nearest to what the following century produced of beauty. Assuredly it is not, whatever their merits may have been, the grave and pompous representatives of the Burgundian style: not Chastellain, La Marche, Molinet. The novelties of form which they affected were too superficial, the foundation of their thought too essentially medieval, their classical whimsies to naive. Should one look for the modern element in the refinement of form? Sometimes this form, though most artificial, has so much grace that the sweet melody makes us forget the emptiness of meaning.
"Plusiers bergiers sont en lacz mortelz telz
Heurtez, boutez, que pou leur déduit duyt.
Et leurs moutons en maux fortunez nez,
Venez, vanez, de fers mal parez rez,
Leurs bledz emblez, ayans sauf conduit vuyd,
La nuit leur nuit, la mort qui destruit ruit,
Leur fruit's'en fuit venant aperte perte:
Mais Pan nous tient en asseurance experte."[1]
This was written by Jean Lemaire de Belges. Much more might be said on this elaboration of a purely formal beauty in poetry. But, taking all in all, it is not here that the future of literature lies. If by moderns we understand those who have most affinity with the later development of French literature, the moderns are Villon, Charles of Orleans and the poet of L'Amant rendu Cordelier, just those who kept most aloof from classicism and who did not strain after over-nice forms. The medieval character of their motifs robs them not in the least of their aspect of youth and of promise. It is the spontaneity of their expression which makes them moderns.
Classicism then was not the controlling factor in the advent of the new spirit in literature. Neither was paganism. The frequent use of pagan expressions or tropes has often been considered the chief characteristic of the Renaissance. This practice, however, is far older. As early as the twelfth century mythological terms were employed to express concepts of the
- ↑ Several shepherds are in such mortal snares So much knocked and pushed that it little tends to their delight. And their sheep, born in an evil hour, Are hunted, exhausted, shorn by ill-sharpened shears, Their corn is stolen, having a fruitless safe-conduct, The night is noxious to them; destructive death rushes in, Their fruit flies, as open ruin comes, But Pan holds us in his expert protection.
