cles. The last
in the procession fix in the ground erect, as a chandelier, a huge
pine-tree, whose summit is on fire, and the lowest branches of which
overshadow a little sheep.

The ass stops. The saddle-cloth is removed; and underneath appears a
second covering of black felt. Then one of the men in a white tunic
begins to dance, while playing upon castanets; while another, on his
knees before the box, beats a tambourine; and the oldest of the band
commences:

"Here is the Bona Dea, the divinity of the mountains, the great mother
of Syria! Draw hither, honest people! She procures joy, heals the sick,
bestows fortunes, and satisfies lovers. It is we who bring her out to
walk in the country in fine weather and bad weather. We often sleep in
the open air, and we have not a well-served table every day. The thieves
dwell in the woods. The beasts rush forth from their dens. Slippery
paths line the precipices. Look here! look here!"

They raise the coverlet and disclose a box incrusted with little
pebbles.

"Higher than the cedar-trees she hovers in the blue ether. More
circumambient than the winds, she surrounds the world. Her respiration
is exhaled through the nostrils of tigers; her voice growls beneath the
volcanoes; her anger is the storm; and the pallor of her face has made
the moon white. She ripens the harvests; she swells out the rinds; she
makes the beard grow. Give her something, for she hates the
avaricious!"

The box flies open; and beneath an awning of blue silk is seen a little
image of Cybele, glittering with spangles, crowned with towers, and
seated on a chariot of red stone, drawn by two lions with raised paws.

The crowd presses forward to see.

The archi-gallus continues:

"She loves the sounds of dulcimers, the stamping of feet, the howling of
wolves, the echoing mountains and the deep gorges, the flower of the
almond-tree, the pomegranate and the green figs, the whirling dance, the
high-sounding flute, the sweet sap, the salt tear,--blood! Help! help!
Mother of mountains!"

They flagellate themselves with their whips, and the strokes resound on
their breasts. The skins of the tambourines vibrate till they almost
burst. They seize their knives and inflict gashes on their arms:

"She is sad: let us be sad! He who is doomed to suffer must weep! In
that way your sins will be remitted. Blood washes out everything: shed
drops of it around, then, like flowers. She demands that of another--of
one w