valley in which are the ruins of a Roman aqueduct, to the bare slopes of the snow-crested Mont Ventoux, is one of varied charm. Groups of little houses peep out from amongst the trees; clumps of tall cypress, ranged like a wall of spires, protect the vineyards from the blighting mistral’s chill; villages nestle in the shelter of trees whose rich foliage lingers long after summer has departed; a Provençal landscape lies all around the town, bewitching the eye and captivating the emotions. Standing in a small courtyard surrounded by the walls of a seventeenth-century bishop’s palace, now the Hôtel de Ville, is a small triumphal arch which has been battered by wind and rain for twenty centuries. It is only a single arch, and considerable doubt exists as to its exact age. On the two sides there are sculptured in high relief figures of captive Gauls. The columns that form each angle of the arch are little more than fragments, but the engaged columns on the inside have suffered less. This arch was supposed by some archæologists to have some connection with the great arch at Orange, but nothing can be proved with any certainty. It remains one of those puzzling relics of the past that will continue to provoke differences of opinion until the fabric crumbles out of human sight and mingles with the dust of ages. * * * * * A little local train runs from Tarascon through vineyards, ploughed fields, and pasture lands, stopping at tiny [Illustration: FOUNTAIN TO NOSTRADAMUS AT S^{T}. REMY] wayside shelters too insignificant to warrant a name. Its destination is Orgon, but about midway between the limits of its journey it stops at St. Remy, a little town of about five thousand inhabitants. This is a typical Provençal village, full of traditions, customs, and leisured existence, like hundreds of others in the Rhone valley, and but for its close proximity to the ancient Roman town of Glanum Livii, few strangers would ever walk its streets. It still retains traces of a former prosperity, and many of the houses in its quaint streets are embellished with fine portals of the Renaissance architecture. It has had famous and illustrious citizens too, whom it honours with statues that ornament the public places. The astrologer, Nostradamus, who was patronised by the great and believed in by all, lived for some years in retirement in the little town. It was he who was indirectly responsible for the ruin of the poor imaginative man who spent his time and fortune in excavating the ground floor of the Tour Magne in the vain search for a “golden fowl.” History does not relate if the astrologer’s prediction “that a farmer would make his fortune by the discovery of a golden cock” ever did come true, or if the disappointed treasure-seeker of the Tour Magne ever sought an interview with the prophet.