ich began life in far
from seemly company. But his forays were made from choice, not from
necessity, and the best of his noels are his own.

Saboly's music has a "go" and a melodic quality suggestive of the work
of Sir Arthur Sullivan; but it has a more tender, a fresher, a purer
note, even more sparkle, than ever Sullivan has achieved. In his gay
airs the attack is instant, brilliant, overpowering--like a glad
outburst of sweet bells, like the joyous laughter of a child--and
everything goes with a dash and a swing. But while he thus loved to
harmonize a laugh, he also could strike a note of infinite tenderness.
In his pathetic noels he drops into thrillingly plaintive minors which
fairly drag one's heart out--echoes or survivals, possibly (for this
poignant melody is not uncommon in old Provencal music), of the
passionately longing love-songs with which Saracen knights once went
a-serenading beneath castle windows here in Provence.

Nor is his verse, of its curious kind, less excellent than his music. By
turns, as the humour takes him, his noels are sermons, or delicate
religious fancies, or sharp-pointed satires, or whimsical studies of
country-side life. One whole series of seven is a history of the
Nativity (surely the quaintest and the gayest and the tenderest
oratorio that ever was written!) in which, in music and in words, he is
at his very best. Above all, his noels are local. His background always
is his own country; his characters--Micolau the big shepherd, gossip
Guihaumeto, Toni, Christou, and the rest--always are Provencaux: wearing
Provencaux pink-bordered jackets, and white hats bedizened with ribbons,
and marching to Bethlehem to the sound of the _galoubet_ and
_tambourin_. It is from Avignon, out by the Porte Saint Lazare, that the
start for Bethlehem is made by his pilgrim company; the Provencal music
plays to cheer them; they stamp their feet and swing their arms about,
because the mistral is blowing and they are desperately cold. It is a
simplicity half laughable, half pathetic--such as is found in those
Mediaeval pictures which represent the Apostles or the Holy Family in the
garb of the artist's own time and country, and above the walls of
Bethlehem the church spire of his own town.

This naive local twist is not peculiar to Saboly. With very few
exceptions all Provencal noels are packed full of the same delightful
anachronisms. It is to Provencal shepherds that the Herald Angel
appears; it is P