e the walnuts of the plain, gnarled, stout, calm,
motionless, exploited and ill-treated as you may be, O peasants (as they
call you), you will remain masters of the land!"

This was written in 1888. The quotations might be multiplied; these
suffice, however, to show the intense love of the poet for "the language
of the soil," the energy with which he has constantly struggled for its
maintenance. He is far from looking upon the multiplication of dialects
as an evil, points to the literary glory of Greece amid her many forms
of speech, and does not even seek to impose his own language upon the
rest of southern France. He sympathizes with every attempt, wherever
made, the world over, to raise up a patois into a language. Statesmen
will probably think otherwise, and there are nations which would at
once take an immense stride forward if they could attain one language
and a purely national literature. The modern world does not appear to be
marching in accordance with Mistral's view.

The poems inspired by the love of the ancient ideals and literature of
Provence are very beautiful. They have in general a fascinating swing
and rhythm, and are filled with charming imagery. One of the best is
_L'Amiradou_ (The Belvedere), the story of a fairy imprisoned in the
castle at Tarascon, "who will doubtless love the one who shall free
her." Three knights attempt the rescue and fail. Then there comes along
a little Troubadour, and sings so sweetly of the prowess of his
forefathers, of the splendor of the Latin race, that the guard are
charmed and the bolts fly back. And the fairy goes up to the top of the
tower with the little Troubadour, and they stand mute with love, and
look out over all the beautiful landscape, and the old monuments of
Provence with their lessons. This is the kingdom of the fairy, and she
bestows it upon him. "For he who knows how to read in this radiant
book, must grow above all others, and all that his eye beholds, without
paying any tithe, is his in abundance."

The lilt of this little _romance_, with its pretty repetitions, is
delightful, and the symbolism is, of course, perfectly obvious.

There is the touching story of the Troubadour Catalan, slain by robbers
in the Bois de Boulogne, where the Pre de Catalan now is; there is the
tale that accounts for the great chain that hangs across the gorge at
Moustiers, a chain over six hundred feet long, bearing a star in the
centre. A knight, being prisoner among the