On the whole, however, the most important influence in the development of the novel originally ­that of the nouvelle or novella in French, and Italian taking the second place in order of time ­must be assigned to the very numerous and very delightful body of compositions (not very long as a rule, but also never exactly short) to which the name Romans d’aventures has been given with a limited connotation.  They exist in all languages; our own English Romances, though sometimes derived from the chansons and the Arthurian Legend, are practically all of this class, and in every case but one it is true that they have actual French originals.  These Romans d’aventures have a habit, not universal but prevailing, of “keying themselves on” to the Arthurian story itself; but they rarely, if ever, have much to do with the principal parts of it.  It is as if their public wanted the connection as a sort of guarantee; but a considerable proportion keep independence.  They are so numerous, so various, and with rare exceptions so interesting, that it is difficult to know which to select for elaborate analysis and translated selection; but almost the entire corpus gives us the important fact of the increased freedom of fiction.  Even the connection with the Arthurian matter is, as has been said, generally of the loosest kind; that with the Charlemagne cycle hardly exists.  The Graal (or things connected with its legends) may appear:  Gawain is a frequent hero; other, as one might call them, sociable features as regards the older stories present themselves.  But as a rule the man has got his own story which he wants to tell; his own special hero and heroine whom he wants to present.  Furthermore, the old community of handling, which is so noticeable in the chansons more particularly, disappears almost entirely.  Nothing has yet been discovered in French, though it may be any day, to serve as the origin of our Gawain and the Green Knight, and some special features of this are almost certainly the work of an Englishman.  Our English Ywain and Gawain is, as has been said, rather better than Chrestien’s original.  But, as a rule, the form, which is French form in language (by no means always certainly or probably French in nationality of author), is not only the original, but better; and besides, it is with it that we are busied here, though in not a few cases English readers can obtain an idea, fairly sufficient, of these originals from the English versions.  As these, however, with the exception of one or two remarkable individuals or even groups, were seldom written by men of genius, it is best to go to the sources to see the power and the variety of fictitious handling which have been mentioned.

The richness, indeed, of these Romans d’aventures is surprising, and they very seldom display the flatness and triviality which mar by no means all but too many of their English imitations.  Some of the faults which are part cause of these others they indeed have ­the apparently irrational catalogues of birds and beasts, stuffs and vegetables; the long moralisings; the religious passages sometimes (as it may seem to mere moderns) interposed in very odd contexts; the endless descriptions of battles and single combats; the absence of striking characterisation and varied incident.  Their interest is a peculiar interest, yet one can hardly call the taste for it “an acquired taste,” because the very large majority of healthy and intelligent children delight in these stories under whatever form they are presented to them, and at least a considerable number of grown-up persons never lose the enjoyment.  The disapproval which rested on “romances of chivalry” for a long time was admittedly ignorant and absurd; and the reasons why this disapproval, at least in its somewhat milder form of neglect, has never been wholly removed, are not very difficult to discover.  It is to be feared that Don Quixote, great as it is, has done not a little mischief, and by virtue of its greatness is likely to do not a little more, though the Amadis group, which it specially satirises, has faults not found in the older tales.  The texts, though in most cases easily enough accessible now, are not what may be called obviously and yet unobtrusively so.  They are to a very large extent issued by learned societies:  and the public, not too unreasonably, is rather suspicious, and not at all avid, of the products of learned societies.  They are accompanied by introductions and notes and glossaries ­things the public (again not wholly to be blamed) regards without cordiality.  Latterly they have been used for educational purposes, and anything used for educational purposes acquires an evil ­or at least an unappetising ­reputation.  In some cases they have been messed and meddled in usum vulgi.  But their worst enemy recently has been, it may be feared, the irreconcilable opposition of their spirit to what is called the modern spirit ­though this latter sometimes takes them up and plays with them in a fashion of maudlin mysticism.

To treat them at large here as Ellis treated some of the English imitations would be impossible in point of scale and dangerous as a competition; for Ellis, though a little too prone to Voltairianise or at least Hamiltonise things sometimes too good for that kind of treatment, was a very clever man indeed.  For somewhat full abstract and translation we may take one of the most famous, but perhaps not one of the most generally and thoroughly known, Partenopeus (or -pex) of Blois, which, though it exists in English, and though the French was very probably written by an Englishman, is not now one of the most widely read and is in parts very charming.  That it is one of the romances on which, from the fact of the resemblance of its central incident to the story of Cupid and Psyche, the good defenders of the bad theory of the classical origin of romance generally have based one of their few plausible arguments, need not occupy us.  For the question is not whether Denis Pyramus or any one else (modernity would not be modernity if his claims were not challenged) told it, but how he told it.  Still less need we treat the other question before indicated.  Here is one of the central stories of the world ­one of those which Eve told to her children in virtue of the knowledge communicated by the apple, one with which the sons of God courted the daughters of men, or, at latest, one of those which were yarned in the Ark.  It is the story of the unwise lover ­in this case the man, not as in Psyche’s the woman ­who will not be content to enjoy an unseen, but by every other sense enjoyable and adorable love, even though (in this case) the single deprivation is expressly to be terminated.  We have it, of course, in all sorts of forms, languages, and differing conditions.  But we are only concerned with it here as with a gracious example of that kind of romance which, though not exactly a “fairy tale” in the Western sense, is pretty obviously influenced by the Eastern fairy tale itself, and still more obviously influences the modern kind in which “the supernatural” is definitely prominent.

It was perhaps excusable in the good M. Robert, who wrote the Introduction to Crapelet’s edition of this poem eighty years ago, to “protest too much” in favour of the author whom he was now presenting practically for the first time ­to a changed audience; but it was unnecessary and a little unfortunate.  Except in one point or group of points, it is vain to try to put Partenopeus above Cupid and Psyche:  but it can perfectly well stand by itself in its own place, and that no low one.  Except in Floire et Blanchefleur and of course in Aucassin et Nicolette, the peculiar grace and delicacy of romance are nowhere so well shown; and Partenopeus, besides the advantage of length, has that of personages interesting, besides the absolute hero and heroine.  The Count of Blois himself is, no doubt, despite his beauty, and his bravery, and his good nature, rather of a feeble folk.  Psyche has the excuse of her sex, besides the evil counsel of her sisters, for her curiosity.  But Partenopeus has not the former; nor has he even that weaker but still not quite invalid one which lost Agib, the son of Cassib, his many-Houried Paradise on Earth.  He is supposed to be a Frenchman ­the somewhat excessive fashion in which Frenchmen make obedience to the second clause of the Fifth Commandment atone for some neglect of other parts of the decalogue is well known, or at least traditionally believed.  But most certainly a man is not justified in obeying his mother to the extent of disobeying ­and that in the shabbiest of ways ­his lady and mistress, who is, in fact, according to mediaeval ideas, virtually, if not virtuously, his wife.  But Melior herself, the heroine, is an absolutely delightful person from her first appearance (or rather non-appearance) as a sweet dream come true, to her last in the more orthodox and public spousals.  The grace of her Dian-like surrender of herself to her love; the constancy with which she holds to the betrothal theory of the time; the unselfishness with which she not only permits but actually advises the lover, whom she would so fain, but cannot yet, make her acknowledged husband, to leave her; her frank forgiveness of his only-just-in-time repented and prevented, but intended, infidelity; her sorrow at and after the separation enforced by his breach of pact; her interviews with her sister, naturally chequered by conflicting feelings of love and pride and the rest ­are all charming.  But she is not the only charming figure.

The “second heroine,” a sister or cousin who plays a sort of superior confidante’s part, is by no means uncommon in Romance.  Alexandrine, for instance, who plays this in William of Palerne, is a very nice girl.  But Urraque or Urraca, the sister of Melior ­whether full and legitimate, or “half” illegitimate, versions differ ­is much more elaborately dealt with, and is, in fact, the chief character of the piece, and a character rather unusually strong for Romance.  She plays the part of reconciler after Partenopeus’ fatal folly has estranged him from her sister, and plays it at great length, but with much less tedium than might be expected.  But the author is an “incurable feminist,” as some one else was once described with a mixture of pity and admiration:  and he is not contented with two heroines.  There is a third, Persewis, maid of honour to Urraque, and also a fervent admirer of the incomparable Partenopeus, on whose actual beauty great stress is laid, and who in romance, other than his own, is quoted as a modern paragon thereof, worthy to rank with ancient patterns, sacred and profane.  Persewis, however, is very young ­a “flapper” or a “[bread-and-]buttercup,” as successive generations have irreverently called the immature but agreeable creature.  The poet lays much emphasis on this youth.  She did not “kiss and embrace,” he says, just because she was too young, and not because of any foolish prudery or propriety, things which he does not hesitate to pronounce appropriate only to ugly girls.  His own attitude to “the fair” is unflinchingly put in one of the most notable and best known passages of the poem sq.): 

When God made all creation, and devised their forms for his creatures, He distributed beauties and good qualities to each in proportion as He loved it.  He loved ladies above all things, and therefore made for them the best qualities and beauties.  Of mere earth made He everything [else] under Heaven:  but the hearts of ladies He made of honey, and gave to them more courtesy than to any other living creature.  And as God loves them, therefore I love them:  hunger and thirst are nothing to me as regards them:  and I cry “Quits” to Him for His Paradise if the bright faces of ladies enter not therein.

It will be observed, of course, how like this is to the most famous passage of Aucassin et Nicolette.  It is less dreamily beautiful, but there is a certain spirit and downrightness about it which is agreeable; nor do I know anywhere a more forcible statement of the doctrine, often held by no bad people, that beauty is a personal testimonial of the Divinity ­a scarcely parabolic command to love and admire its possessors.

If, however, our poet has something of that Romantic morality to which Ascham ­in a conjoined fit of pedantry, prudery, and Protestantism ­gave such an ugly name, he may excuse it to less strait-laced judges by other traits.  Even the “retainer” of an editor ought not to have induced M. Robert to say that Melior’s original surrender was “against her will,” though she certainly did make a protest of a kind. But the enchanted and enchanting Empress’s constancy is inviolable.  Even after she has been obliged to banish her foolish lover, or rather after he has banished himself, she avows herself his only.  She will die, she says, before she takes another lord; and for this reason objects for some time to the proposed tourney for her hand, in which the already proven invincibility of the Count of Blois makes him almost a certain victor, because it involves a conditional consent to admit another mate.  To her scrupulousness, a kind of blunt common-sense, tempering the amiability of Urraca, is a pleasant set-off, and the freshness of Persewis completes the effect.

Moreover, there are little bits of almost Chaucerian vividness and terseness here and there, contrasting oddly with the chevilles ­the stock phrases and epithets ­elsewhere.  When the tourney actually comes off and Partenopeus is supposed to be prisoner of a felon knight afar off, the two sisters and Persewis take their places at the entrance of the tower crossing the bridge at Melior’s capital, “Chef d’Oire." Melior is labelled only “whom all the world loves and prizes,” but Urraca and her damsel “have their faces pale and discoloured ­for they have lost much of their beauty ­so sorely have they wept Partenopeus.”  On the contrary, when, at the close of the first day’s tourney, the usual “unknown knights” (in this case the Count of Blois himself and his friend Gaudins) ride off triumphant, they “go joyfully to their hostel with lifted lances, helmets on head, hauberks on back, and shields held proudly as if to begin jousting.”

    Bel i vinrent et bel s’en vont,

says King Corsols, one of the judges of the tourney, but not in the least aware of their identity.  This may occur elsewhere, but it is by no means one of the commonplaces of Romance, and a well hit-off picture is motived by a sharply cut phrase.

It is this sudden enlivening of the commonplaces of Romance with vivid picture and phrase which puts Partenopeus high among its fellows.  The story is very simple, and the variation and multiplication of episodic adventure unusually scanty; while the too common genealogical preface is rather exceptionally superfluous.  That the Count of Blois is the nephew of Clovis can interest ­outside of a peculiar class of antiquarian commentator ­no mortal; and the identification of “Chef-d’Oire,” Melior’s enchanted capital, with Constantinople, though likely enough, is not much more important.  Clovis and Byzantium (of which the enchantress is Empress) were well-known names and suited the abonne of those times.  The actual “argument” is of the slightest.  One of Spenser’s curious doggerel common measures ­say: 

    A fairy queen grants bliss and troth       On terms, unto the knight:      His mother makes him break his oath,       Her sister puts it right ­

would almost do; the following prose abstract is practically exhaustive.

Partenopeus, Count of Blois, nephew of King Clovis of France, and descendant of famous heroes of antiquity, including Hector, the most beautiful and one of the most valiant of men, after displaying his prowess in a war with the Saracen Sornagur, loses his way while hunting in the Ardennes.  He at last comes to the seashore, and finds a ship which in fifteen days takes him to a strange country, where all is beautiful but entirely solitary.  He finds a magnificent palace, where he is splendidly guested by unseen hands, and at last conducted to a gorgeous bedchamber.  In the dark he, not unnaturally, lies awake speculating on the marvel; and after a time light footsteps approach the bed, and a form, invisible but tangible, lies down beside him.  He touches it, and finds it warm and soft and smooth, and though it protests a little, the natural consequences follow.  Then the lady confesses that she had heard of him, had (incognita) seen him at the Court of France, and had, being a white witch as well as an Empress, brought him to “Chef d’Oire,” her capital, though she denies having intentionally or knowingly arranged the shepherd’s hour itself. She is, however, as frank as Juliet and Miranda combined.  She will be his wife (she makes a most interesting and accurate profession of Christian orthodoxy) if he will marry her; but it is impossible for the remainder of a period of which two and a half years have still to run, and at the end of which, and not till then, she has promised her vassals to choose a husband.  Meanwhile, Partenopeus must submit to an ordeal not quite so painful as hot ploughshares.  He must never see her or attempt to see her, and he must not, during his stay at Chef d’Oire, see or speak to any other human being.  At the same time, hunting, exploring the palace and the city and the country, and all other pastimes independent of visible human companionship, are freely at his disposal by day.

    Et moi aures cascune nuit

says Melior, with the exquisite simplicity which is the charm of the whole piece.

One must be very inquisitive, exceedingly virtuous (the mediaeval value of consummated betrothal being reckoned), superfluously fond of the company of one’s miscellaneous fellow-creatures, and a person of very bad taste to boot, in order to decline the bargain.  Partenopeus does not dream of doing so, and for a whole year thinks of nothing but his fairy love and her bounties to him.  Then he remembers his uncle-king and his country, and asks leave to visit them, but not with the faintest intention of running away.  Melior gives it with the same frankness and kindness with which she has given herself ­informing him, in fact, that he ought to go, for his uncle is dead and his country in danger.  Only, she reminds him of his pledges, and warns him of the misfortunes which await his breach of them.  He is then magically wafted back on ship-board as he came.

He has, once more, no intention of playing the truant or traitor, and does his duty bravely and successfully.  But the new King has a niece and the Count himself has a mother, who, motherlike, is convinced that her son’s mysterious love is a very bad person, if not an actual maufes or devil, and is very anxious that he shall marry the niece.  She has clerical and chemical resources to help her, and Partenopeus has actually consented, in a fit of aberration, when, with one of the odd Wemmick-like flashes of reflection, not uncommon with knights, he remembers Melior, and unceremoniously makes off to her.  He confesses (for he is a good creature though foolish) and is forgiven, Melior being, though not in the least insipid or of a put-up-with-anything disposition, full of “loving mercy” in every sense.  But the situation is bound to recur, and now, though the time of probation (probation very much tempered!) is nearly over, the mother wins her way.  Partenopeus is deluded into accepting an enchanted lantern, which he tries on his unsuspecting mistress at the first possible moment.  What he sees, of course, is only a very lovely woman ­a woman in the condition best fitted to show her loveliness ­whom he has offended irreparably, and lost.

Melior is no scold, but she is also no milksop.  She will have nothing more to do with him, for he has shamed her with her people (who now appear), broken her magic power, and, above all, been false to her wish and his word.  The entreaties of her sister Urraca (whose gracious figure is now elaborately introduced) are for the time useless, and Partenopeus is only saved from the vengeance of the courtiers and the household by Urraca’s protection.

To halt for a moment, the scene of the treason and discovery is another of those singular vividnesses which distinguish this poem and story.  The long darkness suddenly flashing into light, and the startled Melior’s beauty framed in the splendour of the couch and the bedchamber ­the offender at once realising his folly and his crime, and dashing the instrument of his treachery (useless, for all is daylight now, the charm being counter-charmed) against the wall ­the half-frightened, half-curious Court ladies and Court servants thronging in ­the apparition of Urraca, ­all this gives a picture of extraordinarily dramatic power.  It reminds one a little of Spenser’s famous portrayal of Britomart disturbed at night, and the comparison of the two brings out all sorts of “excellent differences.”

But to return to the story itself.  Although the invariable cut-and-driedness of romance incidents has been grossly exaggerated, there is one situation which is almost always treated in the same way.  The knight who has, with or without his own fault, incurred the displeasure of his mistress, “doth [always] to the green wood go,” and there, whether in complete sanity or not, lives for a time a half or wholly savage life, discarding knightly and sometimes any other dress, eating very little, and in considerable danger of being eaten himself.  Everybody, from Lancelot to Amadis, does it; and Partenopeus does it too, but in his own way.  Reaching Blois and utterly rejecting his mother’s attempts to excuse herself and console him, he drags out a miserable time in continual penance and self-neglect, till at last, availing himself of (and rather shabbily if piously tricking) a Saracen page, he succeeds in getting off incognito to the vague “Ardennes,” where his sadly ended adventure had begun.  These particular Ardennes appear to be reachable by sea (on which they have a coast), and to contain not only ordinary beasts of chase, not only wolves and bears, but lions, tigers, wyverns, dragons, etc.  A single unarmed man has practically no chance there, and the Count determines to condemn himself to the fate of the Roman arena.  As a preliminary, he dismounts and turns loose his horse, who is presently attacked by a lion and wounded, but luckily gets a fair blow with his hoof between his enemy’s eyes, and kills him.  Then comes another of the flashes (and something more) of the piece.  Stung by the pain of his wound and dripping with blood, the animal dashes at full speed, and whinnying at the top of his powers, to the seashore and along it.  The passage is worth translating: 

He [the horse after he has killed the lion] lifts his tail, and takes to flight down a valley towards nightfall.  Much he looks about him and much he whinnies.  By night-time he has got out of the wood and has fled to the sea:  but he will not stop there.  He makes the pebbles fly as he gallops and never stops whinnying.  Now the moon has mounted high in the heavens, all clear and bright and shining:  there is not a dark cloud in all the sky, nor any movement on the sea:  sweet and serene is the weather, and fair and clear and lightened up.  And the palfrey whinnies so loudly that he can be heard far off at sea.

He is heard at sea, for a ship is waiting there in the calm, and on board that ship is Urraca, with a wise captain named Maruc and a stout crew.  The singularity of the event induces them to land (Maruc knows the dangers of the region, but Urraca has no fears; the captain also knows how to enchant the beasts), and the horse’s bloodmarks guide them up the valley.  At last they come upon a miserable creature, in rags, dishevelled, half-starved, and altogether unrecognisable.  After a little time, however, Urraca does recognise him, and, despite his forlorn and repulsive condition, takes him in her arms.

    Si lé descouvre un poi lé vis.

Yet another of the uncommon “flashlight” sketches, where in two short lines one sees the damsel as she has been described not so long before, “tall and graceful, her fair hair (which, untressed, reached her feet [now, no doubt, more suitably arranged]), with forehead broad and high, and smooth; grey eyes, large and seignorous” (an admirable word for eyes), “all her face one kiss”; one sees her with one arm round the tottering wretch, and with the “long fingers” of her other white hand clearing the matted hair from his visage till she can recognise him.

They take him on board, of course, though to induce him to go this delightful creature has to give an account of her sister’s feelings (which, to put it mildly, anticipates the truth very considerably), and also to cry over him a little. She takes him to Saleuces, an island principality of her own, and there she and her maid-of-honour, Persewis (see above), proceed to cocker and cosset him up exactly as one imagines two such girls would do to “a dear, silly, nice, handsome thing,” as a favourite modern actress used to bring down the house by saying, with a sort of shake, half of tears and half of laughter, in her voice.  Indeed the phrase fits Partenopeus precisely.  We are told that Urraca would have been formally in love with him if it had not been unsportsgirl-like towards her sister; and as for Persewis, there is once more a windfall in the description of the “butter-cup’s” delight when Urraca, going to see Melior, has to leave her alone with the Count.  The Princess is of course very sorry to go.  “But Persewis would not have minded if she had stayed forty days, or till August,” and she “glories greatly” when her rival departs.  No mischief, however, comes of it; for the child is “too young,” as we are earnestly assured, and Partenopeus, to do him justice, is both too much of a gentleman, and too dolefully in earnest about recovering Melior, to dream of any.

Meanwhile, Urraca is most unselfishly doing her very best to reconcile the lovers, not neglecting the employment of white fibs as before, and occasionally indulging, not merely in satiric observation on poor Melior’s irresolution and conflict of feeling, but in decidedly sisterly plainness of speech, reminding the Empress that after all she had entrapped Partenopeus into loving her, and that he had, for two whole years, devoted himself entirely to her love and its conditions.  At last a rather complicated and not always quite consistently told provisional settlement is arrived at, carrying out, in a manner, the undertakings referred to by Melior in her first interview with her lover.  An immense tourney for the hand of Melior is to be held, with a jury of kings to judge it:  and everybody, Christian or pagan, from emperor to vavasour is invited to compete.  But in case of no single victor, a kind of “election” by what may be called the States of Byzantium ­kings, dukes, counts, and simple fief-holders ­is to decide, and it seems sometimes as if Melior retained something of a personal veto at last.  Of the incidents and episodes before this actually comes off, the most noteworthy are a curious instance of the punctilio of chivalry (the Count having once promised Melior that no one but herself shall gird on his sword, makes a difficulty when Urraca and Persewis arm him), and a misfortune by which he, rowing carelessly by himself, falls into the power of a felon knight, Armans of Thenodon.  This last incident, however, though it alarms his two benefactresses, is not really unlucky.  For, in the first place, Armans is not at home, and his wife, falling a victim, like every woman, to Partenopeus’ extraordinary beauty, allows him his parole; while the accident enables him to appear at the tournament incognito ­a practice always affected, if possible, by the knights of romance, and in this case possessing some obvious and special advantages.

On his way he meets another knight, Gaudin lé Blond, with whom he gladly strikes up brotherhood-in-arms.  The three days of the mellay are not very different from the innumerable similar scenes elsewhere, nor can the author be said to be specially happy at this kind of business.  But any possible tedium is fairly relieved by the shrewd and sometimes jovial remarks made by one of the judging kings, the before-quoted Corsols ­met by grumbles from another, Clarín, and by the fears and interest of the three ladies, of whom the ever-faithful and shrewd Urraca is the first to discover Partenopeus.  He and Gaudin perform the usual exploits and suffer the usual inconveniences, but at the end it is still undecided whether the Count of Blois or the Soldan of Persia ­a good knight, though a pagan, and something of a braggart ­deserves the priceless prize of Melior’s hand with the empire of Byzantium to boot.  The “election” follows, and after some doubt goes right, while Melior now offers no objection.  But the Soldan, in his outrecuidance, demands single combat.  He has, of course, no right to do this, and the Council and the Empress object strongly.  But Partenopeus will have no stain on his honour; consents to the fight; deliberately refuses to take advantage of the Soldan when he is unhorsed and pinned down by the animal; assists him to get free; and only after an outrageous menace from the Persian justifies his own claim to belong to the class of champions

    Who always cleave their foe         To the waist

­indeed excels them, by entirely bisecting the Soldan.

An episodic restoration of parole to the widow of Armans (who has actually taken part in the tourney and been killed) should be noticed, and the piece ends, or rather comes close to an end, with the marriages which appropriately follow these well-deserved murders.  Marriages ­not a marriage only ­for King “Lohier” of France most sensibly insists on espousing the delightful Urraca:  and Persewis is consoled for the loss of Partenopeus by the suit ­refused at first and then granted, with the obviously intense enjoyment of both processes likely in a novice ­of his brother-in-arms, to whom the “Emperor of Byzantium” abandons his own two counties in France, adding a third in his new empire, and winning by this generosity almost more popularity than by his prowess.

But, as was hinted, the story does not actually end.  There is a great deal about the festivities, and though the author says encouragingly that he “will not devise much of breeches,” he does ­and of many other garments.  Indeed the last of his liveliest patches is a mischievous picture of the Court ladies at their toilette:  “Let me see that mirror; make my head-dress higher; let me show my mouth more; drop the pleat over the eyes; alter my eyebrows,” etc. etc.  But beyond the washing of hands before the feast, this French book that Crapelet printed fourscore years ago goeth not.  Perhaps it was a mere accident; perhaps the writer had a shrewd notion that whatever he wrote would seem but stale in its reminder of the night when Partenopeus lay awake, and seemingly alone, in the enchanted palace ­now merely an ordinary place of splendour and festivity ­and when something came to the bed, “step by step, little by little,” and laid itself beside him.

Such are the contents and such some of the special traits and features of one of the most famous of those romances of chivalry, the reading of which with anything like the same interest as that taken in Homer, seemed to the Reverend Professor Hugh Blair to be the most suitable instance he could hit upon of a total lack of taste.  This is a point, of course, on which each age, and each reader in each age, must judge for itself and himself.  I think the author of the Odyssey (the Iliad comes rather in competition with the chansons than with these romances) was a better poet than the author of Partenopeus, and I also think that he was a better story-teller; but I do not think that the latter was a bad story-teller; and I can read him with plenty of interest.  So I can most of his fellows, no one of whom, I think, ever quite approaches the insipidity of their worst English imitators.  The knights do not weary me with their exploits, and I confess that I am hyperbolical enough to like reading and thinking as well as talking of the ladies very much.  They are of various sorts; but they are generally lovable.  There is no better for affection and faithfulness and pluck than the Josiane of Bevis, whose husband and her at one time faithful guardian, but at another would-be ravisher, Ascapart, guard a certain gate not more than a furlong or two from where I am writing.  It is good to think of the (to some extent justified) indignation of l’Orgueilleuse d’Amours when Sir Blancandin rides up and audaciously kisses her in the midst of her train; and the companion picture of the tomb where Idoine apparently sleeps in death (while her true knight Amadas fights with a ghostly foe above) makes a fitting pendant.  If her near namesake with an L prefixed, the Lidoine of Meraugis de Portlesguez, interests me less, it is because its author, Raoul de Houdenc, was one of the first to mix love and moral allegory ­a “wanity” which is not my favourite “wanity.”  To the Alexandrine of Guillaume de Palerne reference has already been made.  Blanchefleur ­known all over Europe with her lover Floire (Floris, etc.) ­the Saracen slave who charms a Christian prince, and is rescued by him from the Emir of Babylon, to whom she has been sold in hopes of weaning Floris from his attachment, more than deserved her vogue.  But, as in the case of the chansons, mere cataloguing would be dull and unprofitable, and analysis on the scale accorded to Partenopeus impossible.  One must only take up once more the note of this whole early part of our history, and impress again on the reader the evident desire for the accomplished novel which these numerous romances show; the inevitable practice, in tale-telling of a kind, which the production of them might have given; and, above all, the openings, germs, suggestions of new devices in fiction which are observable in them, and which remained for others to develop if the first finders left them unimproved.