Those who love the “Golden Legend” of Longfellow will remember how effectively he has there used the Latin songs and hymns. Friar Paul is so very like the famous Friar John of Rabelais, that he is probably copied from that worthy. Indeed his _Epistolae Obscurorum Virorum_, with its dog-Latin and its broad satire on the habits of the monks, was a most effective weapon in the hands of the reformers. There were a great many learned men who were by no means equally as pious, and who found their bodily contentment in the cloister. Against these and all like them came the constant shafts of ridicule or reproach. But now, when this same Friar Paul “tunes his mellow pipe” to a bacchanalian solo in the refectory, we can almost forgive him, forasmuch as he sings in such capital measure. There is a _Gaudiolum_—a regular merry-making of monks—down in the cellar; in which, by the way, Lucifer, disguised in the gray habit, takes his appropriate place. And when Friar Paul begins on the praise of good liquor, he parodies the metre and rhyme of the current religious sequences. Listen to him: “Felix venter quem intrabis, Felix guttur quod rigabis, Felix os quod tu lavabis, Et beata labia!” Or, as we may express it in our own language: “Blessed stomach which thou warmest, Blessed throat which thou reformest, Blessed mouth whose thirst thou stormest, Blessed lips to taste of thee!” Here and there Professor Longfellow introduces also into this “Golden Legend” his own renderings from the Latin, in little transcriptions which are exquisitely felicitous. But presently, in sharp contrast to the ribald Paul and the dissolute Cuthbert and the rest of the noisy crew in the refectory, he allows us to hear the song of the pilgrims. They are chanting the Hymn of Hildebert of Lavardin, Archbishop of Tours: Me receptet Sion illa, Sion David, urbs tranquilla, Cujus faber auctor lucis, Cujus portae lignum crucis, Cujus claves lingua Petri, Cujus cives semper laeti, Cujus muri lapis vivus, Cujus custos Rex festivus.” It is the hope of the Holy City of which they are telling: “Me, that Sion soon shall pity— David’s Sion, peaceful city! Whose designer made the morning; Whose are gates, the cross adorning; Whose keys are to Peter given; Whose glad throng are saints in heaven; Whose are walls of living splendor; Whose a royal, true Defender!” These pilgrims, every now and then, break in with some snatch of melody from this fine old anthem. And yet there are doubtless those who never have gone back to see for themselves whence all this beauty has been taken. But the Hymn of Hildebert would well repay them if they did.