CHAPTER XVII

THE REVELS OF TRINQUETAILLE

(A REMINISCENCE OF ALPHONSE DAUDET)

Alphonse Daudet, writing of his youth in the “Lettres de mon Moulin” and “Trente Ans de Paris,” has told with the finest bloom of his pen some of the pranks he played with the early Félibres at Maillane, Barthelasse, Baux, and Châteauneuf--that first crop of Félibres who in those days ran about the country of Provence for the fun of running, to keep themselves going, and above all to stir up again in the hearts of the people the Gai-Savoir of the Troubadours. There is, however, one joyous day of adventure we spent together some forty years ago, of which Daudet has not told.

Alphonse Daudet was at that time secretary to the Duc de Morny, honorary secretary be it understood, for the utmost that the young man ever did was to go once a month to see if his patron, the President of the Senate, was flourishing and in a good temper. Amongst other exquisite things from his pen, Daudet had written a love-poem called “Les Prunes.” All Paris knew it by heart, and Monsieur de Morny, hearing it recited one evening in a drawing-room, requested the author might be presented to him, with the result that he took the young man under his patronage. To say nothing of his wit, which flashed like a diamond, Daudet was a handsome fellow, brown, with a clear skin and black eyes with long lashes, a budding beard and thick crop of hair which he allowed to grow so long that the Duke, every time the author of “Les Prunes” called on him at the Senate, would repeat, with disapproving finger pointing at the offending locks:

“Well poet--and when are we going to cut off this wig?”

“Next week, Monseigneur,” the poet invariably replied.

About once a month the great Duc de Morny made the same observation to the little Daudet, and every time the poet made the same answer. But the Duke himself was more likely to fall than Daudet’s mane.

At that age the future chronicler of the prodigious adventures of Tartarin of Tarascon was a merry youth, who kept pace with the wind, impatient to know everything, an audacious Bohemian, frank and free with his tongue, throwing himself headlong in the swim of life with laughter and noise, always on the look-out for adventures. He had quicksilver in his veins.

I remember one evening, when we were supping at the Chêne-Vert, a pleasant inn in the neighbourhood of Avignon, hearing music for a dance that was going on just below the terrace where we were dining. Daudet suddenly jumped down, a flying leap of some nine or ten feet, crashing through the branches of a vine trellis and landing in the midst of the dancers, who took him for a devil.

Another time, from the height of the road which passes at the foot of the Pont du Gard, he threw himself, without knowing how to swim, into the River Gardon, to see, so he said, if the water was deep. Had not a fisherman caught hold of him with his boathook, my poor Alphonse would most certainly have drunk what we call “the soup of eleven o’clock!”

Another time, on the bridge that leads from Avignon to the island of Barthelasse, he madly climbed on the narrow parapet, and racing along at the risk of tumbling over into the Rhône, he cried out, for the edification of some country people who heard him: “It is from here, by thunder! that we threw the corpse of Brune into the Rhône, yes, the Maréchal Brune! And may it serve as an example to those northerners and barbarians if ever they return to annoy us!”

One day in September, at Maillane, I received a little note from friend Daudet, one of those notes minute as a parsley leaf, well known to all his friends, in which he said to me:

“MY FRÉDÉRIC,--To-morrow, Wednesday, I leave Fontvieille to come and meet thee at Saint-Gabriel. Mathieu and Grivolas will join us by the road from Tarascon. The place of meeting is the ale-house, where we shall await thee about nine o’clock or half-past. And there, at Sarrasine’s, the lovely landlady of the place, having drunk a glass, we will set out on foot for Arles. Do not fail.

“Thy RED HOOD.”

On the day mentioned, between eight and nine o’clock, we all found ourselves at Saint-Gabriel, at the foot of the chapel which guards the mountain. At Sarrasine’s, we drank a cherry brandy, and then--forward on the white road.

We inquired of a roadmender how far it was to Arles.

“When you get to the tomb of Roland,” he answered, “you will still have two hours’ walk.”

We inquired where was the tomb of Roland.

“Down there where you see a group of cypresses on the banks of the Viqueirat.”

“And this Roland, who was he?”

“He was, so they say, a famous captain of the time of the Saracens.... His teeth, I will wager, no longer hurt him.”

Greetings to thee, Roland! We never expected, when we set out, to find still living, in the fields and meadows of Trebon, the legendary glory of the Companion of Charlemagne. But to continue. Just as the Man of Bronze struck twelve, gaily we descended upon Arles, entering by the Porte de la Cavalerie, all of us white with dust. As we had the appetite of Spaniards we went at once to breakfast at the Hôtel Pinus.

We were not badly served; and when one is young, making merry with friends and rejoicing to be alive, there is nothing like dining together for engendering high spirits.

There was one thing, however, which disturbed our equanimity. A waiter in a black coat, with pomaded head, and whiskers standing out like birch brooms, hovered perpetually around us, a napkin under his arm, never taking his eyes off us, and under pretext of changing our plates, listening eagerly to all our foolish talk.

“We must get rid of him. Here, waiter!” said Daudet.

The limpet approached. “Yes, sir?”

“Quick, fetch me a dish--a large silver dish.”

“To place upon it?” inquired the waiter, puzzled.

“A jackanapes,” replied Daudet in a voice of thunder.

The changer of plates did not wait for any more, and from that moment left us in peace.

“What I dislike about these hotels,” said Mathieu, “is that since the commercial traveller introduced the northern fashions, whether at Avignon, Augoulême, Draguignan, or even at Brier-la-Gaillarde, they now all give you the same insipid dishes--carrot broth, veal and sorrel, roast beef half cooked, cauliflower with butter, and a variety of eatables with neither taste nor savour. In Provence, if you want to find the old-fashioned cooking of the country which was appetising and savoury, you must go to the little inn frequented by the country people.”

“What if we go this evening,” cried Grivolas the painter.

“Let us go,” we all agreed.

We paid without further delay, lighted our cigars and sallied forth to take our cup of coffee in a popular _café_, and then in the narrow streets, cool, and white with limestone, flanked by stately old houses on either side, we strolled about till the twilight fell, looking at the queenly Arlesienne beauties on their doorsteps or behind the transparent window curtains, for I must own they had counted considerably as a latent motive in our descent upon Arles.

We passed the Arena, its great gates wide open, and the Roman theatre with its two majestic columns. We visited Saint-Trophime and the cloisters, the famous Head without a Nose, the Palaces of the Lion, of the Porcelets, of Constantine, and of the Grand Prior.

Sometimes on the narrow pavement we ran up against a donkey belonging to some water-carrier selling water from the Rhône in barrels. We also encountered troops of sunburnt gleaners, newly returned from the country, carrying on their heads the heavy load of gleanings, and beside these the vendors of snails, shouting at the pitch of their voices:

“Who will buy fresh snails from the fields!”

About sunset we inquired of a woman, who stood just outside the fish-market knitting a stocking, if she could direct us to some little inn or tavern, unpretentious, but clean, where we could dine in simple apostolic fashion.

The woman, thinking we were joking, cried out to her neighbours, who, at her shout of laughter, came to their doors coifed with the coquettish headgear of Arles.

“See, here are some gentlemen looking for a tavern at which to sup--do you know of one?”

“Send them,” cried one, “to the Rue Pique-Monte.”

“Or to the ‘Little Cat,’” said another.

“Or to the ‘Widow Come Here.’”

“Or to the Gate of the Chestnuts.”

“Don’t mock us, my dears,” said I. “We want some quiet little place within the reach of anybody, where honest people go.”

“Very well,” said a fat man seated on a post, smoking his pipe, with a face coloured like a beggar’s gourd, “why not go to Counënc’s? See here, gentlemen, I will conduct you,” he continued, rising and shaking out his pipe; “I have to go by that way. It is on the other side of the Rhône, in the suburb of Trinquetaille. It is not an hotel of the first order, my faith, but the watermen, the bargees and the boatmen who come from Condrieu, feed there and are not discontented. The owner is from Combs, a village near Beaucaire, which supplies some bargemen. I myself, who have the honour of addressing you, am master of a boat, and I have done my share of sailing.”

We inquired if he had been far afield.

“Oh no,” he replied, “I have only sailed in the small coasting trade as far as Havre-de-Grace, but it is a true saying that there is never a boatman who does not face danger--and for sure, had it not been for the Great Saintes-Maries, who have always protected me, there are many times, my friends, when we should have gone under.”

“And they call you?”

“Master Gafet! Always at your service should you at any time run down to Sambuc or to Graz to see the vessels embedded in the sand at the river’s mouth.”

So, chatting pleasantly, we arrived at the bridge of Trinquetaille, at that time still a bridge of boats. As we passed over the moving planks which connected the chain of boats one felt beneath the heaving river, powerful and living, on whose mighty bosom one rose and sank as it drew breath. Having crossed the Rhône, we turned to the left on the quay, and there, beneath an old trellis, bending over the trough of the well, we saw--how shall I describe her?--a kind of witch, and one-eyed to boot, scraping and opening some lively eels. At her feet some cats were gnawing and fighting as she threw the heads down to them.

“That is ‘La Counënque,’” announced Master Gafet.

It was somewhat of a shock to poets who, since early morn, had dreamed but of beautiful and noble Arlesiennes. But--here we were!

“Counënque, these gentlemen wish to sup here,” said our guide.

“Are you daft then, Master Gafet? What the devil are you trying to saddle us with! You know I have nothing to set before that sort.”

“See here, old idiot, hast not there a fine dish of eels?”

“Oh, if a hash of eels will make them happy! But mind you, we have nothing else.”

“Ho!” cried Daudet, “nothing we like better than a hash. Come in--come in, and you, Master Gafet, please sit down with us.”

Our friend Gafet willingly allowed himself to be persuaded, and we all five entered the tavern of Trinquetaille.

* * * * *

In a low room, the floor of which was covered with beaten clay, but the walls were very white, stood a long table whereat were seated from fifteen to twenty bargemen in the act of cutting a kid, the landlord Counënc supping with them.

From the beams of the ceiling, blackened by smoke, hung flycatchers in the shape of tamarinds, where the flies settled and were afterwards caught in a bag. We sat down on benches at another table, opposite the bargemen, who, on seeing us, became silent.

While the hash was preparing on the stove, “La Counënque,” to give us an appetite, brought some enormous onions, those grown at Bellegarde, a dish of Jamaica pepper in vinegar, some fermented cheese, preserved olives, botargo of Martinique, and slices of braised haddock.

“And thou who saidst there was nothing to eat!” cried Master Gafet, cutting the bread with his big hooked knife; “but it is a wedding feast!”

“By our Lady,” answered the one-eyed, “if you had let us know beforehand, we might have prepared you a _blanquette à la mode_--or an omelette--but when people drop down on you in the twilight like a hair in the soup, you understand, gentlemen, one has to give them what one can.”

Daudet, who in his whole life had never before seen such specimens of the Camargue, seized one of the onions--fine flat onions, golden as a Christmas loaf--and boldly crunched and swallowed it, leaf by leaf, with his fine strong teeth, to the accompaniment of some fermented cheese and haddock. It is only fair to mention we also did our best to help him, while Master Gafet, raising every now and again the brimming jug of Crau wine, his face ablaze as I never saw the like.

“Oh these young bloods!” said he, “the onion makes one drink and keeps up the thirst.”

In less than half an hour one could have lighted a match on any one of our cheeks. Then the hash (catigot) arrived, a dish in which a shepherd’s crook could have stood upright, salted like the sea, and peppered like the devil.

“Salting and peppering make one find the wine very good,” said the fat Gafet; “let us clink glasses, my boys.”

The bargemen meantime, having finished their kid, ended their repast, as is the custom of the watermen of Condrieu, with a plate of fat soup. Each one poured a big glass of wine into his plate, then, lifting it with both hands, all together they drank off the mixture at one gulp, smacking their lips with pleasure. The master of a raft, who wore his beard like a collar, then sang a song which, if I remember, finished like this:

When our fleet arrives On the way to Toulon, We salute the town With a roll of cannon.

“Thunder! but we must give them one back,” cried Daudet. And he burst out with a chorus which referred to the time of the Civil War with the Vaulois:

To Lourmarin--Light-horseman There they die! To Lourmarin--Light-horseman Quickly fly! &c.

Then the men of the river, not to be outdone, responded with a chorus:

The maidens of Valence Know naught of love’s sweet way, But those of fair Provence Enjoy it night and day.

“Together now, boys,” we cried to the singers. And in unison, making castanets of our fingers, we shouted with such full lungs that the one-eyed interrupted us:

“Shut up,” said she, “if the police pass by they will have you up for brawling at nights.”

“The police,” we cried; “we snap our fingers at them. “Here,” added Daudet, “go and fetch the visitors’ book.”

The “Counënque” brought the book in which all who passed the night at the inn inscribed their names, and the polite secretary of Monsieur de Morny wrote in his best hand:

A. Daudet, Secretary of the President of the Senate. F. Mistral, Chevalier of the Legion of Honour. A. Mathieu, Félibre of Châteauneuf-du-Pape. P. Grivolas, Master painter of the School of Avignon.

“And if any one,” he continued, “if any one, O Counënque, should ever dare make trouble, be he commissioner, policeman or sub-prefect, thou hast only to place these inky spider’s legs under his moustache. If after that he is not quieted, write to me in Paris and I wager I will make him dance.”

We settled our bill, and accompanied by the admiring glances of all, we left with the air of princes who had just revealed their identity. Arrived at the footpath of the bridge of Trinquetaille:

“What if we danced a bit of a _farandole_?” proposed the indefatigable and charming novelist of the “Mule du Pape.” “The bridges of Provence are only made for that.”

So forward. In the clear, limpid light of the September moon, which was reflected in the water, behold us stepping gaily and singing on the bridge.

About midway across we saw advancing a procession of Arlesiennes, of delicious Arlesiennes, each one with her cavalier, walking and bowing, laughing and talking. The rustling of petticoats, the _frou-frou_ of silk, the soft murmurs of the happy couples as they spoke together in the peaceful night with the thrill of the Rhône that glided between the boats, was an emotional experience never to be forgotten.

“A wedding!” cried the fat Gafet, who had not yet left us.

“A wedding,” echoed Daudet, who, with his short sight, only just perceived the advancing party. “An Arlesienne wedding! A moonlight wedding! A wedding in the middle of the Rhône!”

And taken with a sudden mad impulse, our buck sprang forward, threw himself on the neck of the bride, and kissed her with a will.

Then followed a pretty row! We were all in for it, and if ever we were hard put to it in our lives, it was certainly on that occasion. Twenty fellows with raised sticks surrounded us:

“To the Rhône with the rascals!”

“What is it all about?” cried Master Gafet, pushing back the crowd. “Can’t you see we have been drinking? Drinking to the health of the bride in the Trinquetaille, and that to commence drinking again would do us harm?”

“Long live the bridal couple!” we all exclaimed. And thanks to the valiant Gafet, whom every one knew, and to his presence of mind, the thing ended there.

* * * * *

The next question was where to go next? The Man of Bronze had just struck eleven o’clock. We decided to make the tour of the Aliscamps.[19]

Passing down the Lice d’Arles we went the round of the ramparts, and by the light of the moon descended the avenue of poplars leading to the cemetery of the old Arles of the Romans. And while wandering amongst the tombs and sarcophagi, showing white on either side in long rows, we solemnly chaunted the fine ballad by Camille Reybaud:

The poplars growing in the churchyard here Salute the dead that in these graves abide-- If thou the sacred mysteries dost fear Oh never pass the churchyard by so near!

The long, white grave-stones in the churchyard here Have flung their heavy covers open wide. If thou the sacred mysteries, &c. &c.

Upon the greensward in the churchyard here The dead men all stand upright side by side. If thou the sacred mysteries, &c. &c.

They all embrace within the churchyard here, These mute and silent brothers who have died. If thou the sacred mysteries, &c. &c.

’Tis keeping holiday, the churchyard here, And dancing to and fro the dead men glide. If thou the sacred mysteries, &c. &c.

Across the churchyard now the moon shines clear; Each maiden seeks her love, each lad his bride. If thou the sacred mysteries, &c. &c.

No more they find them, in the churchyard here, Their loves of yore, that would not be denied. If thou the sacred mysteries, &c. &c.

Oh open me the churchyard wicket wide! Let my love in, to comfort them that died!... (Trans. Alma Strettell.)

Suddenly, from a yawning tomb three paces from us, we heard in dolorous sepulchral tones these words:

“Let sleep in peace those who sleep!”

We remained petrified, and all around us in the moonlight a deep silence reigned.

At last Mathieu said softly to Grivolas:

“Didst thou hear?”

“Yes,” replied the painter, “it is down there, in that sarcophagus.”

“Eh,” cried Master Gafet, bursting into laughter, “that is a ‘dressed sleeper,’ as we call them in Arles, one of those vagrants who come to lodge at night in the empty tombs.”

“What a pity,” cried Daudet, “that it was not a real ghost! Some beautiful vestal, who at the voice of the poets was roused from her sleep, and, Oh, my Grivolas, wished to rise up and embrace thee!”

Then in a resounding voice he sang, and we all joined in:

“De l’abbaye passant les portes Autour de moi, tu trouverais Des nonnes l’errante cohorte Car en suaire je serais!”

“O Magali, si tu te fais La pauvre morte La terre alors je me ferais Là je t’aurai!”

After which we all shook hands with Master Gafet and made our way quickly to the railway station, there to take the train for Avignon.

Seven years later, the year, alas! of the great catastrophe, I received this letter:

“PARIS, _December 31, 1870_.

“MY CHIEFTAIN,--I send thee, by the balloon just rising, a heap of kisses. And it gives me pleasure to be able to send them in the language of Provence, for so I am assured that the Barbarians, should this balloon fall into their hands, cannot read a word of my writing, nor publish my letter in their _Mercure de Souabe_. It is cold, it is dark: we eat horse, cat, camel, and hippopotamus! Ah, for the good onions, the _catigot_, and fermented cheese of the tavern of Trinquetaille!

“The guns burn our fingers. Wood is becoming scarce. The armies of the Loire come not! But that does not matter--we will keep the cockroaches from Berlin wearing themselves out for some time yet in front of our ramparts.... And then if Paris is lost, I know of some good patriots who are ready to take Monsieur de Bismarck round the little streets of our poor capital. Farewell, my chief--three big kisses, one from me, one from my wife, and the other from my son. With that a happy New Year as always, until this day next year. Thy Félibre,

“ALPHONSE DAUDET.”

And then they dare to say that Daudet is not a good Provençal! Just because he jokes and ridicules the Tartarins, the Roumestans, and Tante Portals, and other imbeciles of this country, who try to Frenchify the language of our Provence. For that Tartarin owes him a grudge!

No! The mother lioness is not angry, and will never be angry, with the young lion who, in fighting, sometimes gives her a scratch.

APPENDIX

The following extract, translated from the biographical notice of Frédéric Mistral, written for “La Grande Encyclopédie” by Monsieur Paul Mariéton, for many years Chancelier des Félibres and a French poet and writer of note, takes up the history of Félibrige where the Memoirs leave off:

* * * * *

The unanimity of votes accorded to _Mireille_[20] by the members of the French Academy set the seal of sanction to the Provençal Renaissance, and reinforced Mistral himself with faith and resolution to carry out his mission. Up till that time he had said truly, as in the opening strophe of _Mireille_, that he “sang only for the shepherds and people of the soil!”--“What will they say at Arles?” was his one thought as he wrote _Mireille_. But before the completion of his epic his ambition for his native tongue had widened. The notes in the Appendix and the French translation published with the Provençal testify to this fact. Already he was beginning to realise the leading part he was about to play in the society founded at Font-Ségugne. The school of Roumanille, of which, in virtue of _Mireille_, Mistral was now chief, added to its members daily.

The rules of the language were now fixed, the language of the Félibres, and thanks to _L’Armana_ (an annual publication initiated and edited by Roumanille) were little by little adopted by the people. This classic vulgate--with which Mistral, by pruning and enriching his native dialect, had, like another Dante, dowered his country--had become immortal, having given birth to a masterpiece. It now remained to give a national tendency to the movement. It was by raising the ambitions of a race, and annexing the sympathy of the “Félibres” among them, by showing them their ancestry from remotest times, and bringing to light their inalienable rights, that Mistral evolved out of a literary renaissance a great patriotic cause.

With his _Ode aux Catalans_ (1859) and his _Chant de la Coupe_, Mistral sealed the alliance between the Provençals and the Catalans, their brethren both of race and tongue. This was ratified when in 1868 Mistral, together with Roumieux, Paul Meyer, and Bonaparte Wyse, met at the Barcelona fête in response to the call of the Catalonians.

SONG OF THE CUP.[21]

Men of Provence, this Cup has come to us Pledge of our Catalonian brothers’ troth, Then let us each in turn drain from it thus The pure wine of our native vineyard’s growth.

O sacred cup Filled brimming up! Pour out to overflowing Enthusiasms glowing, The energy pour out that doth belong Of right unto the strong.

Of an ancestral people proud and free Perchance we are the end, we faithful few: And should the “Félibres” fall, it well may be The end and downfall of our nation too.

O sacred cup, &c.

Yet, in a race that germinates again We are perchance the first-fruits of our earth, We are perchance the pillars that maintain, The knights that lead, the country of our birth.

O sacred cup, &c.

Pour out for us the golden hopes once more, The visions that our youth was wont to see, And, with remembrance of the days of yore, Faith in the days that are about to be.

O sacred cup, &c.

Pour for us, mingled with thy generous wine, Knowledge of Truth and Beauty, both in one, And lofty joys and ravishments divine That laugh at Death and bid its fears begone.

O sacred cup, &c.

Pour out for us the gift of poesy, That all things living we may fitly sing; The only true ambrosial nectar she That changes man, to god transfiguring.

O sacred cup, &c.

Ye that at last with us consenting are, Now for the glory of this land most dear, O Catalonian brothers, from afar Unite with us in this communion here.

O sacred cup, &c.

(Trans. Alma Strettell.)

Thus little by little the Félibrige, first started by Roumanille and promoted by his political pamphlets, his Christmas Songs and Popular Tales, was developed by Mistral into a national movement. This was shown clearly in his second important work, _Calandal_, a poem in twelve cantos (1867), which from that time divided the honours with _Mireille_.

The two poems were in striking contrast one to the other. _Mireille_ depicted the Provence of the Crau and the Camargue, _Calandal_ the Provence of the mountains and the sea. _Mireille_ was virgin honey, _Calandal_ the lion’s mane. In the latter poem, Mistral attempted to give perhaps too much local colour to please the general public, in spite of the incomparable style. The reception of this work by the Félibres, however, was enthusiastic, the heroic symbolism and eloquence of the poet, speaking in the name of all vindicators of his race, gave birth to a set of mystic patriots and created the Félibréen religion.

Little by little, thanks to the vital impulse given by Mistral, Félibrige crossed the Rhône. After having aroused some fervent proselytes, such as Louis Roumieux and Albert Arnavielle at Nîmes and Alais, it resulted at Montpellier in the inauguration of the “Society for studying Ancient Languages,” under the auspices of Baron de Tourtoulon. The work of this group scientifically justified the raising and purifying of the Oc language. Strengthened by the support of the learned and lettered officials, up to that period refractory, the Félibrige movement, already Provençal and Catalan, now became Latin also.

The memorable occasion of the Centenary Fête of Petrarch in 1874 at Avignon, presided over by Aubanel and initiated by Monsieur de Berluc-Perussis, was the first international consecration of the new literature and of the glory of Mistral.

A large assembly of the philological Société Romane in 1875, followed by the Latin Fêtes at Montpellier in 1876, at which the young wife of the poet was elected Queen of the Félibres, definitely confirmed the importance of a poetic renaissance which the author of _Mireille_ and _Calandal_ had developed from a small intimate society into a wide social movement.

Three years previously (1875) the intellectual sovereignty of Mistral had impressed itself on all the south of France by the publication of his collected poems “Lis Isclo d’Or” (“The Golden Isles”) which revealed the serene genius of the master, his extraordinary versatility and his unquestionable title to represent his race.

Shortly after, at Avignon, the poet was proclaimed Grand Master (_Capoulié_) of the literary federation of the Meridional provinces, and became the uncontested chief of a crusade of the Oc country for the reconquest of its historic dignity and position.

The sort of pontificate with which Mistral was from henceforth invested in no way arrested the outflowing of his songs. A new poem, _Nerto_, lighter in form than hitherto, in the style of the romantic epics of the renaissance, suddenly drew the attention of the critics again to the poet of Provence, and the charm and infinite variety of his genius.

Having already compared him to Homer, to Theocritus, and to Longus, they now found in his work the illusive seduction of Ariosto. A visit that he paid to Paris in 1884, after an absence of twenty years, sealed his fame in France and his glory in Provence. He was surrounded by an army of followers. Paris, which knew hitherto only the poet, now recognised a new literature in the person of its chief. The French Academy crowned _Nerto_ as before they had crowned _Mireille_. Mistral celebrated there in the French capital the fourth centenary of the union of Provence and France; “as a joining together of one principality to another principality,” according to the terms of the ancient historical contract.

He returned to his Provence consecrated chief of a people. The Provençal Renaissance continued to extend daily. Mistral endowed the movement at last with the scientific and popular weapon essential for its defence, a national dictionary. It was the crowning work of his life, “The Treasury of Félibrige.” All the various dialects of the Oc language are represented in this vast collection of an historic tongue, rich, melodious, vital, rescued and reinstated by its indefatigable defenders at a moment when all conspired to hasten its decrepitude.

All the meanings and acceptations, accompanied by examples culled from every writer in the Oc language, every idiom and proverb, are patiently collected together in this encyclopædic _tresaurus_ which could never be replaced.

The Institute awarded him a prize of four hundred francs.

In 1890 Mistral published a work he had for some time contemplated, _La Rèino Jano_ (_Queen Joan_) a Provençal tragedy. In spite of the rare beauty and picturesque eloquence of many of the cantos, this poem, evoking as it does the Angevine Provence of the fourteenth century, obtained only half the success of _Nerto_ from the public. The French do not share with the Félibres the cult of Queen Joan.

If this essentially national tragedy was judged in Paris a merely moderately good drama, it must be remembered that the Parisians did not take into account the familiar popularity which Mistral knew to exist for his heroine among his own people.

While awaiting the production of _Queen Joan_ at the Roman Theatre of Orange, restored by the Félibres, Mistral continued the active side of his work.

The spreading of the movement on all sides called for more influential organs than either the Almanac or the annual publication. After having contributed for forty years to the _Armana_ and having presided at the inauguration of the Félibréen Review in 1885, he became principal editor in 1890 of a Provençal paper in Avignon, _L’Aioli_, which under his auspices became the quarterly monitor of Félibrige.

While still retaining the leadership of the movement, Mistral published here and there sundry chapters of his Memoirs, also exhortations to his people, lectures, poems, and chronicles.

In 1897 he published another poem, like the former seven years in the making, _Le Poème du Rhône_. It is the most delicate and most ingenuously epic of his productions. Above all, he showed in this work his profound symbolism, revealed not only in the depth and breadth of his thought, but in the originality of his versification. Taking the traditions of the country, he has woven them into the winding silk cord of the living, glistening, eternal Rhône, this poem of the river’s course. He has inspired his people to restore the honour of these traditions by the radiant example and fruitful labour of his own life.

The Memoirs best reveal the deep roots of his patriotism. In describing his harmonious existence, the master relates his experience both as a celebrated writer and as a Provençal farmer. Portraits of great men and of great peasants stand out in his record. One can judge of him as a prose writer by the Tales and Addresses appearing here and there during a period of forty years, pages which often equalled in beauty the finest songs of the poet. His letters also, which sowed unceasingly the good grain of the Renaissance, will, when published one day, show even better than the translation of his verse what a great writer the French have in Mistral.

His life after all has been his finest poem. In order to bring about the realisation of his ideal, the raising of his country, he has in turn shown himself poet, orator, philologist, and, above all, patriot. The “new life” that his work has infused into the body of Félibrige has not only regenerated his own Provence by erecting a social ideal, it has also promoted the diffusion of a patriotic sentiment which has become general throughout France, and which may be defined as federalism or simply decentralisation. The ideas of Mistral on this subject of local centres permitting the free expansion of individual energies are well known. It can only be accomplished, according to his theory, by a new constituency, the electors of the existing system being too taken up organising the redivision of the departments to enter into other questions. But he has always refused to become the leader of a political movement. “He who possesses his language holds the key which shall free him from his chains,” Mistral has always said, meaning thereby that in the language dwells the soul of a people. Thus restricting himself to the leadership of a linguistic movement he desired to remain always a poet. It is the purity of his fame which has given such power to his position. By the charm of his personality he won large crowds, just as by his writings he charmed the lettered and the educated. For he was always possessed by a profound belief in the vitality of his language and faith in a renewal of its glory, and absolutely opposed in this respect to Jasmin, who invariably proclaimed himself as the last of the poets of the Oc tongue. If Mistral is not the only worker in the Provençal Renaissance, it is at all events owing to his genius that the movement took wing and lived. Before he arose the ancient and illustrious Oc language was in the same deplorable condition as were the Arenas of Nîmes and of Arles at the beginning of the century. Degraded, unsteady, enveloped by parasite hovels, their pure outline was being obliterated by the disfiguring leprosy. One day came reform, and, taking control, swept away the hovels and rubbish, restoring to their bygone splendour these amphitheatres of the old Romans.

Even so, barbarous jargons had defaced the idiom of Provence. Then with his following of brilliant and ardent patriots Mistral came and dispersed the degenerating _patois_, restoring to its former beauty the Greek purity of form belonging to the edifice of our ancestors and fitting it for present use.

PAUL MARIETON.

Every year in May, on the Feast of Sainte-Estelle, the four branches of Félibrige are convoked to important assizes at some place on Provençal soil. At the end of the banquet which follows the floral sports, and after the address of the chief, the latter raises high the Grail of the poetic mysteries, and intones the _Song of the Cup_. The hymn of the faith and cause of the race is taken up gravely

and the refrain joined in by all the company. Then the cup goes round fraternally and each member, before touching it with his lips, in turn rehearses his vow of fidelity.

The assizes of Sainte-Estelle are followed by a meeting of the consistory, who elect the new members. The consistory is composed of a chief or _capoulié_, of a chancellor, and fifty senior members chosen from among the four branches. Every branch, Provence, Languedoc, Aquitaine, and the affiliated branch of La Catalogne, is presided over by its own syndicate, and nominates an assistant to the _capoulié_. Félibrige numbers to-day many thousand members, without counting the foreign associations in other parts of France, such as the Félibres of the west, inaugurated by Renan in 1884, and the Cigales of Paris, first started by the Provenceaux of that city, as Paul Arène declared:

“Pour ne pas perdre l’accent, nous fondâmes la Cigale....”

The classic cicada is now the badge of the Order and is worn by all members at their fêtes.

Every seven years takes place a great meeting and floral feast, on which occasion three first prizes are awarded for poetry, prose, and Félibréen work, and a Queen of Félibrige is elected.

Their queen presides at the principal assizes of the cause. The first to be chosen was Madame Mistral, the young wife of the chief, at Montpellier in 1878. The second was Mademoiselle Thérèse Roumanille (Madame Boissière), daughter of the poet. The third was Madame Gasquet, _née_ Mademoiselle Girard; and the fourth and present queen is Madame Bischoffsheim, _née_ Mademoiselle de Chevignè. A procession of Félibresses form an escort to the reigning queen.

The Provençal Renaissance has counted many distinguished women writers and poets among its members. Among the first of these _trouveresses_ were Madame Roumanille, wife of the poet, whose work was crowned at the Fête of Apt in 1863; Madame d’Arband (1863); Mademoiselle Riviére, whose “Belugo” was sung by all our leaders (1868); Madame Lazarin Daniel, Félibresse of the Crau; Madame Gautier-Brémond of Tarascon, celebrated for her “Velo-blanco” (1887); not to mention the many whose names in recent years have been an honour to the cause.

It was on the occasion of the Fête at Montpellier, May 25, 1878, that the “Hymne à la Race Latine” was recited on the Place du Peyron, that song which has since become a national possession and pride.

TO THE LATIN RACE.[22]

Arise, arise renewed, O Latin race, Beneath the great cope of thy golden sun The russet grape is bubbling in the press, And gushing forth the wine of God shall run.

With hair all loosened to the sacred breeze From Tabor’s Mount--thou art the race of light, That lives of joy, and round about whose knees Enthusiasm springs, and pure delight; The Apostolic race, that through the land Sets all the bells a-ringing once again; Thou art the trumpet that proclaims--the hand That scatters far and wide the bounteous grain.

Arise, arise renewed, O Latin race, &c.

Thy mother-tongue, that mighty stream that flows Afar through seven branches, never dies; But light and love outpouring, onward goes, An echo that resounds from Paradise. O Roman daughter of the People-King, Thy golden language, it is still the song That human lips unceasingly shall sing-- While words yet have a meaning--ages long.

Arise, arise renewed, &c.

Thy blood illustrious on every side Hath been outpoured for justice and for right; Thy mariners across the distant tide Have sailed to bring an unknown world to light. A hundred times the pulsing of thy thought Hath shattered and brought low thy kings of yore; Ah! but for thy divisions, who had sought Ever to rule thee, or to frame thy law!

Arise, arise renewed, &c.

Kindling thy torch at radiances divine From the high stars, ’tis thou hast given birth, In shapes of marble and in pictured line, To Beauty’s self, incarnate upon earth. The native country thou of god-like Art, All graces and all sweetness come from thee, Thou art the source of joy for every heart, Yea, thou art youth, and ever more shalt be.

Arise, arise renewed, &c.

With thy fair women’s pure and noble forms The world’s pantheons everywhere are stored; And at thy triumphs, yea, thy tears, thy storms, Men’s hearts must palpitate with one accord; The earth’s in blossom when thy meadows bloom, And o’er thy follies every one goes mad; But when thy glory is eclipsed in gloom The whole world puts on mourning and is sad.

Arise, arise renewed, &c.

Thy limpid sea, that sea serene, where fleet The whitening sails innumerable ply, That crisps the soft, wet sand about thy feet, And mirrors back the azure of the sky, That ever-smiling sea, God poured its flood From out His splendour with a lavish hand, To bind the brown-hued peoples of thy blood With one unbroken, scintillating band.

Arise, arise renewed, &c.

Upon thy sun-kissed slopes, on every side The olive grows, the tree of peace divine, And all thy lands are crownèd with the pride Of thy prolific, broadly-spreading vine. O Latin race, in faithful memory Of that thy glorious, ever-shining past, Arise in hope toward thy destiny, One brotherhood beneath the Cross at last!

Arise, arise renewed, O Latin race, Beneath the great cope of thy golden sun! The russet grape is bubbling in the press, And gushing forth the wine of God shall run!

(Trans. Alma Strettell.)

To conclude with the words of Mistral quoted from one of his addresses:

“If thou wouldst that the blood of thy race maintain its virtue, hold fast to thy historic tongue.... In language there lies a mystery, a precious treasure.... Every year the nightingale renews his feathers, but he changes not his note.”

C. E. MAUD.

MISTRAL’S POEMS IN THE PROVENÇAL

GREVANÇO

II

(_From_ “Lis Isclo d’Or.”)

Oh! vers li plano de tousello Leissas me perdre pensatiéu, Dins li grand blad plen de rousello Ounte drouloun iéu me perdiué!

Quaucun me bousco De tousco en tousco En recitant soun angelus; E, cantarello, Li calandrello Ièu vau seguènt dins lou trelus ...

Ah! pauro maire, Bèu cor amaire, Cridant moun noum t’ausirai plus!

LES SAINTES-MARIES (_Mireille_).

Nautre, li sorre emé li fraire Que lou seguian pèr tout terraire, Sus uno ratamalo, i furour de la mar, E sènso velo e sènso remo, Fuguerian embandi. Li femo Toumbavian un riéu de lagremo; Lis ome vers lou cèu pourtavon soun regard.

Uno ventado tempestouso Sus la marino sóuvertouso Couchavo lou batèu: Marciau e Savournin Soun ageinouia sus la poupo; Apensamenti, dins sa roupo Lou vièi Trefume s’agouloupo; Contro éu èro asseta l’evesque Massemin.

Dre sus lou tèume, aquéu Lazàri Que de la toumbo e dóu susàri Avié’ncaro garda la mourtalo palour, Sèmblo afrounta lou gourg que reno: Em’éu la nau perdudo enmeno Marto sa sorre, e Madaleno, Couchado en un cantoun, que plouro sa doulour.

Contro uno ribo sènso roco, Alleluia! la barco toco; Sus l’areno eigalouso aqui nous amourran E cridan tóuti: Nòsti tèsto Qu’as póutira de la tempèsto, Fin-qu’au coutèu li vaqui lèsto A prouclama ta lèi, o Crist! Te lou juran!

A-n-aquèu noum, de jouïssènço, La noblo terro de Prouvènço Parèis estrementido; à-n-aquéu crid nouvèu, E lou bouscas e lou campèstre An trefouli dins tout soun èstre, Coume un chin qu’en sentènt soun mèstre Ié cour à l’endavans e ié fai lou bèu-bèu.

La mar avié jita d’arcèli ... Pater noster, qui es in cœli,-- A nosto longo fam mandères un renos; A nosto set, dins lis engano Faguères naisse uno fountano; E miraclouso, e lindo, e sano, Gisclo enca dins la glèiso ounte soun nòstis os!

MAGALI.

O Magali, ma tant amado, Mete la tèsto au fenestroun! Escouto un pau aquesto aubado De tambourin e de vióuloun.

Es plen d’estello, aperamount! L’auro es toumbado, Mai lis estello paliran, Quand te veiran!

--Pas mai que dóu murmur di broundo De toun aubado iéu fau cas! Mai iéu m’envau dins la mar bloundo Me faire anguielo de roucas.

--O Magali! se tu te fas Lou pèis de l’oundo, Iéu, lou pescaire me farai, Te pescarai!

--Oh! mai, se tu te fas pescaire, Ti vertoulet quand jitaras, Iéu me farai l’aucèu voulaire, M’envoularai dins li campas.

--O Magali, se tu te fas L’aucèu de l’aire, Iéu lou cassaire me farai, Te cassarai.

--I perdigau, i bouscarido, Se vènes, tu, cala ti las, Iéu me farai l’erbo flourido E m’escoundrai dins li pradas.

--O Magali, se tu te fas La margarido, Iéu l’aigo lindo me farai, T’arrousarai.

--Se tu te fas l’eigueto lindo, Iéu me farai lou nivoulas, E lèu m’enanarai ansindo A l’Americo, perabas!

--O Magali, se tu t’envas Alin is Indo, L’auro de mar iéu me farai, Te pourtarai!

--Se tu te fas la marinado, Iéu fugirai d’un autre las: Iéu me farai l’escandihado Dóu grand soulèu que found lou glas!

--O Magali, se tu te fas La souleiado, Lou verd limbert iéu me farai, E te béurai!

--Se tu te rèndes l’alabreno Que se rescound dins lou bartas, Iéu me rendrai la luno pleno Que dins la niue fai lume i masc!

--O Magali, se tu fas Luno sereno, Iéu bello nèblo me farai, T’acatarai.

--Mai se la nèblo m’enmantello, Tu, pèr acò, noun me tendras Iéu, bello roso vierginello, M’espandirai dins l’espinas!

--O Magali, se tu te fas La roso bello, Lou parpaioun iéu me farai, Te beisarai.

--Vai, calignaire, courre, courre! Jamai, amai m’agantaras: Iéu, de la rusco d’un grand roure Me vestirai dins lou bouscas.

--O Magali, se tu te fas L’aubre di mourre, Iéu lou clot d’èurre me farai, T’embrassarai!

--Se me vos prene à la brasseto, Rèn qu’un vièi chaine arraparas ... Iéu me farai blanco moungeto Dóu mounastié dóu grand Sant Blas!

--O Magali, se tu te fas Mounjo blanqueto, Iéu, capelan, counfessarai, E t’ausirai!

--Se dóu couvènt passes li porto, Tóuti li mounjo trouvaras Qu’à moun entour saran pèr orto, Car en susàri me veiras!

--O Magali, se tu te fas La pauro morto, Adounc la terro me farai, Aqui t’aurai!

--Aro coumence enfin de crèire Que noun me parles en risènt. Vaqui moun aneloun de vèire Per souvenènço, o bèu jouvènt!

--O Magali, me fas de bèn!... Mai, tre te vèire, Ve lis estello, o Magali, Coume an pali!

SOULOMI.

SUS LA MORT DE LAMARTINE.

Quand l’ouro dóu tremount es vengudo pèr l’astre, Sus li mourre envahi pèr lou vèspre, li pastre Alargon sis anouge e si fedo e si can; E dins li baisso palunenco Lou grouün rangoulejo en bramadisso unenco: “Aquéu soulèu èro ensucant!”

Di paraulo de Diéu magnanime escampaire, Ansin, o Lamartine, o moun mèstre, o moun paire, En cantico, en acioun, en lagremo, en soulas, Quand aguerias à noste mounde Escampa de lumiero e d’amour soun abounde, E que lou mounde fuguè las,

Cadun jitè soun bram dins la nèblo prefoundo, Cadun vous bandiguè la pèiro de sa foundo, Car vosto resplendour nous fasié mau is iue, Car uno estello que s’amosso, Car un diéu clavela, toujour agrado en foço, E li grapaud amon la niue....

E’m’acò, l’on veguè de causo espetaclouso! Eu, aquelo grand font de pouësio blouso Qu’avié rejouveni l’amo de l’univers, Li jóuini pouèto riguèron De sa malancounié proufetico, e diguèron Que sabié pas faire li vers.

De l’Autisme Adounai éu sublime grand-prèire Que dins sis inne sant enaurè nòsti crèire Sus li courdello d’or de l’arpo de Sioun, En atestant lis Escrituro Li devot Farisen cridèron sus l’auturo Que n’avié gens de religioun.

Eu, lou grand pietadous, que, sus la catastrofo De nòstis ancian rèi, avié tra sis estrofo E qu’en mabre poumpous i’avié fa’n mausoulèu, Dóu Reialisme li badaire Trouvèron á la fin qu’èro un descaladaire, E tóuti s’aliunchèron lèu.

Eu, lou grand óuratour, la voues apoustoulico, Que faguè dardaia lou mot de Republico Sus lou front, dins lou cèu di pople tresanant, Pèr uno estranjo fernesio Tóuti li chin gasta de la Demoucracio Lou mourdeguèron en renant.

Eu, lou grand ciéutadin que dins la goulo en flamo Avié jita soun viéure e soun cors e soun amo, Pèr sauva dóu voulcan la patrio en coumbour, Quand demandè soun pan, pechaire! Li bourgés e li gros l’apelèron manjaire, E s’estremèron dins soun bourg.

Adounc, en se vesènt soulet dins soun auvàri, Doulènt, emé sa crous escalè soun Calvàri ... E quàuqui bònis amo, eiça vers l’embruni. Entendeguèron un long gème, E pièi, dins lis espàci, aqueste crid suprème: Heli! lamma sabacthani!

Mai degun s’avastè vers la cimo deserto ... Emé li dous iue clin e li dos man duberto, Dins un silènci grèu alor éu s’amaguè; E, siau coume soun li mountagno, Au mitan de sa glòri e de sa malamagno, Sènso rèn dire mouriguè.

LA COUPO

Prouvençau, veici la coupo Que nous vèn di Catalan: A-de-rèng beguen en troupo Lou vin pur de noste plant!

Coupo santo E versanto, Vuejo à plen bord, Vuejo abord Lis estrambord E l’enavans di fort!

D’un vièi pople fièr e libre Sian bessai la finicioun; E, se toumbon li Felibre, Toumbara nosto nacioun.

Coupo santo, &c.

D’uno raço que regreio Sian bessai li proumié gréu; Sian bessai de la patrio Li cepoun emai li priéu.

Coupo santo, &c.

Vuejo-nous lis esperanço E li raive dóu jouvènt, Dóu passat la remembranço E la fe dins l’an que vèn.

Coupo santo, &c.

Vuejo-nous la couneissènço Dóu Verai emai dóu Bèu, E lis àuti jouïssènço Que se trufon dóu toumbèu.

Coupo santo, &c.

Vuejo-nous la Pouësio Pèr canta tout ço que viéu, Car es elo l’ambrousio Que tremudo l’ome en diéu.

Coupo santo, &c.

Pèr la glòri dóu terraire Vautre enfin que sias counsènt, Catalan, de liuen, o fraire, Coumunien tóutis ensèn!

Coupo santo E versanto, Vuejo à plen bord, Vuejo abord Lis estrambord E l’enavans di fort!

A LA RAÇO LATINO.

(PEÇO DICHO A MOUNT-PELIÉ SUS LA PLAÇO DÓU PEIROU, LOU 25 DE MAI DE 1878.)

Aubouro-te, raço latino, Souto la capo dóu soulèu! Lou rasin brun boui dins la tino, Lóu vin de Diéu gisclara lèu.

Emé toun péu que se desnouso A l’auro santo dóu Tabor, Tu siés la raço lumenouso Que viéu de joio e d’estrambord; Tu siés la raço apoustoulico Que sono li campano à brand: Tu siés la troumpo que publico E siés la man que trais lou gran.

Aubouro-te, raço latino, &c.

Ta lengo maire, aquéu grand flume Que pèr sèt branco s’espandis, Largant l’amour, largant lou lume Coume un resson de Paradis, Ta lengo d’or, fiho roumano Dóu Pople-Rèi, es la cansoun Que rediran li bouco umano, Tant que lou Verbe aura resoun.

Aubouro-te, raço latino, &c.

Toun sang ilustre, de tout caire, Pèr la justiço a fa rajòu; Pereilalin ti navegaire Soun ana querre un mounde nòu; Au batedis de ta pensado As esclapa cènt cop ti rèi ... Ah! se noun ères divisado Quau poudrié vuei te faire lèi?

Aubouro-te, raço latino, &c.

A la belugo dis estello Abrant lou mou de toun flambèu, Dintre lou mabre e sus la telo As encarna lou subre-bèu. De l’art divin siés la patrio E touto gràci vèn de tu; Siés lou sourgènt de l’alegrio E siés l’eterno jouventu!

Aubouro-te, raço latino, &c.

Di formo puro de ti femo Li panteon se soun poupla; A ti triounfle, à ti lagremo Tóuti li cor an barbela; Flouris la terro, quand fas flòri; De ti foulié cadun vèn fòu; E dins l’esclùssi de ta glòri Sèmpre lou mounde a pourta dòu.

Aubouro-te, raço latino, &c.

Ta lindo mar, la mar sereno Ounte blanquejon li veissèu, Friso à ti pèd sa molo areno En miraiant l’azur dóu cèu. Aquelo mar toujour risènto, Diéu l’escampè de soun clarun Coume la cencho trelusènto Que dèu liga ti pople brun.

Aubouro-te, raço latino, &c.

Sus ti coustiero souleiouso Crèis l’óulivié, l’aubre de pas, E de la vigno vertuiouso S’enourgulisson ti campas: Raço latino, en remembranço De toun destin sèmpre courous, Aubouro-te vers l’esperanço, Afrairo-te souto la Crous!

Aubouro-te, raço latino, Souto la capo dóu soulèu! Lou rasin brun boui dins la tino, Lou vin de Diéu gisclara lèu!

Printed by BALLANTYNE & CO LIMITED Tavistock Street, London

FOOTNOTES:

[1] JINGLE OF JOHN O’ THE PIG’S HEAD.

Come tell me, who is dead?-- ’Tis John o’ the Pig’s Head. And who his dirge doth sing?-- Why, ’tis the Moorish King. And who laughs o’er him now? The partridge doth, I trow.

Who makes a lay for him that’s gone?-- The mangle with its creaking stone. Who was it that his knell began?-- The bottom of the frying-pan. Who wears for him a mourning veil?-- The kettle’s sooty tail!

[2] A legendary character renowned as a spendthrift.

[3] The three tablecloths are graduated in size, commencing with the largest, and are _de rigueur_ for festal occasions.

[4] For Provençal text, _see_ p. 324.

[5] Poles crowned with Phrygian caps.

[6] Signifying the Republic.

[7] Poles crowned with Phrygian caps.

[8]

In the city of the Baux for a florin’s value You have an apron full of cheeses Which melt in the mouth like fine sugar.

[9] The national instrument of Provence.

[10] Athène du Midi.

[11] Monsieur Paul Mariéton in his “Terre Provençale” says of this work: “The history of a people is contained in this book. No one can ever know what devotion, knowledge, discrimination and intuition such a work represents, undertaken and concluded as it was during the twenty best years of a poet’s life. All the words of the Oc language in its seven different dialects, each one compared with its equivalent in the Latin tongue, all the proverbs and idioms of the South together with every characteristic expression either in use or long since out of vogue, make up this incomparable Thesaurus of a tenacious language, which is no more dead to-day than it was three hundred years ago, and which is now reconquering the hearts of all the faithful.” This “Treasury of the Félibres” opens with the following lines:

“O people of the South, hearken now to my words:

“If thou would’st regain the lost Empire of thy speech and equip thyself anew, dig deep in this mine.”

[12] The Mayor’s sash of office.

[13] Mistral has glorified this legend in his _Mireille_, where the saints appear to the young girl and recount to her their Odyssey (pp. 427-437, _Mireille_).--C. E. M.

[14] For Provençal text _see_ p. 324.

[15] For Provençal text _see_ p. 326.

[16] The elder half-brother of Frédéric Mistral inherited the Mas du Juge.

[17] A well-known poet and writer of Nîmes, author of a small poem regarded as a classic in France: “L’Ange et l’Enfant.”

[18] For Provençal text _see_ p. 329.

[19] Les Aliscamps, the famous burying-ground of the Romans. In the old pagan days it was said that this wonderful necropolis made Arles, the queen of cities, more opulent beneath her soil than above. Here the great Romans in the time of Augustus and Constantine regarded it as their privilege to be buried.--C. E. M.

[20] _Mireille_ was crowned by the Academy, and the poet received a prize of ten thousand francs.

[21] For Provençal text _see_ p. 332.

[22] For Provençal text _see_ p. 334.