hink we might learn as much from
the story. An old man he was, or a man who felt old. Do you know whom
he reminds me of? Why, of Mr. Bowes, of the Theatre Royal, Chatteris; of
Mr. Bowes, that battered, old, kindly sentimentalist who told his tale
with Mr. Arthur Pendennis.

It is a love story, a story of love overmastering, without conscience or
care of aught but the beloved. And the _viel caitif_ tells it with
sympathy, and with a smile. "Oh, folly of fondness," he seems to cry;
"oh, pretty fever and foolish; oh, absurd happy days of desolation:

"_When I was young, as you are young_,
_And lutes were touched, and songs were sung_!
_And love-lamps in the windows hung_!"

It is the very tone of Thackeray, when Thackeray is tender; and the world
heard it first from this elderly nameless minstrel, strolling with his
viol and his singing boys, a blameless D'Assoucy, from castle to castle
in the happy poplar land. I think I see him and hear him in the silver
twilight, in the court of some chateau of Picardy, while the ladies
around sit listening on silken cushions, and their lovers, fettered with
silver chains, lie at their feet. They listen, and look, and do not
think of the minstrel with his gray head, and his green heart; but we
think of him. It is an old man's work, and a weary man's work. You can
easily tell the places where he has lingered and been pleased as he
wrote.

The story is simple enough. Aucassin, son of Count Garin, of Beaucaire,
loved so well fair Nicolette, the captive girl from an unknown land, that
he would never be dubbed knight, nor follow tourneys; nor even fight
against his father's mortal foe, Count Bougars de Valence. So Nicolette
was imprisoned high in a painted chamber. But the enemy were storming
the town, and, for the promise of "one word or two with Nicolette, and
one kiss," Aucassin armed himself and led out his men. But he was all
adream about Nicolette, and his horse bore him into the press of foes ere
he knew it. Then he heard them contriving his death, and woke out of his
dream.

"The damoiseau was tall and strong, and the horse whereon he sat fierce
and great, and Aucassin laid hand to sword, and fell a-smiting to right
and left, and smote through helm and headpiece, and arm and shoulder,
making a murder about him, like a wild boar the hounds fall on in the
forest. There slew he ten knights, and smote down seven, and mightily
and knightly he hurled through t