ive me joy, since, cruel woman, when thou
couldst throw me a rope, thou leavest me, in dismay, to drink the bitter
current--let death come, black hiding-place, bottomless abyss! let me
plunge down head first!"

And when Esterello, fearing he will slay himself, clasps him about the
neck, they stand silently embraced, "the tears, in tender mingling, rain
from their eyes; despair, agitation, a spell of happiness, keep their
lips idle, and from hell, at one bound, they rise to paradise."

Like the creations of Victor Hugo's poetry, those of Mistral speak the
language of the author. They have his eloquence, his violent energy of
figurative speech, his love of the wild, sunny landscapes about them;
they thrill as he does, at the memories of the past; they love, as he
does, enumerations of trees and plants; they have his fondness for
action.

The poem is filled with interesting episodes. One that is very striking
in the narrative of Esterello we shall here reproduce.

We are at the wedding feast of Count Severan and the Princess des Baux.
The merry-making begins to be riotous, and the Count has made a speech
in honor of his bride, promising to take her after the melting of the
snows to his Alpine palaces, where the walls are of steel, the doors of
silver, the locks of gold, and when the sun shines their crystal roofs
glitter like flame.

"Scarcely from his lips had fallen these wild words, when the door of
the banquet hall opens, and we see the head of an old man, wearing a
bonnet and a garment of rough cloth; we see the dust and sweat trickling
down his tanned cheeks. The bridegroom, with a terrible glance, like the
lightning flash of a fearful storm, turns suddenly pale, and seeks to
stop him; but he, whom the glance cannot harm, calmly, impassively, like
God when he clothes himself like a poor man, to confound sometimes some
rich evil-doer, slowly advances toward the bridegroom, crosses his arms,
and scans his countenance. And he says not a word to any one, and all
are afraid; a weight of lead lies upon every heart, and from without
there seems to blow in upon the lamps an icy wind.

"Finally, a few of them, shaking off their oppression, 'If there come
not soon a famine to wipe out this hideous tribe, we shall be eaten by
beggars within four days! To the merry bridal pair, what hast thou to
say, old scullion?' And they continue to taunt him cruelly. The outraged
peasant holds his peace. 'With his blear eyes, his white