Idling up through the south of France, in company with a passionate¹ lover of that fair land, we learned on arriving at Lyons, that the actors of the Comédie Française were to pass through there the next day, en route for Orange, where a series of fêtes had been arranged by “Les Félibres.”  This society, composed of the writers and poets of Provence, have the preservation² of the Roman theatre at Orange (perhaps the most perfect specimen³ of classical theatrical⁴ architecture in existence) profoundly at heart, their hope being to restore some of its pristine⁵ beauty to the ruin, and give from time to time performances of the Greek masterpieces on its disused stage.  
The money obtained by these representations will be spent in the restoration of the theatre, and it is expected in time to make Orange the centre of classic drama, as Beyreuth is that of Wagnerian music.
 
At Lyons, the cortège was to leave the Paris train and take boats down the Rhône, to their destination.  Their programme was so tempting⁶ that the offer of places in one of the craft was enough to lure⁷ us away from our prearranged route.
 
By eight o’clock the following morning, we were on foot, as was apparently⁸ the entire city.  A cannon⁹ fired from Fort Lamothe gave the signal of our start.  The river, covered with a thousand gayly decorated craft, glinted and glittered in the morning light.  It world be difficult to forget that scene,—the banks of the Rhône were lined with the rural population, who had come miles in every direction to acclaim¹⁰ the passage of their poets.
 
Everywhere along our route the houses were gayly decorated and arches of flowers had been erected¹¹.  We float past Vienne, a city once governed by Pontius Pilate, and Tournon, with its feudal¹² château, blue in the distance, then Saint Peray, on a verdant¹³ vine-clad slope.  As we pass under the bridge at Montélimar, an avalanche¹⁴ of flowers descends¹⁵ on us from above.
 
The rapid current of the river soon brings our flotilla opposite Vivier, whose Gothic cathedral bathes its feet in the Rhône.  Saint Esprit and its antique bridge appear next on the horizon.  Tradition asserts that the Holy Spirit, disguised as a stone mason, directed its construction; there were thirteen workmen each day, but at sunset, when the men gathered to be paid, but twelve could be counted.
 
Here the mayor and the municipal council were to have received us and delivered an address, but were not on hand.  We could see the tardy¹⁶ cortège hastening towards the bridge as we shot away down stream.
 
On nearing Orange, the banks and quays¹⁷ of the river are alive with people.  The high road, parallel with the stream, is alive with a many-colored throng¹⁸.  On all sides one hears the language of Mistral, and recognizes the music of Mireille sung by these pilgrims to an artistic¹⁹ Mecca, where a miracle is to be performed—and classic art called forth²⁰ from its winding²¹-sheet.
 
The population of a whole region is astir under the ardent²² Provençal sun, to witness a resurrection of the Drama in the historic valley of the Rhône, through whose channel the civilization and art and culture of the old world floated up into Europe to the ceaseless cry of the cigales.
 
Châteaurenard! our water journey is ended.  Through the leafy avenues that lead to Orange, we see the arch of Marius and the gigantic proscenium of the theatre, rising above the roofs of the little city.
 
So few of our compatriots linger in the south of France after the spring has set in, or wander in the by-ways of that inexhaustible country, that a word about the representations at Orange may be of interest, and perchance create a desire to see the masterpieces of classic drama (the common inheritance of all civilized²³ races) revived with us, and our stage put to its legitimate²⁴ use, cultivating and elevating the taste of the people.
 
One would so gladly see a little of the money that is generously given for music used to revive in America a love for the classic drama.
 
We are certainly not inferior to our neighbors in culture or appreciation²⁵, and yet such a performance as I witnessed at Orange (laying aside the enchantment²⁶ lent by the surroundings) would not be possible here.  Why?  But to return to my narrative²⁷.
 
The sun is setting as we toil²⁸, ticket in hand, up the Roman stairway to the upper rows of seats; far below the local gendarmerie who mostly understand their orders backwards²⁹ are struggling with the throng, whose entrance they are apparently obstructing³⁰ by every means in their power.  Once seated, and having a wait of an hour before us, we amused ourselves watching the crowd filling in every corner of the vast building, like a rising tide of multi-colored water.
 
We had purposely chosen places on the highest and most remote benches, to test the vaunted acoustic³¹ qualities of the auditorium³², and to obtain a view of the half-circle of humanity, the gigantic wall back of the stage, and the surrounding country.
 
As day softened³³ into twilight³⁴, and twilight deepened into a luminous³⁵ Southern night; the effect was incomparable.  The belfries and roofs of mediæval Orange rose in the clear air, overtopping the half ruined theatre in many places.  The arch of Marius gleamed white against the surrounding hills, themselves violet and purple in the sunset, their shadow broken here and there by the outline of a crumbling³⁶ château or the lights of a village.
 
Behind us the sentries³⁷ paced along the wall, wrapped in their dark cloaks; and over all the scene, one snowtopped peak rose white on the horizon, like some classic

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