s an engaging picture, this, of a genial, sharp-eyed, somewhat
worldly churchman, riding his gray horse over hill and dale in quest
of knowledge. We can fancy him arriving at his inn of an evening, and
at once asking the obsequious host what knight or other great person
dwells in the neighborhood. He loses no time before calling at the
castle, and is gladly admitted when he tells his well-known name. He
is ready to pay for any historical information with a story from his
own collection. He is welcome everywhere, and for his part does not
regret the time thus spent, nor the money,--several fortunes, by his
own count,--for he has the light heart of the true traveler. It is
always sunshine where he goes. The clangor of arms and the blare of
trumpets hover ever above the horizon. Around the corner of every hill
sits a fair castle by a shining river. From town to town, from
province to province, his love of listening draws him on. To realize
the charm of journeying in those days, we must remember that the local
customs and qualities were almost undisturbed by communication; two
French cities only a score of miles apart would often differ from each
other as much as Nuremberg does from Venice.

"And I tell you for a truth," we read, "that to make these
chronicles I have gone in my time much through the world,
both to fulfill my pleasure by seeing the wonders of the
earth, and to inquire about the arms and adventures that are
written in this book."

So to horse, good Canon of Chimay! Throw aside books; there is news of
fighting in the South; after the battle, soldiers will talk. There
have been deeds of courage and romance. Hasten thither, while the tale
of them is new!

If he were not so celebrated as a chronicler, Froissart would be known
as one of the last of the wandering minstrels. He had the roving foot;
he lived by charming the rich into generosity with his recitals. And
he wrote much poetry, which is little read, except where it has some
autobiographical interest. We possess the long poems, 'L'Espinette
Amoureuse,' 'Le Buisson de Jeunesse,' 'Le Dit du Florin,' and several
shorter pieces, with fragments of his once famous versified romance
'Meliador.'

His great prose work, while professing to be a history, in distinction
from the chronicles of previous writers, is however not an orderly
narration, nor is it a philosophical treatment of political causes and
effects. It is a collection of pictures