be torn down, and beautiful dwellings erected." "Yes, and if this were the United States," replied my incorrigible. friend, "every tree would be cut down. Those cottages, which, when seen from a distance, are so romantic, would give place to unsightly two-story houses, and cotton factories would line the banks of this lovely river."

On the following day my friend told me that there was one place to which I must go, for in his opinion it was the gem of Acadia. We rode toward the village of Lower Horton, which was about four miles away. The scenery along the road was very fine, and the country was in a good state of cultivation. We ascended a hill which lay in the way. On arriving at the summit, I gazed around, and the scene which met my view was such as baffles all description. Beneath us lay a broad expanse of dike land, waving with luxuriant vegetation, intersected by roads, and winding streams, whose banks were adorned in many places by groves and long rows of trees. On one side the plain was protected from the water by a long island which arose, a natural dike, through the green groves of which peeped forth white cottages and barns. In the distance the blue Basin of Minas appeared, encircled with its lofty rugged cliffs, among which the ever-present Blomidon towered highest. I turned away, unable to express my admiration. But this was not all. Glancing down the hill there appeared another scene, which I had not before noticed. In the valley lay the village of Lower Horton; the small and comfortable houses, so old-fashioned, and yet so attractive in their appearance, were built along the road, the neat gardens

which lay before them being shaded by spreading elms and tall poplars. The sun shone brightly down upon this lovely valley. A rustic picture was there. Some old men sat smoking their pipes before an ale-house; a blacksmith was shoeing a horse in front of his shop, and while I looked, a group of laughing merry children burst from a little thatched school-house, and the whole village at once resounded with their shouts

"Sweet Auburn-loveliest village of the plain! I muttered half unconsciously.

"Sweet Auburn! Yes, you may well call it so," replied my friend, "and whenever I ride down this hill that line occurs to me.

"This village was the principal home of the Acadians, though none of their houses remain. That wide plain yonder

is Grand Pré. Look ahead a few milesthere is the Gaspereaux's mouth. That is the spot where the vessels anchored. Down this road came the long train of weeping exiles, as they went to those ships which were to carry them for ever from their homes." There was a short pause, and my friend continued, "You will find scattered through Nova Scotia many such places as this, and if you extend your journey to the other province, you will meet with villages, where to the beauty of landscape, and romantic situation, are united the simple manners and primitive hospitality of the Acadians."

"No, my friend," replied I, warmly, "this province has no place equal in interest to Horton, for our Longfellow has rendered it immortal; and around Horton the remembrance of the tender love and constancy of Evangeline will throw an unfading lustre."

ALL the readers of Putnam's Monthly

doubtless know something by hearsay of romances of chivalry, and the more bookish, antiquity-loving part of them must have smiled with mingled pleasure and surprise, over some of the most noted of the more modern among those charmingly preposterous, and yet truthful productions of antiquity. We will not apologize to either of these classes for presenting them with a translation of one of the most ancient stories of romance and chivalry known to us. It was written in the eleventh century by Paysans de Maisieres, a French fablier of that period. It is in verse, and in the langue d'oil,-that dialect which drove out the langue d'oc, or provençale, in which the troubadours wrote, and became the language of all France. It is worthy of remark, in passing, that many words of this old langue d'oil, which faded from the memory of Frenchmen hundreds of years ago, exist in our language, and are used at this day with little variation from their old forms. This tale has been paraphrased in English verse in Mr. Way's metrical translation of tales from the collection of Fabliaux ou Contes, made by M. Le Grand d'Aussy; but it is only by a translation at once faithful and idiomatic, such as we have attempted to give, that the spirit and graphic power of the old fablier can be preserved.

Some readers may regard the tale as puerile, fit only for the entertainment of very young children, and may wonder how a man could write such trivial extravagance, and yet more, how men could listen to it and preserve it; and, last and most, how a man who has travelled on a railway, read news sent by magnetic telegraph, and seen a Bloomer, could spend his time in translating it for the August number of Putnam's Monthly, in the year 1853. Courteous reader, if such be your thoughts on your first perusal of our story, we must beg you to read it once again, and look a little beneath its surface of extravagant and fantastic incident; and if you cannot find a mor

al-and one not crammed down your throat with hæc fabula docet-teaching firmness, perseverance, courage, temperance and prudence, and this moral conveyed in a story, which, in spite of the essential incredibility of its every incident --and no one expects you to believe it— is a model of simple, direct and vivid narration. If you cannot find all this in the work of our story-teller, we are sorry for you, and can only hope for the sharpening of your wits, and the improvement of your taste, from the faithful perusal of the pages of Putnam's Monthly, of the ministrations of which you are plainly in need.

At the Feast of Pentecost, King Arthur* held open court at the royal city of Carduel; † and all the noble ladies, the great barons and knights in his kingdom, were there. On the second day, as they rose from table, they saw far off upon the plain a woman, who appeared to be coming toward the castle, and who was mounted upon a mule without bit or bridle. This awakened their curiosity. The king, the queen, every body, ran to the windows; and each one, in the endeavor to solve the mystery, ventured a conjecture. When the maiden had arrived at the gate, they saw that she was young and very beautiful. The knights all flew to meet her; they assisted her to dismount, and noticed that her cheeks were wet with tears, and that her countenance was full of sorrow.

Having been brought before the king, she saluted him respectfully, and, drying her eyes, prayed him to pardon her for coming to trouble him with her griefs; but the bridle of her mule had been stolen from her; and from that day she had wept, and found herself condemned to tears until it was recovered. Only the bravest of knights could retake and restore it to her; and where should she seek such a hero but at the court of so great a king? She then begged King Arthur to allow some of the brave gentlemen who heard her to interest themselves in her sorrow. She assured the knight who consented to

become her champion, that he would be conducted to the place of combat by her mule; and for the reward of his bravery, she promised publicly to become his mistress.

All offered themselves, and contended for the honor of the adventure; but the seneschal Queux* spoke first, and it was but right to accept his services. He swore to bring back the bridle, if it were at the end of the world. But before he started, he demanded a kiss from the maiden, as an earnest of his recompense― 6 on account," as the merchants say-and stepped forward to take it. She utterly refused any reward until he returned with the bridle; and promised him then not only what he asked, but greater guerdon beside. Queux was obliged to be contented with her word; and arming himself, he departed, letting the mule choose its way, as she had advised him.

Queux, although the foster brother of King Arthur, and his standard-bearer and seneschal, was a great braggart, a slanderous-tongued fellow, and though always quarrelling, was always heaten. He was ever ready to undertake that which, as it proved, he had not the ability to perform; and was more than suspected of being something of a coward. He had hardly entered the forest when troops of halfstarved lions, tigers, and leopards rushed, roaring terribly, to devour him. Then poor Queux repented sorely of his indiscreet boasting; and would, with all the heart he had left, have renounced all the kisses in the world to be well out of his danger. But when the ferocious animals recognised the mule, they fell down before it to lick its feet, and then turned back into the wood.

At the end of the forest was a valley so dark, so deep, so black, that the bravest man could not venture into it without a shudder. And it was yet far more hor

rible when the poor seneschal had passed into it, and when surrounded by serpents, scorpions, and dragons belching flames, he went on only by the lurid light of these infernal fires. Around him tempests howled, torrents roared with the voice of thunder, and mountains heaved up and down in horrible confusion; and though the air was colder, icier than that of a thousand winters together, the sweat rolled in streams from his body. He passed safely through the dreadful place, in spite of all its perils, the mule being his all-sufficient protector; and having gone forward for some distance, he reached at last a river, wide and deep, over which there was no bridge, and on whose dark waters he saw no boat; only from side to side stretched a single bar of iron. Queux, faint-hearted, and forgetful of the safety secured to him in former danger by the animal on which he rode, seeing, as he thought, no means of crossing the river, gave up the adventure and turned back. But, unfortunately, he had to repass the valley and the forest. The serpents, lions, and monsters rushed again upon him with a seeming frenzy of delight, and would have devoured him a thousand times, could they have done it without touching the mule.

When the knights and ladies saw him afar off from the castle, they began to laugh. The knights assembled in the court-yard, as if to receive him with great honor: King Arthur came himself, and proposed to conduct him to receive the promised kiss: all, in a word, ladies and gentlemen, ridiculed him without mercy; and the unhappy seneschal, not knowing how to answer them, and not daring to raise his eyes, disappeared and hid himself.

The maiden was yet more troubled than he. Abandoning herself to despair, she wept bitterly and tore her hair. The

"Kay called forth his ladye,

And bade her come neere;

Saies, Madam, and thou be guiltye

I pray thee hold the there

Forth came his ladye shortlye and anon; Boldlye to the mantle then is shee gone.

When she had tane the mantlo

and cast it her about;

Then was shee bare

Before all the rout.

Then ever knight

that was in the kinges court, Talked, laughed and showted full oft at that sport."

brave knight, Gauvain, was touched with her grief. He approached, and with modest confidence offered her the service of his sword, and promised to dry her tears; but, like poor Queux, he would have a kiss in advance. The dangers of the adventure were now known, and the grief of the lovely lady increased tenfold, and beside, how could she refuse so gallant a knight, whose oft-tried bravery inspired such confidence. The kiss was granted, and Gauvain mounted the mule and left the castle.

The same dangers through which poor Queux passed, again presented themselves; Gauvain only laughed at them. The serpents and the lions came out to fall upon him; he drew his sword and gave them battle. But there was no need; the monsters, kneeling again before the mule, went quietly away. At last he arrived at the river, saw the bar of iron stretching from side to side, and knowing that there was no other means of passing the dreadful waters, and that his way lay across them, he commended himself to God, and tried the perilous bridge. It was so narrow that the mule could hardly set half its foot upon it. The moment that Gauvain began the passage, the black waters broke into foaming waves, which heaved and roared all around him, as if to sweep him away, and swallow him up; but he was immovable, and arrived safely upon the opposite bank.

There he found a strong castle, before which stood a row of four hundred iron stakes, each of which, with one exception, bore upon its point a bloody head; this one, yet bare, seemed to be waiting for its horrible decoration. The fortress, surrounded by deep moats, which were filled by a foaming torrent, turned round as if upon a pivot, like a gigantic millstone. It had, besides, no drawbridge, and seemed to deny to Gauvain any opportunity to display his valor. He, nevertheless, determined to wait, hoping that the castle, in one of its revolutions, would offer him some sort of entrance; and determined, at all events, to perish on the spot, if it did not; rather than to return with disgrace. And finally, a door did open; he spurred his mule, which at one bound cleared the enormous moat, and he found himself within the walls of the castle.

Here every thing seemed to indicate a recent desolation. The courts and passages were empty, no one looked from the gaping windows, and on all sides was solitude and a deathlike silence. A dwarf finally came out and looked closely at the knight. Gauvain asked him who was his lord or lady; where they might be found, and what they expected him to do. The

dwarf disappeared without an answer. The knight went on his way through the vast and fearful solitude of the castle, and soon saw a giant, hideous to look upon, come from a cavern; his hair bristling as if with rage, and armed with a huge battle-axe. Gauvain waited quietly to discover the giant's intention, when the latter, instead of attacking, or even berating him, applauded his courage, but pitied him for undertaking an adventure, the issue of which could not but be fatal, and from which the terrible iron palisade outside the castle should have deterred him. Nevertheless, he offered the knight his services, gave him food, treated him well,. and showed him the chamber where he was to sleep. But before going out, he ordered the hero to strike off his head, saying that he should come in the morning to do the same thing for his guest in turn. Gauvain immediately drew his sword, struck, and the giant's head rolled at his feet. What was his surprise at seeing the monster pick it up, put it upon his shoulders, and stalk off! Nevertheless, as he knew that he should need all his wits and all his strength on the morrow, he went to bed and slept tranquilly, undisturbed by fear of coming danger. At break of day the giant came with his axe to fulfil his promise. He woke the knight, and according to the conditions stated to him on the day before, ordered him to present his head. Gauvain, sure that nothing could be gained by refusal or hesitation, instantly bent his neck. It was but a trial of his courage. The giant, instead of striking off Gauvain's head, praised and embraced him. The knight then asked whither he should go to find the bridle, and what he must do to obtain it.

You will know before the day is over," was the answer, "but summon all your courage; you never needed it more.

At mid-day, Gauvain presented himself at the place of combat, and found there an enormous lion, foaming, gnawing his chain, and tearing up the earth with his claws. At the sight of his adversary, the savage beast broke into a fearful roar, bristling his enormous mane; his chain fell from him and he threw himself upon Gauvain, whose coat of mail he tore open at the first bound. They fought long and furiously, but the lion was killed. Another, yet larger and more savage, was let loose; but he perished like the first. Gauvain, seeing no other enemy appear. demanded the bridle; but the giant, without answering, led him to his chamber. There he made him eat to recover his strength, and soon afterward led him before another opponent.

This was a formidable knight; the