause they sought should be consider ed ; it should be remembered, too. that the lan guage in which they wrote has become obso lete. and that its lighter graces are not felt nor understood even by the natives of the land in which they lijaih With all these consider.! tions, every qgpHid mind will be inclined to a ward to the trobbadours_ of Provence the repu tation which they have enjoyed, without cavil, until some, critics have thought tit to impugn their merit, upon no very clear or satisfactory grounds. An elegant modern writer, although he confesses that he does not always understand and seldom relishes their productions, admits that they possessed individually great merit for the age in which they lived, and unhesitatingly acknowledges the obligations which the litera ture of Europe owes to them. “ The most intri cate disposition of rhymes,” he says, “ were at the choice of the troubadour. The Canzoni, the Sentini, and all the lyric measures of Italy and Spain, were borrowed from his treasury.— With such a command of poetical sounds, it was natural that he should inspire, delight into ears not yet rendered familiar to the articles of verse; and even now the fragments of those ancient lays, quoted by M. Sismondi and M. Gingucne, seem to possess a sort of charm that has evapo rated in translation. Upon this harmony, and upon the facility with which mankind are apt to he deluded into an admiration of exaggerat ed sentiment in poetry, they depended for their influence, and, however vapid the songs of Pro vence may seem to our apprehensions, they were undoubtedly the source from which poetry for ra iny cpnturies derived a portion of its ha bited language.” No poet of the time in which he lived, illus trated more strikingly in his life, and in his verses, the beauties and the defects which be longed to his age. and his profession than Geof frey Rudel. Dante and Petrarch have borne testimony to his genius, and the latter has be wailed his miserable fate with that pathetic grace which adorns every line he lias written. He was one of the poor relatives of a noble family; and thus obtained such an education, and acquired such accomplishments, as soon distinguished him among the troubadours of his I time. At a very early age' he had devoted him [ self wholly to compositions, and the most bril liant success crowned his efforts. He was ca ressed and rewarded hy the nobles of his native land nith that prodigal liberality which was a characteristic of the times. He was flattered and distinguished hy the ladies, to whomya li cense was then given by the common consent of society, which too frequently degenerated into extreme dissoluteness ot morals. To a common mind this would have been the topmost height that his ambition would have chosen to mount ; but Rudel’s heart pined for an ideal excellence, which he found not in the world.— The glittering insecurity of his position made him restless ; lie knew that he was the play thing of fashion, that the same caprice which j had raised could cast him down again. IIis heart was filled with passionate sentiments which found no responsive feelings in those which surrounded him. I.ove, which was the very essence of his being, and which was the inspiration as well as the theme of his poetry, consumed him for the lack of something to feed upon. The grosser and more sensual passion which men commonly call by that name might indeed have been fully satisfied ; but the pure spirit of love, which refutes and graces the world, dors not mingle with such unhallowed materials. Rudel starved in the midst of plen ty ; and at length constant meditation on some model of fanciful beauty and goodness in the fairer sex produced a morbid tone of thinking, which is common enough to minds which the rays of genius have penetrated, and w hich the world, not altogether unjustly, calls madness.— To the world, and to the world's inhabitants, it is madness; for it neither begins, nor ends, nor is connected, with any of the notions which they commonly entertain. it was wtirle his mind was in this state oi agi tation, a prey to the visionary imaginings of a distempered fancy, that he was present at a grand festival given hy one of the harons of Provence. Among the gallant revellers were some who had lately returned from travel, and who introduced the name of the Queen of Tu nis in their discourse. The praises which they lavished on her beauty, her art, and her virtue, caught Rudel’s attention. He listened eagerly, and his imagination instantly suggested to him that this fair queen must be the incarnation of that fancied glory and excellence which he had been so long dreaming of Wrapped in these contemplations, he leaned his head on his hand, and unmindful of the company by which he was surrounded, gave, himself up to the sweet and bitter fancies which crowded on his brain. He was roused from them by a person sitting next him, who handed to him a portrait magnificent ly adorned with jewels. It was the likeness of the youthful Queen of Tunis; and, unskilful as the artists of that day were, the beauty of the original was 6uch that even a faint resemblance — - - - - 7. - - - - - j was enough to justify the travellers’ praise5.— Rudel, having learnt whose portrait it was, sat for a few moments like one entranced. Hitt tears of wild transport rushed into his eyes,ami fell rapidly on his beard; then, as if in aphreti zy, he seized his lyre, and hurst into a passion ate rhapsody of admiration, concluding his song with a solemn devotion of himself and his lyre to the Queen of Tunis, to whom, as to a saint, he vowed to make a pilgrimage. The beauty of the verses, the passionate and touching man - tier in which he sang' them, wholly captivated the company, and they hardly^jerceived in their applause that the object of it had departed, and, to the great alarm of the owner, that he had ta ken the portrait with him. His eccentricities had of late become so frequent that this excited little astonishment among his friends. On the fallowing day the costly setting and frame of the picture was returned by one of the vassals of the baron ; but the picture and lludel were heard of no more. Aii event like tins made no small noise. Ku del's fame was at its height; the beauty of the Queen of Tunis now came to be universally as soeiated with it; and both was a subject of con versation and interest throughout Provence.— Inquiries were made every where for Rude), but in vain ; months elapsed, and still he was not beard of. A stately ship was on its course for Tunis.— Barons and knights, and ladies, crowded its decks, and were impatiently looking out for the port at which they were to land. The Chris tian Queen of Tunis had published throughout the European courts her intention of holding a solemn joust and tournament, and all Christen dotn was hastening thither to share in the fes tivities. The golden sun was sinking in the west, and the vessel was moving slowly and steadily on with the slight breeze that had just sprung up. At the prow sate, or rather reelin ed, a wretched looking man, in the coarse garb of a pilgrim. The scallop shells around his hood, the staff and scrip, denoted that he was engaged in the fulfilment of some vow—a prac tice which was so common in those days as to excite no wonder among the other passengers of the vessel. But the bright and wild eyes of the pilgrim, the emaciated and care-marked fea tures, the hectic flush on his cheek, and his en feebled form, seemed to denote that his mortal pilgrimage was near its end ; and that his vow, whatever it was, must be fulfilled speedily or not at all. A boy, who seemed to be his attend ant and his only companion, stood near him. The pilgrim gazed intently on the sinking lu minary, and made a sign ta the hoy .who brought him a lyre. The pilgrim took it in his hands, | and, after a short prelude, began to sing an ode to the sun. After a few lines, expressing his admiration of its splendour, his voire sank, and he bewailed, with a most touching pathos, his own fate, which he seemed aware was at hand, when the light of his existence should set in the grave. The melody and beauty of his lay had attracted most of the. passengers to his side, and among them were several who, by his voice and his poetry, discovered that which otherwise they could never have imagined—ihat the expiring pilgrim was the once handsome and gay Geof fry Rude), the prince of Provencal troubadours. The story of his vow was well known, and it