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THE NATIONAL GEOGRAPHIC MAGAZINE 



ward in gentle slopes toward the grim 

 fort of St. Andre, that might be a walled 

 city in itself, and below, opposite the 

 broken bridge of St. Benezet, the former 

 defense tower of Philippe-le-Bel, a shaft 

 of honey against the cloudless sky. But 

 that view pales beside the one from the 

 fort of the gaunt gray rock with its white 

 palace, that grows and grows as it is 

 looked upon until it dwarfs the city and 

 itself becomes the only object in the great 

 flat plain — ■ a towering tombstone over 

 dead ambitions. 



Tarascon means unlucky King Rene's 

 beautiful square castle, that clambers up 

 the rocks of the river bank, a soft-toned 

 medieval picture. At its feet the smooth 

 green mirror of the Rhone, that has re- 

 flected so many a chivalric pageant in its 

 day, holds up a quivering counterfeit of 

 the stately structure, with every angle 

 smoothed, every color softened. 



The view from the great stone bridge 

 is perfect, the delicate tan of the stones 

 cut clean against the background of em- 

 baying trees and azure overhead. And 

 what a scene at sunset on the low hills 

 of the opposite shore ! Silhouetted black 

 and spectral against the flaming orb that 

 goes down behind its slender, towering 

 donjon keep, the storied castle of Beau- 

 caire pulses again with life, and one feels 

 the gentle ghosts of Aucassin and Nico- 

 lette hovering about the scene of their 

 romance. 



ROMAN MEMORIES AT AREES 



What a picture is the old Place du 

 Forum in Aries, where once the togaed 

 Romans gathered ! Tall trees fringe it 

 about and shade scores of little tables. 

 The mellow Provencal sunshine dapples 

 the bare earth and dusts with gold the 

 coats of the swart cattlemen of the Ca- 

 margue, who come here on market days 

 to sip their aperitifs before the graceful 

 Roman columns built clumsily into the 

 walls of the hotels. 



Unlike Nimes, there is nothing modern 

 about Aries. At every turn is either the 

 medieval or the antique — a statue on the 

 corner of a house here, a yard of elegant 

 Greek cornice there, a Roman carving or 

 a bit of Renaissance frieze ; the theater, 

 where the spirit of Greece hovers, Roman 



though it was, and from twisty, narrow 

 streets wonderful glimpses of the amphi- 

 theater, as through a crack in a door. 

 The Cathedral of St. Trophime has a 

 beautiful twelfth century cloister and a 

 porch which is one of the two perfect 

 examples of southern Romanesque work 

 in France ; the other is at St. Gilles, not 

 far away. Both porches show clearly 

 and with force and beauty the develop- 

 ment of the classic Roman style into the 

 Provenqal form of the Romanesque. 



A sunlit alley set with magnificent pop- 

 lars, lined with old stone sarcophagi, 

 leads to the ruined cemetery of Alys- 

 camps, the celebrated Elysii Campi, or 

 Elysian Fields, of the Romans, which 

 grew more and more world-famous and 

 used down to the middle of the twelfth 

 century. None of the handsomest sar- 

 cophagi are left there, but some are to be 

 seen in the Lapidary Museum of Aries, 

 which has the most beautifuland impor- 

 tant collection in France of magnificent 

 tombs, Roman and Christian, precious 

 Greek statues and figurines, little gems 

 of carving, altars, vases, each telling its 

 own story of culture and achievement. 



And the women of Aries ! The spirit 

 of all the ages centers in them — Greek, 

 Roman, Saracen, Provengal — types of 

 beauty and dignity as distinct as any of 

 the past. Their costume is the most ele- 

 gant and distinctive in France — a sweep- 

 ing black gown, with a sheer white 

 fichu — the hair drawn softly up into a 

 high knot on the top of the head, where 

 it is covered by a bit of filmy white lace 

 and banded with a broad, black velvet 

 ribbon with one short flying end. 



RAVISHING FRENCH RIVIERA 



It is difficult to say which is the most 

 beautiful section of France. The most 

 vivid and ravishing is the Cote d'Azur, 

 that "Blue Side" we call the Riviera. All 

 the way from Marseille to Vintimiglia, at 

 the Italian frontier, it is an endless floral 

 paradise. Geographically it is a narrow 

 littoral, protected from the fierce north 

 winds by considerable hills behind, and 

 consequently a forcing house for every 

 flower that blows. The rugged coast 

 ranges from the flat sands of Cannes to 

 the iron cliffs at the border, and the col- 



