The introduction of the pastoral romance into Spain in the middle of the sixteenth century, and the extreme favor with which it was received, may, in view of the social condition of the country, seem at first sight paradoxical. At the time of the accession of Philip II, Spain was at the zenith of her military greatness: her possessions were scattered from the North Sea to the islands of the Pacific; and her conquests had been extended over both parts of the western world. The constant wars against the Moors, during a period of over seven hundred years, and the stirring ballads founded upon them, had fostered an adventurous and chivalric spirit,—a distinguishing trait of the Spanish character. Arms and the church were the only careers that offered any opportunity for distinction, and every Spanish gentleman was, first of all, a soldier.

The differences which exist in the spoken language of France in different districts have been caused by two sets of influences, the one arising from a condition already existing before the Latin language was spread over the Gallic territory by the conquering Romans, and the other due to events which occurred after that language had gained a firm footing there. From the variety which exists to-day in the language of any speech district, we are justified in assuming that a like variety existed in the Celtic language of France before the Romans arrived there. The Latin language, coming in contact with a language thus variegated, was necessarily influenced in one part, in a different way from the influence it felt in another part. In this way the Neo-Latin language was broken up into dialects.

Before a society whose members are so largely teachers of language, and conversant with the art of writing, it would be superfluous to insist upon the value of style as an element of power in literature. As the thoughts of the mind involve the highest of human interests, what can be more important than their fit expression ? What are the enduring books, of which the reading world calls for continually new editions ? Invariably they are the books which are the best written. The sense of the world is keen and the survival of the fittest is as certain as that art is long. Considering that most books are written by sciolists or else by ignoramuses, and by authors who have never learned the rudiments of literary art, is it any wonder that they nearly all perish almost as soon as they are born ? Perfection in style, indeed, is rarely or never found. As Alexander Smith sought through all literature—and sought in vain,—for

so the perfect style is far to seek and hard to find. Style is not merely, as some conceive, manner independent of matter; it is not merely the dress of thought, but the living body of thought itself.

The Saga of Walther of Aquitaine, or of Walther and Hildegunde, is preserved in a variety of versions: Anglo-Saxon, Latin, Middle High German, Old Norse, Polish, all but one of which (Waltharius) are brief or fragmentary in their present form. The original texts of these various versons are reproduced in the following pages in chronological order, so as to present the Saga in its transmitted form which may serve as a basis for historical treatment.

‘La Naissance du Chevalier au Cygne,’ published by Henry Alfred Todd in vol. iv, Nos. 3 and 4 of the Publications of The Modern Language Association of America, a publication deservedly valued and supplemented as to the introduction, with many important additions by Gaston Paris in the Romania, vol. xix, pp. 314-335, is the earliest version of the legend of the “Children changed into Swans,” contained in the French Cycle of the Crusade. It is not without any interest that the three French versions of this legend have been published in an inverse order of their origin. The younger version, published by Reiffenberg, was followed by Hippeau's publication of the middle version, both connected with the other branches of the Cycle of the Crusade. That now the earliest French version has been published, is of great importance to the scientific understanding of this interesting legend.

The name ‘Gerund’ was borrowed from Latin grammar, and has for a long time been in use in English, though with varying application according as it covers more or less ground. It is found in grammars of the last century and of this, where it is often confused with the ‘verbal noun.’ This name is employed here because it is the most convenient that has been suggested; ‘infinitive in ing,' used by Whitney and others, while suggestive of its relationship and real function, is too unwieldly for practical grammar. A far more objectionable name, because the objection is based upon a radical difference in functions, is ‘participle,’ which is given to the verb-adjective also, thereby causing confusion. Etymologically, ‘gerund’ is just as misleading as the majority of its fellows. Participles, for instance, would by this test include infinitives, for infinitives partake of two natures; and infinitives would include participles, which are just as unlimited as infinitives. The origin of words, however, does not confine their use with unyielding bonds, and their use defines them.

A Two themes welded in perfect harmony will tell the story of our poet's life, music and love. Music-born with him, descending to him by a long line of inheritance, his life-long passion; love, broad, catholic and unfathomable, the source of his real living and the key note of his character. Love, the core of his inmost being, the very marrow of his daily thought. Music, the flower of his daily life and the fittest utterance of his secret soul. By good right, too, could he lay claim to the gift of music. In the days of good Queen Bess, one Jerome Lanier, a Huguenot refugee had been kindly received in England and he repaid this kindness by giving to England's sovereign his talents and by bequeathing to her successors, James I. and the First Charles, the talents of his gifted son, Nicholas.

William Heyse places as a motto on the title-page of his ‘Mecklenbörger Burhochtid’ the following lines:

Certain languages and dialects all over the world—Catalan, Italian, German, Algonkian—relieve themselves from the charge that each is “a bush where no birds sing”, by presenting a peculiar development of diminutives, which gives the speech a noticeable “Klink un Klank”.

It is with much hesitation that I venture to speak to you on a subject which many of you understand better than I do; the only excuse I offer is, the profound regret with which I notice the indifference concerning French literature.