"By God's heart," quoth Aucassin, "thou ill son of an ill wench, I will slay thee if thou swear not that never shall any man in all thy land lie in of child henceforth for ever.”*

So he did that oath, and when he had done it, "Sir," said Aucassin, "bring me now where thy wife is with the host."

"Sir, with good will," quoth the King.

He mounted his horse, and Aucassin gat on his own, and Nicolete abode in the Queen's chamber. Anon rode Aucassin and the King even till they came to that place where the Queen was, and lo! men were warring with baked apples, and with eggs, and with fresh cheeses, and Aucassin began to look on them, and made great marvel.

Here one singeth:

Aucassin his horse doth stay, From the saddle watched the fray,

All the stour and fierce array; Right fresh cheeses carried they,

Apples baked, and mushrooms

grey,

Whoso splasheth most the ford
He is master called and lord.
Aucassin doth gaze a while,
Then began to laugh and smile
And made game.

Then speak they, say they, tell they the Tale:

When Aucassin beheld these marvels, he came to the King, and said, "Sir, be these thine enemies?"

"Yea, Sir," quoth the King.

"And will ye that I should avenge you of them?”

"Yea," quoth he, "with all my heart."

Then Aucassin put hand to sword, and hurled among them, and began to smite to the right hand and the left, and slew many And when the King saw that he slew them, he caught

at his bridle and said,

"Ha! fair sir, slay them not in such wise."

"How," quoth Aucassin, "will ye not that I should avenge you of them?"

"Sir," quoth the King, "overmuch already hast thou avenged me. It is nowise our custom to slay each other."

Anon turned they and fled. Then the King and Aucassin betook them again to the castle of Torelore, and the folk of that land counselled the King to put Aucassin forth, and keep Nicolete

*This barbarous custom, called the couvade, lingered long in the mountains of Southern France.

for his son's wife, for that she seemed a lady of high lineage. And Nicolete heard them, and had no joy of it, so began to say:

Here singeth one:

Thus she spake, the bright of Then am I in such derray,

brow:

"Lord of Torelore and king,
Thy folk deem me a light thing,
When my love doth me embrace,
Fair he finds me, in good case,

Neither harp, nor lyre, nor lay, Dance nor game, nor rebeck play,

Were so sweet."

Then speak they, say they, tell they the Tale:

Aucassin dwelt in the castle of Torelore, in great ease and great delight, for that he had with him Nicolete, his sweet love, whom he loved so well.

[The story runs on that three years later the Saracens invade the land and carry off Aucassin and Nicolete. The ships were scattered by a storm, and Aucassin was shipwrecked at Biaucaire, where he became ruler. Nicolete was carried to Carthage, where she recognized the home of her childhood, and was accepted as the King's daughter. But when stole away, disguised as a harper. Provence, and passed to Biaucaire. and was reunited to Aucassin.] When Aucassin heareth now That his lady bright of brow Dwelleth in his own

trie,

coun

Never man was glad as he.
To her castle doth he hie
With the lady speedily,
Passeth to the chamber high,
Findeth Nicolete thereby.
Of her true love found again
Never maid was half so fain.
Straight she leaped upon her
feet:

When his love he saw at last,
Arms about her did he cast,

they wished her to marry she Taken on a ship, she reached Here she sang her own story

Kissed her often, kissed her sweet,

Kissed her lips and brow and

eyes.

Thus all night do they devise,
Even till the morning white.
Then Aucassin wedded her,
Made her Lady of Biaucaire.
Many years abode they there,
Many years in shade or sun,
In great gladness and delight.
Ne'er hath Aucassin regret
Nor his lady Nicolete.
Now my story all is done,
Said and sung!

FROISSART'S Book.

I, Sir John Froissart, treasurer and canon of Chimay, had, during my stay in Abbeville, a great desire to see the Kingdom of England; more especially since it was a time of truce. Several reasons urged me to make this journey, but principally because in my youth I had been educated at the court of King Edward, and that good Lady Philippa, his queen, with their children. I had taken care to form a collection of all the poetry on love and morality that I had composed during the last twenty-four years, which I had caused to be fairly written and illuminated. I was also minded to go to England from a desire to see King Richard, whom I had not seen since the time of his christening in the cathedral of Bordeaux; and my book of poesy, finely ornamented, bound in velvet, and decorated with silver-gilt clasps and studs, I took as a present for him. Having provided myself with horses, I crossed from Calais to Dover, on the 12th day of July, and on Wednesday by nine o'clock arrived at Canterbury, to visit the shrine of St. Thomas and the tomb of the late Prince of Wales, who had been buried there. I heard high mass, made my offerings at the shrine, and returned to my inn for dinner; when I heard that the king was to come on a pilgrimage to St. Thomas. I thought, therefore, that it would be well to wait his arrival, which I did; and on the morrow he came in great state, accompanied by lords and ladies, with whom I mixed; but they were all new faces to me. I did not remember one of them; times and persons had greatly changed since I was last in England, eighty-and-twenty years past. I addressed myself to Sir Thomas Percy, High Steward of England, whom I found gracious and of agreeable manners, and who offered to present me to the king.

On being introduced to the king I was graciously and kindly received. He took all the letters I presented to him, and having read them attentively, said I was welcome, and since I had belonged to the household of the late king and queen, I must consider myself still as of the royal household of England. This day I did not offer him the book I had brought, for Sir Thomas Percy told me it was not a fit opportunity, as he was much occupied with serious business.

On the Sunday the whole council went to London except the Duke of York, who remained with the king, and Sir Richard Sturry. These two, in conjunction with Sir Thomas Percy, mentioned me again to the king, who desired to see the book I had brought for him. I presented it to him in his chamber, and laid it upon his bed. He opened it and looked into it with much pleasure. He ought to have been pleased, for it was handsomely written and illuminated, and bound in crimson velvet, with ten silver-gilt studs, and roses of the same in the middle, with two large clasps of silver-gilt, richly worked with roses in the center. The king asked me what the book treated of. I replied-Of love. He was pleased with the answer, and dipped into several places, reading parts aloud; for he read and spoke French perfectly well; and then gave it to one of his knights to carry to his oratory, and made me many acknowledgments for it.

MUSIC-ITS DEVELOPMENT AND

POSSIBILITIES

F all the arts, music is the most potent. Its subject matter-sound-is capable of more delicate gradations than the material of any other art. It can appeal to more people and move their emotions more strongly than any known human means of expression. It is able to bring about subtle shades of feeling which the most carefully selected words are powerless to convey. And it can lead the hearts and minds of men to regions far removed from everyday life.

When music first came into being, who shall say? All nature is full of it. The singing of the birds, the droning of the insects, the purring of our cat-these, and other familiar sounds, are but instances of the pleasure shown by the higher creatures in pouring forth the happiness they themselves enjoy.

What we recognize as music is probably but a small part of the possible music of the universe, and this because our faculties are exceedingly limited. For aught we know, a kind of music, unlike anything else on earth, may be given forth as the infinitesimal atom vibrates in space. This is not so improbable as it might first appear. For rhythmic movement lies at the basis of music, and the delicate undulations of the tiny atom are of this same character. And then, at the other extreme— mighty in their extent-are the ordered rhythms of the earth itself, and of the planets and satellites. Perhaps, after all, the great Pythagoras' "Music of the Spheres" was something more than a figure of speech; perhaps, after all, there was truth prompting Goethe's utterance at the beginning of "Faust" when he speaks of the "Sun's thunder-march sublime." If a pianoforte string by moving periodically emits sound, why may not the atom and the planet do the same, since they all obey the great law of rhythm? Because we ourselves do not hear the many hidden tones of Nature is no evidence that they are nonexistent.