r a canopy
enriched with gold lace and fringe, the old priest, calm and grave, who
carries in his hands the Holy Eucharist, followed by a long line of his
faithful parishioners, with the mammas and young girls two and two,
singing psalms and canticles. In this order they move along the crowded
streets, which are strewn with fennel, green branches, and leaves.

From time to time the whole procession halts before some _reposoir_--the
little girls drop three curtsies before the beautiful altar, and scatter
high in the air handfuls of broken flowers, which shed a delicious
fragrance around; the children of the choir wave their censers to and
fro, the old priest blesses the crowd who kneel before him, and the
smoke of the incense, and the perfume of the roses, ascend towards
heaven as the adorations and prayers of all present ascend to God. This,
the holiest and most imposing _fete_ of our rural districts, is also the
one the most loved. Pity not the peasant, pity not those who are from
necessity obliged to live in these retired spots. They have their
_fetes_ as well as the rich, happier and much more magnificent, at which
they can be present and form part without paying anything. Nature, too,
source of so many marvels, whether she covers the earth with a robe of
verdure, or fields of golden corn, or that she shelters it under a
mantle of snow, presents to the husbandman some interesting scene. Have
they not also the shade and silence of the forest, the eternal freshness
of the fountains?

It is true the peasants know nothing of Beethoven's symphony in C, they
are not familiar with the melodies of Rossini, Madame Grisi has never in
her terrible finale "_Qual cor tradisti_" made them weep, nor has the
orchestra of Monsieur Jullien made them deaf. But what are these
splendid wonders of the town to them? Have they not a melodious choir of
birds to arouse them each morning from their slumbers? have they not as
scenes, the woods, the bubbling waters, verdant valleys, real sunrises
and sunsets? Can they not, seated on the summit of some hill, round
which the breeze of evening plays, gaze upon the glorious sky above them
spangled with stars, those unfading flowers of Heaven? Say, reader, is
not this hill a charming pit-stall, and much preferable to the narrow
crimson section of the bench at the Opera? These are some of their
enjoyments; then how could they with any degree of pleasure stick
themselves up like logs of wood or trusse