LANGUAGES. 355 



In these vigorous pictures of heroic life the qualities of invention, imagination, 

 and national genius are most conspicuous, and there are signs of brilliant and 

 sparkling style before the regular formation of the language. 



It is in the famous "Chanson de Roland" that is to be found the 

 oldest type of the language, which, as M. Francis Wey has remarked, was 

 still in its infancy. But this beautiful poem, attributed without sufficient 

 proof to a trouvere named Turold, none the less contains many passages 

 worthy to be compared with the Iliad. The following is the description 

 which he gives of the death of Oliver, one of Charlemagne's twelve peers, in 

 the Pass of Roncevaux, where Roland and his companions sustained the attack 

 of the Saracen army : 



" Oliviers sent que la mort mult 1'anguisset : 

 Ambdui li oil en la tcste li turnent, 

 L'oie pert e la veiie tute ; 

 Descent A. pied, a la tere se culchet, 

 Formont en halt si recleimot sa culpe, 

 Cuntre le ciel ambesdous ses mains juintes, 

 Si preiet Dion que pareis li dunget, 

 E beneitt Carlun e France dulce, 

 Sun cumpagnun Reliant desur tuz humes. 

 Fait li le coer, li helmes li embrunchet ; 

 Trestut le core k la tere li justet. 

 Morz est li quens que plus ne se demuret. 

 Rollanz li ber le pluret, si 1'duluset. 

 Jamais en tere n'orrez plus dolent hume." * . . . 



Henceforward the French language is an accomplished fact. It is the 

 Oil language. It still clings close to Latin, from which it borrows some of its 

 most ingenious and narrowly defined rules ; amongst others, the declension of 

 words and adjectives, represented in French by the adjunction or suppression 

 of the final s. This rule was not, however, generally adopted by French 

 writers, but it is easy to see that it was pointed out and followed by some of 



The literal translation of these lines is, " Oliver feels the agony of death creep over him. His 

 eyes turn in his head. He loses hearing and sight. Dismounts and throws himself upon the 

 ground. Recites his mea culpa aloud. Joins his two hands and raises them heavenward. Prays 

 God to let him enter Paradise. Blesses Charlemagne and gentle France, and, above all, his 

 companion Roland. His heart fails him, his head droops. He falls at full length upon the ground. 

 'Tis done, the Count is dead; and Baron Roland bewails him and weeps for him. Never on 

 earth will you see a man more afflicted." 



