ain subjects of literary study. _The Song of Roland_ alone is an
admirable sample of epic poesy in France, and the only monument of
poetical genius in the middle ages which can have a claim to national
appreciation in the nineteenth century. It is almost a pity not to
reproduce here the whole of that glorious epopee, as impressive from the
forcible and pathetic simplicity of its sentiments and language as from
the grandeur of the scene and the pious heroism of the actors in it. It
is impossible, however, to resist the pleasure of quoting some fragments
of it. The best version to refer to is that which has been given almost
word for word, from the original text, by M. Leon Gaultier, in his
beautiful work, so justly crowned by the _Academie des Inscriptions et
Belles-lettres, on Lee Epopees Francaises_.

In 778 Charlemagne was returning from a great expedition in Spain, during
which, after having taken Pampeluna, he had failed before Saragossa, and
had not considered himself called upon to prolong his struggle with the
Arab Mussulmans. He with the main body of his army had crossed the
Pyrenees, leaving as rearguard a small division under his nephew Roland,
prefect of the Marches of Brittany, Anselm, count of the palace, Oliver,
Roland's comrade, Archbishop Turpin, and several other warriors of
renown. When they arrived at the little valley of Roncesvalles, between
the defiles of Sizer and Val Carlos, this rearguard was unexpectedly
attacked by thousands of Basque mountaineers, who were joined by
thousands of Arabs eager to massacre and plunder the Christians and
Franks, who, indeed, perished to a man in this ambuscade. "The news of
this disaster," says Eginhard, in his Annales, "obscured the glory of the
successes the king had but lately obtained in Spain." This fact, with
large amplifications, became the source of popular legends and songs,
which, probably towards the end of the eleventh century, became embodied
in the _Song of Roland,_ attributed, in two manuscripts, but without any
certainty, to a certain Thuroulde (Turold), Abbot of Malmesbury and
Peterborough under William the Conqueror. It must suffice to reproduce
here only the most beautiful and most characteristic passages of this
little national epopee, a truly Homeric picture of the quasi-barbarous
times and manners of knightly Christendom.

The eighty-second strophe of the poem commences thus:

"'Of Paynim yonder, saw I more,'
Quoth Oliver, 'than e'