THE place to read the poems of the troubadours is the
south of France,--Provence, in the broad meaning
of the name.

In this poetic region one is in the midst of hills and val-
leys that gave pleasure to their eyes, and among a people
that have inherited something from their hearts. Re-
minders of their age greet one at every turn. Love--not
pictured on the vase, but in life--"still pants and still
enjoys" here. The delight in existence flashes out gaily
in the merriment of the dance, as when the world was
many generations younger. Castles in ruins, mantled
with whispering ivy and vocal in the wind, appear to be
giving out echoes of the music that once enlivened them;
and the very skies, filled with warm splendor, seem the
reflection of Golden Isles ¹ of romance, barely veiled by
the purple horizon.

It is a land overflowing with tears and laughter, classic
but not severe, glad but not thoughtless. The bees are
still a-wing in its meadows; and in this Provence, under
the olive and the vine, in the midst of roses and haw-

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