another vile names, and a howling, brawling lot they frequently become;
and when at last we get to the fair at Beaucaire, there are pages of
minute enumerations that can scarcely be called Homeric. In short, a
very large part of the book is prose, animated, vigorous, often
exaggerated, but prose. Like his other long poems it is singularly
objective. Rarely does the author interrupt his narrative or description
to give an opinion, to speak in his own name, or to analyze the
situation he has created. Like the other poems, too, it is sprinkled
with tales and legends of all sorts, some of them charming.
Superstitions abound. Mistral shares the fondness of the Avignonnais for
the number seven. Apian has seven boats, the Drac keeps his victim seven
years, the woman of Condrieu has seven sons.

The poem offers the same beauties as the others, an astonishing power of
description first of all. Mistral is always masterly, always poetic in
depicting the landscape and the life that moves thereon, and especially
in evoking the life of the past. He revives for us the princesses and
queens, the knights and troubadours, and they move before us, a
fascinating, glittering pageant. The perfume of flowers, the sunlight on
the water, the great birds flying in the air, the silent drifting of the
boats in the broad valley, the reflection of the tall poplars in the
water, the old ruins that crown the hilltops--all these things are
exquisitely woven into the verse, and more than a mere word-painting
they create a mood in the reader in unison with the mood of the person
of whom he is reading.

In touching truly deep and serious things Mistral is often superficial,
and passes them off with a commonplace. An instance in this poem is the
episode of the convicts on their way to the galleys at Toulon. No
terrible indignation, no heartfelt pity, is expressed. Apian silences